Match of the Day 2 (Liverpool vs Fulham)

Lush green grass sways with

the breathless brushing of boots;

chasing down the ball.

The ninetieth minute winner

Nothing beats

the thriving pulsation of fans’, joyous,

at the ecstatic spectacle

of a ninetieth minute winner.

I’ve been there many a time

scarf scrunched in one hand,

tightly wielded

as a makeshift, silent rattle.

It rattles only for my fellow fans to feed off,

and to decorate a ferocious wall

of delirium,

taunting those opposition nutcases.

You feel everything come up:

your spirit,

your passion,

your blood pressure,

your lunch – it all violently ascends, Greek pillar-like.

‘You’ll never get it’,

‘You have to experience it for yourself’;

All sanctimonious;

all completely right.

Never leave a game early,

as it can all change like that.

But once you’ve seen that net ripple

with time close to it’s ripened fullness,

you’ll never walk out of a game again.

Lock me in

and bury me here.

Heaven has to be

that ninetieth minute winner.

Breaking news: retirement from Football Manager

I can’t deal with it anymore. I have invested so much time (and money) into that game series. In the early days (2005-ish), interactive management was breezy and I could mastermind myself to European silverware, top titles and everything below. It’s safe to say that I can’t achieve the level I demand of myself, and I can no longer enjoy the game as I wish to. It is time for me to gratefully walk away from the FM series. Maybe I’ll get into FIFA or some dumbed-down management game I can actually win at least a few games at. The constant defeats in every save have led me to the obvious conclusion that I am terrible at it.

Christ. What a waste of time that all was. The last three or four years, I don’t think I enjoyed at all.

Everyone’s gotta’ play their part (poem)

Leo, Leo Messi –

Where will you go?

Leo, Leo Messi –

Who do you know?

Leo, Leo Messi –

You’ve put on a show.

Leo, Leo Messi –

Pay your taxes… Bro~.

Everyone’s gotta’ play their part

That Green Underneath Us (poem)

Ugh, football is back and I am glad.

That white sphere whizzing on the patterned,

Lush,

Perfectly square and segmented

Green grass, outlined and cut through with

Cocaine white, straight-as-an-arrow lining –

Ah, how I have missed in.

Twenty-two athletic monks, divided by kit colour,

Vivid on the television,

Not divided by anything but those ordained tribal flares.

Not race, nor religion, nor creed, nor political affiliation.

That hallowed turf is where old scores are settled,

But none that stick.

It’s the gentlemen’s game,

And either way, they have to play away still.

It’s back and we’re grateful.

We’ll shimmy to it; beer, nachos, hot dog,

Whatever, in hand.

Like the three kings, heading to Bethlehem,

We bring our gifts, and our souls,

To find the enlightenment, that which saves us,

From that which is used to divide.

Those with the power may see it as a tool,

To wedge between our warring circles.

How they’d love

To hijack our tribes and,

Without regard or doubt,

Set us loose.

But we cannot. That turf means too much.

We won’t let our passions be used by imposters,

And we’ll defend that sapphire surface,

From thieves and murderers.

In the end, the shirts are transparent

And superficial.

That colour underneath is respected

And the green which it glides over

Means more.

That Green Underneath Us

One day, could power be impotent?

Another lazy day. Had some beers and some cigarettes, done some reading and had a long, drawn out walk. It was excellent, even if it seems a little indulgent.

But why not? It’s alright to be self-indulgent when the world feels like it is ending. 2020 has been a tough year, and that’s just for me personally. For millions, and I guess arguably billions of us, we’ve seen news which scares the shit out of us.

I have done a lot of reading today (by my standards anyway), and it’s nearly all been about football. I did squeeze in about three pages of Kant, but I’m still getting over my fear of misinterpreting it, I guess. No, I continued reading Soccernomics (I did even get a shout out from co-writer Simon Kuper for expressing my desire to finish it yesterday) and then started David Goldblatt’s colossal The Ball is Round. Goldblatt’s introduction outlines how he wants to show an almost symbiotic relationship between football, money, and power. It feels like too much for my fragile sensibilities to bare, but I know it’s going to be good.

All the discourses at the moment seem to be about power, and invariably, money too. With #blacklivesmatter critiquing the existing power structure of US (and a greater Western) society, as well as concerns over responsibility over how the Covid-19 Crisis is being handled by individual governments and global bodies, it’s very much the order of the day. So often in the last few months, I’ve equated everything down to power relationships and the hierarchical theories etc. which has netted people like Dr. Jordan Peterson a small fortune.

It all feels a bit sad, and not in the way that it’s useless and we shouldn’t talk about it, but unironically, how powerful the concept of power is. It dominates the discussion most of the time, even when we talk about sports. Discussion always feels in relation to power – who the best teams are, who the worst and least powerful are, where is the money coming from or going, who enforces what on or off the pitch etc etc.

It’s a bit tiresome, although understandably, important. I kind of long for the carefree, the lack of necessity to sort out major issues. Maybe this can change if we think about what power is? Or even, if we reconsider the importance of power? Would it be possible that through collective will, we can make the powerful unimportant in dialogue, or perhaps even, impotent?