The quick brown fox jumped over the good, but lazy Parker family.
Why is this the ‘beautiful game?’ Two ties. No score in the second. They ran around in circles for 90 minutes. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
as the dutiful, soccer-educated elite in the relationship, i jumped to the world cup’s defense.
“they only call it the beautiful game if certain teams are playing it,” I said. “And France is decidedly not on that list.”
but, then i watched the rest of the weekend, and you know what? she was right. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
i watched most or all of seven matches this weekend (missed Ghana’s 1-0 win over Serbia) and while there was some great moments, by and large the matches were all ugly babies that only their mothers would love — with the possible exception of Argentina’s 1-0 win over Nigeria, whose scoreline sounded more boring than it actually was.
the world cup. less than perfect. suddenly, my life was without meaning.
i played soccer for most of two decades (keeper for all but a couple years in central defense) and have clear recollections of watching the last 6 or 7 world cups.
if the world cup isn’t the greatest sporting event ever, how could i have invested so much effort learning the game? what am i going to talk about on monday with the rest of my over-educated urban elite friends? how am i going to demonstrate my complete personal superiority over the great unwashed masses in the fly-over-states?
and so, in a vain attempt to deal with this loss of identity, i’ve come up with a couple theories about (a) why the opening weekend wasn’t the paragon of sport it could/should have been, and (b) why we all will have forgotten this crisis even happened by the time the cup is raised in four weeks time:
hollow excuses? maybe. complete and total bunk? probably.
am i going to bury my head in my pillow and pray for better games this week? most definitely.