When you’re not really interesting in soccer, you just watch and see two dozens of guys in shorts running after a ball. After all, we all need to be kept busy and to manage our time. Therefore, why not? Let’s take oneself in hand, and run after a ball, in a team! (important : in shorts).
I always have a bunch of naive questions I ask to my soccer lovers friends.
- Why don’t these guys play with women? Co-ed football?
- Why the hell is the team of “your” city the best? Imagine we do the same with movies or writers… Why don’t you watch all styles all teams and choose the one you love the most? No, OK, it’s your city, they’re the best. OK OK. OK.
- Why don’t you all handle two balls at the time? It’d be funnier!
Introverts and other guys with glasses will try to find a philosophy here. Camus said he liked to play the goal keeper, where he learned a good lesson :
“The ball never comes from where you expected her to come”.
Like problems and betrayals in life?
(pardon my French)
When I was a teenager, my spectacled friend Jean-Marc and I (there are always two guys with glasses in a classroom, right?) we had to play soccer, and we hated it. Œuf Corse.
It’s November, it’s cold, drizzling. I want quiet, an easy chair and a fire and a cat and a book. Not to run in the dirt with idiots!
Bahhhh I loved that bunch of screaming guys : they were running like lemmings after the ball. It’s cute. Look at’em all! YAHHHHH.
Needless to say that the two poor shivering Jean-Marc and Jean-Pascal, in shorts and drizzled eyeglasses, were not in the group clucking like headless hens, because having found one or two functioning neurons in our bored head, we were, on the playground, waiting, a little bit outside of the circle of fools.
Re-needless to say that, oh fuque, inescapably, the ball ALWAYS suddenly spouted out of the group towards JM (or JP). Shit, shit and shit. What do I do now?? Mired for good.
With a good dose of audacity, I tried then to do the thing : running in cold November, in shorts, with a ball in the middle of my legs! Obviously, with a horde of yelling pimpled teenagers locked on to me…
When then reach me – if they don’t, I fall (because of the mess ball/legs) – in a panic gesture, I hit the ball. PAF. Anywhere. PAF! Go get it, you fools! Let the fetchers fetch.
Sigh… My hands on my knees, trying to catch back my breath, pfeeww, spitting my lungs, listening distractedly to the reproaches of Mr Sports Teacher, I’m thinking about next month’s soccer game. Oô December, “when mud on the ground is frozen in uncomfortable excrescences”.
I hear a crow. Croak! He mocks me. OK, let’s focus. Where’s the horde? I stand up and deep breathe. You go girl.
Happily, today I didn’t fell full length in the mud…
Thanks for reading! Have a great sunday!