Time Is Hardly Ever On Our Side

We here in Holland tend to look down on the art of defending. We're no good at it, and as a result, we choose to haugtily belittle its importance. So, in today's post, I hope to provide you with something of a counterweight to that sentiment.

In the summer of 2004, advertisements on every corner of the Catalonian costal towns begged me to go to the Joan Gampar Trophy. I was not familiar with the trophy, but after inquiry I learned it was some sort of annual pre-season friendly, and this particular one was contested between FC Barcelona and AC Milan. As a child, I grew up absolutely adoring both these teams, and a chance to see them both at the same time nearly caused me to collapse.

I convinced my then-girlfriend to join me in the two hour line for tickets during the middle of a sweltering day. She deserves mention here, also because she might just read this and if I would omit her considerable plight from this account she will probably exact some sort of horrible revenge. She decided not to go, and I got two tickets on one of the lateral tribunas, for me and my father.

It was only my third trip to a Barcelona game in their own stadium. This would be nothing short of one of the most memorable football games I would ever attend, if only for how rare my presence in the Camp Nou was up to that point. What might have been a full game of soaking in every moment that comes with being a Barca fan in a sold out stadium during the introduction of new players such as Eto’o, an amazing experience in itself, very quickly turned into something even better: for a full forty-five minutes, I found myself the closest to the side of the field graced by Paolo Maldini and Allesandro Costacurto.

In a Camp Nou that was filled to the absolute brim, I breathlessly watched them move. In absolute sync. Without looking at each other, they knew exactly where on the field they were positioned. I could not be bothered with Barcelona’s exciting new signings or the home-grown stars I love so much. I don’t even remember the score. All I remember is Maldini and Costacurta, moving, perfectly, as one.

I have never met anyone or any thing more stubborn than time. It insists on moving forward, sometimes at a rapid pace, other times it creeps. Treacherous little bastard. I have seen many games where elimination depended on the whistle either to sound or to remain silent, and I have frantically prayed for both, but I have never wanted forty-five minutes to last as long as I did during the first half of that pre-season game. I could not bring myself to look at the time on the massive scoreboards, because I didn’t want to miss a second of men defending so effortlessly, with such purpose and grace.