What was unusual about that team, the thing that set them apart, was that no one ever heard them say anything. They never made a sound. Not before the match, not afterward, not even (stranger still) during. They glided around the field, on the ball and off it, as if they knew their positions blindfolded, slipping preemptively into place like seers. If one of them wanted the ball passed his way, he only had to raise a hand. If a goal was scored, the scorer would jog a couple of paces with his fist in the air before falling into his teammates’ wordless embrace.

How did they call for a foul? The player would stop running, then the rest would follow his lead, standing as still as statues, each man pointing to the spot. And if anyone called for a foul against them, they would either accede to the request (wordlessly again) or shake their heads and play on, and their opponents were never brave enough to object.

One day, though, an opponent did object. After the foul was given, the silent team stopped playing altogether: they took their ball and started to walk off. The opponent objected to this as well, and grabbed a member of the silent team by his shirt. Pulled hard. But the roles were rapidly reversed, and the objecting player found himself being hit harder than he’d ever been hit in his life.

Screaming, blood pouring from his nose, the victim dropped to the ground, while his team began to form a circle around their silent counterparts. They didn’t dare to return the blow, though, just squared up, shouting, and this shouting grew in both volume and intensity until it had turned to insults. The vilest obscenities. But not a word in reply. The silent team stood there, staring at their abusers—and not a word. Gradually, the victim’s team fell silent too, and went to help their teammate off the ground. At which point the oldest player on the silent team approached the injured man, put a hand on his shoulder, and spoke. One word:

“Sorry.”

First, the depth of the voice, and the incongruities in the accent, and only then were we alerted to the fact that the darkness of their faces was not quite the same as our lighter darkness, and, suddenly, we saw. Their leader spoke this single word of apology in his strange accent and then, before our wondering gaze, turned back to his players and motioned them on with both his hands. A ripple passed through them, then they all moved as one off the field, calmly and quietly, a single wave soon to break and disperse to their homes in distant districts of the city.