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.

It's Even Worse When the Commentator Starts Snickering In Pity

There is a feeling of discomfort that comes over me from time to time. It’s a cruel mixture of unjustified pride or justified shame and powerless acceptance. It’s what I imagine a mother bird feels when one of her young strides towards the edge of the nest and makes the leap.

I don’t consider myself for one second to be an authority on football. Others occasionally do, which scares me enormously. At times like that I am forced to acknowledge that my the insight others think I might have is not caused by a record of dead-on predictions, but rather by an apparently public knowledge of just how dominant a part of my life football is. I say apparently public, because I try feverishly to hide this. Then my friends started quizzing me in the presence of their friends to convince them that they know this circus freak, this oracle of football. And while it turned out I did not know where Stormvogels Telstar, a modest Dutch second division team, hails from, it became apparent to me that:

A) Nobody knows exactly where Stormvogels Telstar hails from
and
B) I fail miserably when trying to play off how important football is to me.

A (great) Dutch comedian once said Jesus could have been off much, much worse. His crucifix could have been erected next to someone’s who can only talk about football at parties, or next to a Limburger. I am the latter. There is very little I can do about that. But I have made such an effort to avoid being the former. I try to bring up politics, arts, study, travel, anything. It’s exhausting.

But even when people wrongfully assume my views on anything hold more weight than theirs do, I try biblically to make as few predictions as possible. Predicting scores is right out, as is predicting league positions. There are, however, some unfortunate moments. I let my guard down for just a second, and an entire room of friends has clearly heard me proclaim that this or that player will be very good at some point in time.

However, like the baby bird, who, still half blind, has made it’s way towards the outermost point of it’s shelter, a prediction like this can go two ways.

At the very best, I feel moderately proud, which is far too small an upside. It’s difficult pretending you ‘called’ a player when in fact he’s already made it to at least the higher youth ranks of a professional club. In fact, there is little sense in thinking you’re alone (and – even more preposterous – first) in your hopes for a player. If you were, that player would obviously not be where he is when you first see him dart up and down a wing. But it is still nice to see a player you had high hopes for makes it into the public football conscience as a good player.

However, it can also backfire tremendously. Like the little bird’s hope for flight, which vanishes as rapidly as he plunges to the ground and his untimely demise, any credibility my friends may have attributed to me, in what can now only be regarded as a serious lapse in judgement, will disappear. It will bring about games of silent embarrassment. I will spent entire games hoping some fuck up won’t fuck up, but of course they always do. Gleeful looks will be gleefully cast over shoulders in my general direction, whenever yet another woeful pass is given. I was wrong.

Splat...