Waiting For the Goal
Waiting For The Goalby
Samuel Beckham
Estragon
Vladimir
Pozzo
A soccer stadium.
Evening.
Estragon, sitting on a low bleacher seat, watches as a shot goes wide.
He gives up, exhausted.
Enter Vladimir, who sits beside him..
ESTRAGON:
(giving up again)
Nothing to be done.
VLADIMIR:
(gloomily)
It's too much for one man.
(Pause. Cheerfully.)
On the other hand what's the good of losing heart now, that's what I say.
ESTRAGON:
(He turns and faces the pitch.)
Inspiring prospects.
(He turns to Vladimir.)
Let's go.
VLADIMIR:
We can't.
ESTRAGON:
Why not?
VLADIMIR:
We're waiting for the goal.
ESTRAGON:
And if the goal doesn't come?
VLADIMIR:
We'll come back tomorrow.
ESTRAGON:
And then the day after tomorrow.
VLADIMIR:
Possibly.
ESTRAGON:
And so on.
VLADIMIR:
The point is—
ESTRAGON:
Until the goal.
VLADIMIR:
(feebly)
All right.
(Vladimir paces agitatedly to and fro. Estragon falls asleep. Vladimir raises his arms and shouts toward the pitch.)
Goal! . . . Goal! . . . PLEASE! A GOAL!
Estragon wakes with a start.
ESTRAGON:
(restored to the horror of his situation)
I was asleep!
(despairingly.)
Why will you never let me sleep?
VLADIMIR:
I felt lonely.
ESTRAGON:
I had a dream.
VLADIMIR:
Don't tell me!
ESTRAGON:
I dreamt that—
VLADIMIR:
DON'T TELL ME!
Pozzo enters and stands next to the men.
POZZO:
You dreamt that you saw a goal.
ESTRAGON:
(recoiling before Pozzo)
That's to say . . . you understand . . . the dusk . . . the strain . . . waiting . . . I confess . . . I imagined . . . for a second . . .
POZZO:
Waiting? So you were waiting for the goal?
VLADIMIR:
Well you see—
POZZO:
Here? On my seat?
VLADIMIR:
We didn't intend any harm.
ESTRAGON:
We meant well.
POZZO:
I hope I'm not driving you away. Wait a little longer, you'll never regret it.
ESTRAGON:
(sensing charity)
We're in no hurry.
POZZO:
(having lit his pipe)
The second goal is never so sweet . . .
(he takes the pipe out of his mouth, contemplates it)
. . . as the first I mean.
(He puts the pipe back in his mouth.)
But it's sweet just the same.
VLADIMIR:
(looking at the sky)
Will night never come?
POZZO:
(With extraordinary vehemence.)
Professional fouls!
(Calmer)
Beauty, grace, truth of the first water, I knew they were all beyond me. So I took a knock.
VLADIMIR:
(startled from his inspection of the sky)
A knock?
VLADIMIR:
Charming evening we're having.
ESTRAGON:
It's awful.
VLADIMIR:
Time has stopped.
POZZO:
(cuddling his watch to his ear).
Don't you believe it, Sir, don't you believe it. Whatever you like, but not that.
VLADIMIR:
Let's go.
ESTRAGON:
(pointing to the pitch as the game continues)
In the meantime, nothing happens.
POZZO:
You find it tedious?
ESTRAGON:
Somewhat.
POZZO:
(to Vladimir)
And you, Sir?
VLADIMIR:
I've been better entertained.
(both men look toward the pitch, where a foul has just been called. A player writhes on the field))
Will he be able to walk?
POZZO:
Walk or crawl! Up pig!
ESTRAGON:
Perhaps he's dead.
POZZO:
Up scum! Raise him up!
(Trainers attempt to raise the injured player, but he falls back to the ground)
ESTRAGON:
He's doing it on purpose! To hell with him!
VLADIMIR:
Come on, once more.
ESTRAGON:
What does he take us for?
(The trainers finally load the player on a stretcher and begin to carry him off the field).
ESTRAGON:
Let's go.
VLADIMIR:
We can't.
ESTRAGON:
Why not?
VLADIMIR:
We're waiting for the goal.
ESTRAGON:
(despairingly)
Ah!
VLADIMIR:
Don't go on like that. Tomorrow everything will be better.
ESTRAGON:
How do you make that out?
VLADIMIR:
Did you not hear what the announcer said?
ESTRAGON:
No.
VLADIMIR:
He said that the goal was sure to come tomorrow.
(Pause)
What do you say to that?
ESTRAGON:
Then all we have to do is to wait.
Silence.
ESTRAGON:
Well, shall we go?
VLADIMIR:
Yes, let's go.
They do not move.
The End
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