Catch it! Or, you know, don't. Whatever.
Only 28 more hours to go to the kick off of the final, and I'm scared shitless. This video was made at the 1997 Cup final which I've described in earlier posts, and still reduces me to tears a little.
Showing posts with label a complete and utter lack of appropriate superlatives. Show all posts
Showing posts with label a complete and utter lack of appropriate superlatives. Show all posts
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Joep Smeets, En Un Momento Dado
Just a short little post today. So much has already been written about Johan Cruijff’s sixtieth birthday here in Holland, but it would be simply wrong for me not to write a little about the greatest football player Holland has ever known, so I would like to tell you a story detailing exactly how important Johan is to us Dutch.
In 1999, weeks before the new millennium, I finally did it. I nagged so long my parents let me wander through Barcelona on my own. I was fourteen then, and terribly excited. I had never felt so grown-up in my life. Having already dragged my parents to the Camp Nou twice earlier in the week, I saw no reason not go there by myself this time. Nervously, I tried waving down a cab at the Plaça de Catalunya. When one eventually stopped, I decided to play this as cool as possible, and, in my best Spanish, instructed the driver to take me to Camp Nou.
Apparently, The fact that I was not actually Spanish had gone unnoticed, and the driver, having seen my Barcelona jersey, started ranting about the daily business of the club. It took him a few blocks to find out I was not very responsive because I didn’t understand a thing he said, upon which he inquired me to my country of origin. ‘Holanda’, I told him, somewhat nervously. He hit the breaks. He looked at me like I had just offended his entire family, and I was sure he was about to kick me out of his cab. As it turned out, my driver was not a particular fan of Dutchman Louis van Gaal, then head coach of my chauffeur’s pride and joy. He started screaming about van Gaal and Holanda in broken English, and I squeezed myself as far towards the door as possible.
Desperately, I looked around, and decided to clutch for a last straw. While the driver was in between breaths, the last one used for cursing van Gaal’s mother and the next one would have probably served roughly the same purpose, I decided to interrupt. ‘si…but…Cruijff?’, I managed to squeak? As suddenly as his massive temper arose, it subsided. He looked at me and gestured I had to open the glove compartment. I did, and I stumbled upon the worlds smallest FC Barcelona museum. Among the collection, glued to the glove compartment door, was an old, yellow sticker with El Salvador’s picture on it. ‘Ah, Holanda. Johan’, the driver said, to no one in particular. He shut the little compartment and drove me to the stadium, where, I still hope to this very day, he once marvelled at that young, scrawny enigma from Amsterdam.
In 1999, weeks before the new millennium, I finally did it. I nagged so long my parents let me wander through Barcelona on my own. I was fourteen then, and terribly excited. I had never felt so grown-up in my life. Having already dragged my parents to the Camp Nou twice earlier in the week, I saw no reason not go there by myself this time. Nervously, I tried waving down a cab at the Plaça de Catalunya. When one eventually stopped, I decided to play this as cool as possible, and, in my best Spanish, instructed the driver to take me to Camp Nou.
Apparently, The fact that I was not actually Spanish had gone unnoticed, and the driver, having seen my Barcelona jersey, started ranting about the daily business of the club. It took him a few blocks to find out I was not very responsive because I didn’t understand a thing he said, upon which he inquired me to my country of origin. ‘Holanda’, I told him, somewhat nervously. He hit the breaks. He looked at me like I had just offended his entire family, and I was sure he was about to kick me out of his cab. As it turned out, my driver was not a particular fan of Dutchman Louis van Gaal, then head coach of my chauffeur’s pride and joy. He started screaming about van Gaal and Holanda in broken English, and I squeezed myself as far towards the door as possible.
