When I’m toothless and in gradual state of decomposition, I shall recollect over a cup of ginger ale when jurisprudence elected to follow the footprints of the mighty dinosaurs into antiquity rather than walk in the shadow of light.
The law, in the case of gay marriage, is not an ally but savagely romantic that I am, I will say this like an automated robot: love is still the highest law. In the last second, love shall be triumphant.
Whew! And on the 10th and 70th minute, victory was in the lap of Barcelona, Ole! If it wasn’t Arsenal, the trophy should go to Barcelona, I wrote in the old blog. I will claim this triumph in behalf of what humanity lost in the suicide attacks, in the California ruling, and in the picketlines of farmers demanding genuine agrarian reform violently dispersed by water cannons.
Football is a commanding metaphor for life. You can’t bank on your 4-4-2 formation as if it were a choreographed dance that never shifts tempo. One day, your gameplan is a goldmine; the next, a dismal flop.
My friend T who plays FB (fullback, not fuck-buddy, wanker) ironically swears that football is won in midfield. Hmm, would Arsenal have enjoyed a dissimilar fate against ManU if say, Henry still wore the Emirates jersey? The talented Frenchman was hardly a factor in Rome.
It’s easy to say that the contest begins and ends in midfield. After all, you don’t win if you can’t score. Defense specialists like Cannavaro rock my world but in football, strikers are much heralded than defenders. So with life – the aggression of strikers, those who are on the prowl have the world for a price. The conquistadores claim and name territories, these architects of history. They write their own legends and we, the conquered, are just born to exalt them. As the cliché goes – no guts, you know the rest.
Obviously, I am not a player so to get my friend’s goat, I contradict by saying football is won by coaches, not players. Ravers think DJs are gods, excuse me. Lippi and Capello and Mourinho and Wenger, they are demi-gods.
Football’s major charm to me is that it’s a game of precision that demands flexibility. The strategizing, the proper adjustments, the timely reactions emanate from coaching. The players can provide the heart but the head, it’s got to be the coaching unit. Of course, when your players don’t suit up or play unmotivated, a coach can only do so much. Even God doesn’t have that much success in motivation – there are more sinners than saints, after all.
In life, we are the players. Who are our coaches? I pay homage to my own but it’s quite a kilometric list and unless somebody challenges me to come up with my Top5, why would I give myself a headache?
The law, in the case of gay marriage, is not an ally but savagely romantic that I am, I will say this like an automated robot: love is still the highest law. In the last second, love shall be triumphant.
Whew! And on the 10th and 70th minute, victory was in the lap of Barcelona, Ole! If it wasn’t Arsenal, the trophy should go to Barcelona, I wrote in the old blog. I will claim this triumph in behalf of what humanity lost in the suicide attacks, in the California ruling, and in the picketlines of farmers demanding genuine agrarian reform violently dispersed by water cannons.
Football is a commanding metaphor for life. You can’t bank on your 4-4-2 formation as if it were a choreographed dance that never shifts tempo. One day, your gameplan is a goldmine; the next, a dismal flop.
My friend T who plays FB (fullback, not fuck-buddy, wanker) ironically swears that football is won in midfield. Hmm, would Arsenal have enjoyed a dissimilar fate against ManU if say, Henry still wore the Emirates jersey? The talented Frenchman was hardly a factor in Rome.
It’s easy to say that the contest begins and ends in midfield. After all, you don’t win if you can’t score. Defense specialists like Cannavaro rock my world but in football, strikers are much heralded than defenders. So with life – the aggression of strikers, those who are on the prowl have the world for a price. The conquistadores claim and name territories, these architects of history. They write their own legends and we, the conquered, are just born to exalt them. As the cliché goes – no guts, you know the rest.
Obviously, I am not a player so to get my friend’s goat, I contradict by saying football is won by coaches, not players. Ravers think DJs are gods, excuse me. Lippi and Capello and Mourinho and Wenger, they are demi-gods.
Football’s major charm to me is that it’s a game of precision that demands flexibility. The strategizing, the proper adjustments, the timely reactions emanate from coaching. The players can provide the heart but the head, it’s got to be the coaching unit. Of course, when your players don’t suit up or play unmotivated, a coach can only do so much. Even God doesn’t have that much success in motivation – there are more sinners than saints, after all.
In life, we are the players. Who are our coaches? I pay homage to my own but it’s quite a kilometric list and unless somebody challenges me to come up with my Top5, why would I give myself a headache?
2 comments:
sa totoo lang, ito ang gusto kong maunawaan....nanuod ako kagabi, i got the drift pero gusto ko talaga maintindihan ang rules. i had to switch pa sa spanish telecast para mas masaya hahahaha....at ano man difference nya sa soccer dyn? believe it or not, my boys are not at all sports-oriented. nobody shares my fascination with ESPN! funny kase they do cooking and dishes at my place while i...shout like am being paid to cheer whenever i'm watching a game....ironies, ironies, i eat them LOL....french open ngayon ang inaatupag ko --> *petra*
Watched snippets of the French Open (but I don't think it's a live feed) but since Rios retired, wala na akong emotional investment sa tennis, hehe. there's this Spanish guy Fernando(?) but I haven't made up my mind yet if i shall agree to be his querida, bwhaha.
Football and soccer, they're used interchangeably. Sa American context kasi, ang football is parang rugby, yong whole 9 yards na game. Don't quiz me about the rules, enggot ako niyan.
I like your boys, they do household chores. Nothing could be sexier than a man doing the dishes or doing the laundry, oh la la.
Hayup, feeling prinsesa ka talaga, Petra. Mwah!!!
Post a Comment