Football, or the Value of a Day

The font has shriveled to but a trickle. Words flow far less frequently, and with no clear stream of thought. Days go by without writing nor reading a single word save a sign or a signature.

These times of unproductivity/inactivity leave me vexed and feeling pitiful. And time seems to pass faster, creating the dual sensations of lengthy dry spells and loss of life moments. Youth receding in the wake. Reflecting upon this, I realize it started with the commencement of the holiday. Eagerness for end of work time and start of party time - time that on its own flies lightningfast, time that leaves no time for whatever else. Reflecting further, I recall this same feeling hit same time last annum. Connections and implications, indicating in my contemplations. Something about the value of the day...

This time round this all happens to coincide with the nasty feeling of discomfort. The novelty is beyond long gone, and restless unease produces a nasty flair to temper. Situations I continually come into leave me with feelings of spite and malicious intent. I have a few drinks and say I'm leaving this place.

A friend thinks that's not right. Says this seems to make a good fit for me, and I need to focus on that which doesn't drive me toward thoughts of departation. A story then, and a focus on the good things...

....

Since the start of teaching, new friends have entered my life. A slew of chipper chaps from the UK and Ireland are now my near daily staple of comradery. It's with them I eat my tapas, drink my drinks, and watch my sports. These lads love the game. Football, they know it well. We watch countless matches and their passion rubs off on the novice fan that I am. And since the warm days of autumn, we've played it together weekly.

Those warm days are long gone. Two Fridays ago it was so chilly we designated teams by the colors of our hats. But all the hats covered laughing heads when I was set up with the perfect cross in front of an uncovered net and kicked the air next to the rolling ball. And it had been commonplace to wonder where exactly it would roll to, once I finally did touch it to my big running shoes. Good fun all round but I was tired of only scoring with my shins (true stories, both times) and resolved to get some proper footie boots.

Sales are on in Spanish stores all month long, and up at the chain of all chains, el Corte Inglés, where I normally am never, for reasons of economy, I had a look at the deals to be discovered. Adidas predators, apparently the best, still hovered around 70€ and most else were not far below, until I came upon some Puma 50-50s that fit the bill and left the bank intact, at half the Predator-y price. I even got a ball to practice with, a steal at 7€. Those jeans I'd planned on would have to wait till summer sales.

...

After a marathon of coldrain days, this past Friday broke with unfettered blue and a reduced chill riding the breeze. With the good lads I marched and we were on the court to play by "half three". As I unveiled my newest acquisitions the company shielded their eyes and cried. I forgot to mention that I was able to notice them on the wall by their radioactive green synthetic leather. Search party boots that almost give off their own luminescence. But my face beamed as brightly, because I felt power surging up my legs, and for once the ability to control the ball.

We played a hard hour of sprinting and pivoting and dodging and kicking on that court, exchanging goals and occasional knocks. I'd had some great plays in the midfield and ran my ass off, but also a few more ball-less kicks. But in the last few minutes of our waning endurance I ran alongside my Kildare-born teammate and called for the switch in front of the goal. Though I'd ran too far, I stepped back from behind the two defenders and received the perfect cross unblocked. A pivot and a turn and the ball sailed up and toward the net, where it met the keeper in the groin and bounced into the glorious white netting of the goal. Everyone roared as I ran with fingers to the sky, and after my assistor faked polishing my boots, my team surged forward with new vigor and two goals later we were kicked off the court by the next group and dressing back up to head to our favorite post-footie bar, where we spent the next 2 hours animated by beers and great stews and rice dishes, given to us by the barstaff who love our Friday visits almost as much as we do.

Now why would I ever want to leave that?