Myoshi Nakajima walked slowly towards the river through the darkened streets. A glow in the east showed that the sun was on it’s way, but it’s warmth and light had not yet reached the quiet corners of Tokugawa, a riverside suburb of Nagoya.

Myoshi enjoyed his morning walk to the river. It was a time to clear the head from the cloud of sleep, and the soft tap of his leather shoes on the cold concrete were a pleasant precursor to the gentle rhythm he would soon enjoy from the motor of his fishing boot. Myoshi had been making this morning walk six days a week for the last 35 years. He saw no reason to deviate from his regular route, going two blocks north then one block west, two blocks north then one block west, two blocks north then one block west, to reach his boat. The symmetry was pleasing.

Myoshi had not always been alone on his morning commute. When the boat was first purchased, his wife accompanied him. Those had been joyous days, filled with fun and promise. The fish were plentiful, and prices good. Then, later, his son would come on Saturdays. What was more fun - the delight in the child’s eyes at being up and about whilst the city slept, or the excited scream when a fish was hauled aboard – Myoshi couldn’t say. Later the boy gained other interests, finally disappearing into the adult world of the city. Whilst sad at first to lose the company, Myoshi soon grew to love the tranquillity of his morning routine. His grandchild, a lively, beautiful girl, was a constant delight on her regular visits, but when one day his son asked if she could go out fishing, Myoshi said with mock sadness that no, it was too dangerous these days for a young child, what with the competition, and the risk of robbery and fighting.

The first light was touching the surface of the Kiso River as Myoshi reached the jetty and clambered aboard. At thirty foot, his fishing boat was smaller than many tied up to the cluster of jetties nestled in a wide bend of the River. But it served his purposes, and had never let him down in a crisis. The familiar smells were welcome, although to many they would have been an affront. Myoshi was awoken further by the aromas knocking at his sinuses, and as always he was impatient to get out to sea. He unlocked the wheelhouse with the key hanging around his neck, and within minutes was heading down-stream. Under the Mitsutomu Bridge and out into Ise Bay.

An hour later, Jimmy Sakura awoke. Like many other youths in Nagoya, Jimmy arose late on a Saturday morning. There was no University or work today, so what better way to use this down time than sleeping. Jimmy turned over and went back to sleep.

Out in Ise Bay, Myoshi was heading south. The sun was bright and warm, and he was further invigorated by radio reports of plenty of fishing action down on the Handa Peninsular Coast. Myoshi had very specific buyers, and they were lucrative, if he could get the right catch. Sometimes he had to fall back on tuna or shark, but when he hit the target it was a good pay-day. Slowing and drawing closer to the coastline, Myoshi was delighted to see a sea turtle floating gentle just below the surface. Of all the sea’s creatures, the turtles were his favourites, always seeming to match closely with his moods in their tranquil, calm ways. Some of his fishing colleagues took the gentle giants for the value of their meat and shells, and Myoshi could easily do the same, but his sensibilities stopped him, even during hard times when the cash would have been welcome. Turtles are his spiritual centre.

As was usual for a Saturday, Jimmy Sakura met his friends downtown at the Mato Centre for lunch. Requiring sustenance after a long sleep, Jimmy chose two Big Macs and a coke. After eating these in respectful silence, Jimmy and his friends headed out into the courtyard to play their music and hang out. This Saturday ritual had varied over the last few years. For a while it was Elvis, and they would dress up as the King; those that had guitars would pretend to play them. Then punk took hold, and the thrashing nastiness was their anthem. And then, last year, the World Cup had come.

While no games were played in Nagoya, the enthusiasm of the nation was infectious. You picked a team, based on anything as tenuous as their hairstyles, adopted the dress and customs of that country, and celebrated or commiserated accordingly. Jimmy liked Turkey, for their swarthy features and cynical fouls. For the month of June he immersed himself in Turkish colours and music, and had the added delight of their run through to the semi-finals.

For a while after the World Cup, Jimmy and his friends went through a down time. The aftermath of the World Cup excitement was difficult, as they searched for a new outlet for their worship. Some suggested the latest wave of boy-bands, but it seemed to Jimmy that most of them were gay, a definite social no-no in Japanese youth society, and besides, they had got used to the highs and lows of supporting football teams. Eventually it was decided to follow football teams again, but in which league? British, Spanish or Italian were all too main-stream, and at this stage in their development the friends didn't like the idea of conforming too much.

One night Jimmy was scanning the Internet for potential teams to idolise. He had heard of New Zealand, but didn't really know where it was. It seemed suitably obscure. And in Wellington they had a grade called "Masters". Surely here were teams of great maturity and power, and, one of the teams was called "Olympic". Immediately Jimmy had images of a team full of Greek gods, whose supreme endeavours were founded on the Olympian principles of heroic achievement, sportsmanship and integrity (oh, the irony). Jimmy had found his team. The next day his friends were informed of the new obsession, and teams were chosen. The devotion began.

