So I have tackled the dark chocolate love, the jalapeno preference, and the anxiety about anglo-saxons penchant for claiming credit for, for claiming credit for…soccer? Futbol? Football? MLS? The current plight/rise of the USMNT. Well Senor Anglos, I have a shocking revelation – I am the blue eyed spy among your midst, the slithering white snake in the perfectly cut suburban grass.
I have experienced firsthand your suburban boredom at strip malls constructed with mega chains that begin with B. Borders. Bed Bath and Beyond. Coincidence? I am afraid not, my friend, the B is “bee.” You have been brainwashed. And I am not here to make you decide between the blue and red pill. No, I am about to sit you down, strap you to the table, and force you to ingest both. The sinister part? You will want me to.
I begin with the news that you have felt coming because all species in tune feel the death of another and themselves before it arrives. Futfanatico, the internet, the website, worpdress, myself – we all have shelf lives. I have loved this blog because of you. The blog, as I tell my poet friends and novelists, is alive. The blog breathes, the blog eats, the blog probably procreates in a sense, after an elaborate mating ritual involving swollen glands and cute notes handwritten in middle school notebooks.
But the blog dies.
I railed on an author who had the courage and dedication to write about the American game. His was a text of painstaking research melded with beautiful prose and I recommend your purchase of it. I am sure he suffered from BBCSyndrome, colloquially known as “Whoops I forgot I’m white and we have our own culture of hamburger helper and social awkwardness.” It’s like when the Brits claim credit for “football” but forget about the eerily similar games played on the Iberian peninsula and near Italy. Great organizers, fantastic promoters, not so hot at sharing credit. But back on track…
I have a problem, which, don’t worry, is not your fault – I see the view from the top of this self constructed Ivory Tower blog, I see clearly the clouds and the sky and the land, and only one thought enters my head: JUMP.
Do not worry. This blog shall not die suddenly like a car accident, not so much tragic as an inconvenience to the estate’s executor. And I do believe in life after death. But the cold, hard, written, printed text calls to me like an angry Capello yelling “sub” for a goal hungry winger. I would like to think that some day, in 50 years, a person will rifle through a trunk in his grandfather’s attic and say, wow, this book is not thick enough to hold open the door but would make a delightful coaster.
I also want a record of my mistakes on life’s next journey, which is soccer related to the ninth degree. I can’t tell you exactly what is it, but I can leave you with some beliefs: 1) All revolutions are inclusive, and 2) All revolutions must take to the streets.
No, this is not Les Miserab where I call for La Revolucion. I also am not some angry Iberian who will dismiss Napoleon and shout blindly “Que Vivan Las Cadenas!” This is more Oprah – I love you, but…everyday? Once a day? Aren’t you sick of me yet? You would have been. Let’s take a break? It’s not you, it’s me?
So, you ask, what am I doing for soccer? Destroying it. Creating it. I have worked with at risk Hispanic youth in various countries and in various capacities, some soccer related – this experience will serve me well. I think. I hope. I will find out. But enough. I leave you with an image…
I am in a federal security prison. I am not going to whistle at dogs for them to bring me keys. I am not going to get chummy with the guards. Nope. Not my style. You see, my little bro, with a bit of tape and some serious cojones, smuggled me in a cigar. Which I promptly traded for a wooden spoon.
A spoon? Tunnel out? Ha. That’s for cowards.
I already have been given a metal pen to write my memoirs here on death row. Nice of the Governor. But, you see, I snapped that metal pen in two on the steel bar. It’s not sharp enough to be a weapon. However, it is perfect for my wooden spoon, perfect to shave that spoon into a knife. I wait until 2am, every morning, when the guards change shifts and the rest of the prisoners go to bed (walls have ears) and just shave that spoon…swallowing the bits of wood. Its actually therapeutic, using your hands like that. The wood…tastes like wood.
What will I do with the wooden spoon-knife? I’m not sure – but I know I will feel better holding it in my hand.
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