The first round implosions of the 2006 World Cup finalists cast a shadow on the tournament, highlighting a cruel reality of the sporting world: four years is an eternity. On the one hand, France’s insecure tantrums only worsened under the letter reading and loose hand of Domenech, while Lippi’s Italy simply lacked the legs to ever truly impress. Watching Gattuso, Pirlo, and Cannavaro in such a sad state, their knees failing to keep up with their mind, left a blight on any viewer who recalled their glory days.
Luckily, Junito is still a decade or two away from such problems. Although he did recently throw a tantrum so ugly it would make Franck Ribery appear a GQ coverboy.
The other day, Junito, Angie, the missus, and I were kicking a pelotita around when Junito got mad at not receiving consistent service. Se enojo and was inches away from pegging one of his trademark mordiscos when I restrained him and placed him in timeout. I can handle some heat in the locker, err, living room, but unlike the stargazing Domenech, at some point one must impose authority or all hell breaks loose.
So Junito sat in his chair in a rinconito, and I still couldn’t help but reflect upon the subtle effect of time on character. A few years ago, Gattuso was talking smack about Zidane and his club was a Champions League finalist. Now, humbled by a first round exit, he admitted he deserved scorn. Cannavaro fared little better – his second spell was Juventus was a disaster, and a date with a Persian Gulf paycheck awaited the former World Champion.
I looked back at the Italian run to the top, smirking at how easily we write history in stone yet live the present on a whim. Italy, after all, barely edged Australia on a horrendous penalty kick call. The match against the Ukraine ended 3-0, but any neutral saw a tight match where but for a few friendly posts, the game could have gone either way. And, of course, the final was decided by a single errant shot in a penalty kick shoot-out. Football, even of the non-American variety, appeared a game of inches (perhaps centimeters).
The career arch of Junito is still squarely in the “petulant and cocky Frenchman” point, what with his cocky showmanship and silky first touch. Still, if history is any guide, if genetics play a role, then I like to think that Junito could enjoy perhaps a career of two decades. Why? No, not because of me. If he eats half the enchiladas I have, he will be lucky to make his high school team. No, because of Junito’s abuelo.
Last October, we received the chilling news that foretells the tribulations between adolescence and adulthood. Junito’s abuelo had a stroke. We all worried about my papy‘s health, some fretted about a will (or lack thereof), but naturally my thoughts turned to the most important thing of all – soccer. Would my 60 year old dad still be able to play?
The answer was a thunderous, joyous, and rapturous yes. During the Dia de Gracias, spent at the abue‘s, grandpa could still pivot like a teenager at a school dance and chip thirty foot passes like a 60 year old Xavi that recently had a stroke (use your imagination). I was alleviated. I was elated. Despite the worn legs, the brain’s cruel recollection it too is a muscle, smile after smile graced my papy’s face.
In this game of inches, where young French men cry and fight like three year olds, they forget a simple truth: the game should never cease to be a game. Despite aching knees, mistimed tackles, and the fatigue dizzies, the Italians marched into the World Cup for one simple reason, for the same reason that a 38 year old Maldini deputized at leftback for AC Milan….
“Jugamos pelota nietito?”
“Clarisisismo que si!”
No related posts.