At the Southern tip of the Handa Peninsular, off shore from Morosaki, Myoshi was in the final preparations for the catch. He had easily located the tuna school, and had picked up a couple of nets full as insurance. A couple of dolphins were playing around the boat, attracted by the sport of the tuna. Myoshi took a mouthful of tea and made ready his ice packs.

At a bit after two, Jimmy headed into the internet cafe to check out the results from the WSA site. Dressed in a toga and fake laurel wreath, he didn't really look out of place amongst the extravagantly costumed oddities of Saturday afternoon in Nagoya. It was just after 5pm in Wellington, and the results were usually posted about now. He scanned through other grades - divisions that seemed to have little point or purpose other than to fill out the page. And finally down to Masters 1, and the result he had been craving:

Jimmy logged off and headed out to party.

Myoshi leant over the side and clapped playfully to the two dolphins. They had come close and were really performing now - flips and rolls like in a private show. One had a slight imperfection on his fin, but the other was perfect. As the delightful creature looked straight at him and almost seem to smile, Myoshi raised his harpoon from the deck beside him. The dolphin seemed to recognise a weapon, and turned to flee, but it was too late, and Myoshi shot him in the side. The strength of the dolphin then came into play, as the battle began in earnest. Myoshi wedge the harpoon handle in a brace, and let the dying dolphin thrash about, the harpoon head digging away at his insides. After a few minutes the struggle eased, and Myoshi winched it aboard. It was still alive, looking up at him plaintively. Myoshi finished it off with a sharp knife up under the heart. A pristine dolphin such as this would fetch a good price on the black market back in town. The flesh and fin are delicacies at many back-street restaurants that specialise in the illegal cuisine, but the head and brain, as long it was not too damaged, would be the real income for today. These took pride of place at the dinner table of the local Minister of Fisheries on a Saturday night, as he flaunted his corruption to his business colleagues.

Myoshi finished his careful dissection of the dolphin, packed the chunks into ice, and headed back to Nagoya. It was nearly 3pm now, and as was his habit on a Saturday afternoon, Myoshi liked to check out how the Turtles had gone. Although by no means a technical wizard, Myoshi had embraced the Internet several years ago, as a means to while away some of the quiet hours at sea. His current satellite phone was internet capable, and several months ago he had, whilst searching for Turtle sites, come across the Fabulous Turtles FC, in Wellington, New Zealand. Seemingly the only such named team in existence, they immediately gained Myoshi's support, and he liked to follow their progress. A 6-2 loss to Olympic. Fuck.

Jimmy Sakura was in a happy mood. Olympic hadn't had the greatest of seasons to date, but surely this big win over the Turtles would signal a return to form, and a real challenge to North Wellington for the coveted title. Several of his friends were also buzzing after wins for their teams. Jimmy felt like doing something significant to mark the Olympic win, but was struggling to think of an action suitable. Hand-stands in the fountain. A Greek dance. Nothing seemed quite right. Then it came to him. How did they celebrate last year when their teams won in the World Cup? Of Course! They headed down to the river.

Myoshi entered the mouth of the Kiso River, and slowed the engines. It had been a good catch again today, and his private customers would be happy. Perhaps a nice bottle of saki later. The Turtles losing tempered his mood slightly, but there was nothing he could do to ease that disappointment. The Mitsutomu Bridge blocked out the sun briefly as the boat chugged under it.

Up above, Jimmy Sakura had his toga off, and was clambering up onto the side railing. His friends pretended to be alarmed, pleading with him not to jump. He brushed away their hands, and pronouncing with mock seriousness that it was duty. He turned, called out "Olympic rules", and dived.

Myoshi's harpoon was wedged tightly in its brace, upturned for drying after it had been washed down on the bow deck. Jimmy Sakura's alarm at seeing a boat below him when he expected water brought on a brief frantic flailing of arms, so that he was face up when he hit the harpoon head, and then the deck, in quick succession. The harpoon head entered his back, and headed through his heart and out his chest. The impact of hitting the deck also snapped his neck. Myoshi rushed out of the wheel-house up to the bow, and was amazed to see what appeared to be a bare chested Greek God, with a laurel wreath on his head, impaled in his harpoon.

Myoshi knelt beside the Olympian, and watched as the silent gasping of the mouth slowed then stopped. What manner of justice was this from the gods of his Turtle friends. A pleasing and lucrative one. Myoshi pulled a tarpaulin over the fresh catch, and went to sharpen his knives - the Minister of Fisheries would have some unusual delicacies on his table tonight.