I walked out the front door on Saturday and met some neighbors as they sat out front trying to sell a set of brightly colored flower pots. I passed the Extracto coffee house roasting the day’s bean, then stepped into Studio Thirty and had a seat on the Victorian couch to await my hair stylist. Offered tea, head and neck massage, a shampoo – I was sold before the scissors ever came out. Afterward I ambled another couple blocks to the Concordia Ale House and ordered myself a Bloody Mary.
Which is all to say I finally got to watch some World Cup, which unfortunately happened to be the part of the World Cup where the US lost to Ghana, 2-1, which if you convert that to typical Ammrkin sports scores is like 57-12.
I have a ton of respect for the game, if little understanding. And I’m giving myself a hundred words to convey that:
A game of beautifully composed contradiction: finesse glides into brutality, artful sensuality becomes sexual frustration. Endless foreplay that titillates and tires, rising and falling arousal that suddenly explodes. Stare for hours and see nothing; look away for a moment and miss everything. Perhaps the most primal and real sport – run and run and run, defend, attack, then dance! Strongest muscles in constant tension, fly and bash ones head into sky. No interruptions for scratching, spitting, bringing news of corporate sponsors, or reviewing replay. 90+ minutes of fury and surrender, never raising a hand in protection. Bartender, another Bloody Mary please.