We had a benchwarmer that Saturday, a young man named Calvin Hall. What he was doing there in the first place was anyone's guess.

The usual system puts two standard elevens on the pitch plus four designated replacements. That's a total of thirty, chosen by the computer as the best out of all the leagues on any of the fourteen planets in the Assembly. They're flown in to Center, practice for six days, and then play in front of everyone in the civilized worlds.

This time, with no reason specified, thirty-one invitations were sent out. When asked, the techs just said "Computers don't make mistakes," which is axiomatic but no help whatsoever.

It's a vast expense, and because of the time required for interstellar travel, it also means those chosen often end up missing most of a season in their home leagues. Thus there was no question of sending young Hall back to his own world once the problem was discovered.

But with only four substitutions allowed, there was also no chance of him playing. As coaches, we're obligated to help our people, but in this we were bound by the Laws of the Game.

In private, the boy was furious, justifiably so. In public, he was the soul of propriety. He was quoted a score of times by the press, each a variant of "It's a tremendous honor just to be invited." Which is undeniable, but not much consolation for a young man with a career.

So, come Game Day, there Hall was, all kitted up for play but doomed to do nothing but sit, completely alone until the first players came off the field. I kept him company as often as I could, but I had a job to do.

That first half was rough. Both teams had a single star striker, rivals from their homes on High Galicia. Their positions were half a field away from each other, but they contrived to meet up a surprising number of times and 'accidentally' foul one another.

Penalties began after a mere five minutes, the first yellow card was shown after ten, and by minute twenty both stars had been removed from the field after starting a bloody brawl. Considering their safety force fields, the number of injuries inflicted was truly spectacular. Even after that, things stayed tense, and by halftime, nine players were under caution.

I don't know about the other locker room, but in ours the air was bitter. The players went in with their blood up, frustrated to the point of snapping at each other for the tiniest perceived slight. Any minute they'd be at each other's throats.

Then Hall spoke up. "It could be worse, fellows. You might be in my shoes. Instead, you're out there playing."

Instantly he had their attention.

"They call it 'The Beautiful Game', and it is. Other sports are all about score, individuals, and doing whatever you can in order to win. The Laws of Football are about sportsmanship, avoiding injuries, winning with style and losing with grace. None of that includes fighting, or holding a grudge."

He said a few more words, but he didn't need to. The message had goten through. When that team went back out, it was as changed men.

The other team saw it immediately. What had been shaping up to be the bloodiest match of the season became friendly, almost cordial. Oh, there were still fouls — plus one memorable thrown elbow — but no hard feelings, and when it ended as a tie there was even a hug or two.

A campaign was underway to name Calvin Hall the team's MVP, but it didn't get any traction. The players all flew home, we went back to our regular jobs, and the Champion's Pitch on Center went dark for another year. Never again did the selection computer give us an extra name.

Ever since, whenever a computer does something that's seemingly inexplicable, like last year's rationing of melka fruit, restrictions on recreational canvassing, even that mass-mailing of "Cold Weather Survival" to the beach resort world of Avon, I think back to Calvin Hall and his speech, and I smile. I remain convinced to this day that, somehow, that machine knew in advance he'd be needed right where he was and arranged for it to happen.

You've gotta trust your smart systems. Otherwise, why have them in the first place?

(Unsent message found on the legendary Coach Raeder's handheld after his death in the Shuttle 12 Disaster, YAC 4612, and read aloud at the memorial service on Center Station. Raeder's reservation had initially been for the preceding day, but had been delayed due to an untimely system reboot...)