Chelsea 5–0 Southampton, 12 January 2052
On Glubblubb IV we never saw such rituals: thousands of hairless bipeds filing into a cavern called Drogba Arena, emitting roars at colored cloths kicked across grass. Chelsea struck Southampton with five pulses of kinetic celebration, as if demonstrating dominance through repeated territorial markings.
First came Paul Malcolm, twice in quick succession, his limbs arranging angles that confused the visitor’s net guardian. Each ball slotted into the rectangle produced a sound-wave of approval from 82,381 throats, a phenomenon my sensors registered at unsafe decibel levels. Soon after, Kieran O’Sullivan expanded the tally with precision. His movement resembled the glide of my people’s skyfish, weaving between obstacles before striking.
Joseph Haigh then used his cranial structure to redirect the sphere from point-blank range. This fascinates me: cranial impact is dangerous, yet these apes prize it as a skill. Johnny Jenkins concluded the onslaught before half the solar cycle of play had elapsed, firing with accuracy that grazed the upright support. Southampton, subdued, managed neither counter-ritual nor resistance. Their expected goals metric (0.26) read to me like a statistical extinction event.
O’Sullivan, designated “Player of the Match,” operated with relentless efficiency. Six dribbles, three shots on target, two assists, one goal. His rating of 9.9, almost the human ideal, makes me question whether he is entirely organic or a hybrid construct. His season record of 46 dribbles and 41 key passes suggests enhanced motor control far beyond baseline specimens.
As the referee Lanre Mead altered calls with a mysterious “VAR” device, I pondered the human reliance on machines to adjudicate fairness. Even here, judgment is outsourced. In the end, Chelsea stood triumphant, Southampton diminished. To my alien optics, it was not a game but a cultural theater of dominance and submission, repeated weekly across this peculiar planet.
—Alien Jim, reporting from Earth