Desperately, I looked around, and decided to clutch for a last straw. While the driver was in between breaths, the last one used for cursing van Gaal’s mother and the next one would have probably served roughly the same purpose, I decided to interrupt. ‘si…but…Cruijff?’, I managed to squeak? As suddenly as his massive temper arose, it subsided. He looked at me and gestured I had to open the glove compartment. I did, and I stumbled upon the worlds smallest FC Barcelona museum. Among the collection, glued to the glove compartment door, was an old, yellow sticker with El Salvador’s picture on it. ‘Ah, Holanda. Johan’, the driver said, to no one in particular. He shut the little compartment and drove me to the stadium, where, I still hope to this very day, he once marvelled at that young, scrawny enigma from Amsterdam.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Vaya con Messi
There is very little worse than still being half-drunk in the morning when you really thought you would have slept at least thatt off. Getting up, you immediately detect that void where, normally, your sense of balance would be. It also means that you are actually looking forward to your hangover, which, at a time like this, seems like something of a slight upgrade. But it never is.
A hangover is a nasty thing to beat. It persists, no matter the amount of water or juice you guzzle down. Time heals all wounds and all hangovers, but like with your average wound, a hangover drastically slows down your perception of time. It creeps forward, not about to let you get on with your life anytime soon.
But sometimes, something happens that shocks you right back into shape, or at least into something that resembles it. You have to function, and you won’t let a splitting headache and a set of sea legs stop you.
Last time around, that shock was something entirely unpleasant. But it appears I have timed this (ex-)hangover extremely well. It’s only a few feet from my bed to my desk, and I bravely made that leap when I realized it was a never a good idea to suntan in bed. The sun scorched me towards the desk, and I started checking the usual suspects. Football, other news, some blogs and finally my mail. I still haven’t gotten around to the last three items on that list.
And when you wake up with a hangover of your own, and, for whatever reason, check this blog out right away, my guess is neither will you. I don’t usually like to insert one of those youtube screens into my posts, I think it’s ugly, but an exceptional moment like this certainly merits it.
EDIT: It seems I am horribly technically impaired and cannot fit one of those screens in here. The good people at youtube prevent me from doing so, because they claim I don't know the correct username and password to acces this very blog. I'll leave all of you with a paltry link
Vaya con Messi - with special thanks to www.Lionelmessi.org
Another edit: the terrorists over at Audiovisual are claiming copyright on Messi's work of art left and right, and I can't seem to provide you with a video that is up long enough. Maybe THIS ONE, it didn't work for me but I think that may have been due to the traffic, I hope it works for you. If not, I hope you can find it for yourselves. It's worth the search, and that is the kind of insightful understatement of the century you'll only find at this blog.
A hangover is a nasty thing to beat. It persists, no matter the amount of water or juice you guzzle down. Time heals all wounds and all hangovers, but like with your average wound, a hangover drastically slows down your perception of time. It creeps forward, not about to let you get on with your life anytime soon.
But sometimes, something happens that shocks you right back into shape, or at least into something that resembles it. You have to function, and you won’t let a splitting headache and a set of sea legs stop you.
Last time around, that shock was something entirely unpleasant. But it appears I have timed this (ex-)hangover extremely well. It’s only a few feet from my bed to my desk, and I bravely made that leap when I realized it was a never a good idea to suntan in bed. The sun scorched me towards the desk, and I started checking the usual suspects. Football, other news, some blogs and finally my mail. I still haven’t gotten around to the last three items on that list.
And when you wake up with a hangover of your own, and, for whatever reason, check this blog out right away, my guess is neither will you. I don’t usually like to insert one of those youtube screens into my posts, I think it’s ugly, but an exceptional moment like this certainly merits it.
EDIT: It seems I am horribly technically impaired and cannot fit one of those screens in here. The good people at youtube prevent me from doing so, because they claim I don't know the correct username and password to acces this very blog. I'll leave all of you with a paltry link
Vaya con Messi - with special thanks to www.Lionelmessi.org
Another edit: the terrorists over at Audiovisual are claiming copyright on Messi's work of art left and right, and I can't seem to provide you with a video that is up long enough. Maybe THIS ONE, it didn't work for me but I think that may have been due to the traffic, I hope it works for you. If not, I hope you can find it for yourselves. It's worth the search, and that is the kind of insightful understatement of the century you'll only find at this blog.
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