When I thought I was out they pulled me back in.
There you go, I thought I can’t be bothered with this anymore, or at the very least, I’ve had enough for this season. I just wanted a break from it all, as once the flame ebbs away there is only darkness to ponder. I wanted a break from it all. I embraced the darkness of the situation. There was no fear of the dark, and there were no withdrawal symptoms that the close season can bring about. Just a carefree attitude, and a certain lightness that you’d feel after you’ve unshackled yourself. I actually surprised myself. I’ve beat an addiction without thinking much about it, without trying to fight it and without shedding sweat. It just happened, or maybe it had been coming long time and it just passed me over. Something changed, and I just went with the flow of emotions that a change brings. As in my latest piece, the backroom politics, or more accurately backstabbing, hypocrisy and greed did it to me. And the match just coupled all this, like a honeymoon couple. What I looked for a whole week could be pathetic and downright depressive. The performance at the Riverside put it all into perspective and the writing was on the wall for me. And it just didn’t bother me. I went for neither a roller nor the old paintbrush to scrub it off.
And then Real Madrid called at Anfield. Watched only the last forty-five minutes. Everybody knows the score. Then, that match at Old Trafford. I decided to watch from home. It felt like something’s on the box and I might as well watch. And then that performance. And the result. And that little rush of blood through my head, that brought back some good old memories. It was sweet. It was agreeable and drily poetic.
Yesterday, I made my way to the club again. Slowly and just before kick-off. It’s always good to see old mates. And a bevy tastes good. And there was a small kid just before me. His eyes lighting up after every goal. My own world felt good. I saw myself in him.
Dirk Kuyt opened the scoring. A limited player with yet unrestricted work ethic, that probably goes home and wouldn’t understand the number of zeroes on his paycheck. He just bamboozled home a rebound with vengeance, the only way he knows and what the situation asked for. And then Albert Riera. Sometimes showing unlimited skill, that somehow though could only be performed in flashes every now and then. Yesterday he showed the better side of himself. The crossbar threatened to repel his shot and effort but its power was too much to take. Then, Steven Gerrard did it three times for his first league hat-trick.
And then we went home with a wry smile. Got a fortnight to return to it all. A good break and a good rest. I think I owe it to myself to watch closely what might be a grand-finale.
In the meantime, Yanks OUT!
There you go, I thought I can’t be bothered with this anymore, or at the very least, I’ve had enough for this season. I just wanted a break from it all, as once the flame ebbs away there is only darkness to ponder. I wanted a break from it all. I embraced the darkness of the situation. There was no fear of the dark, and there were no withdrawal symptoms that the close season can bring about. Just a carefree attitude, and a certain lightness that you’d feel after you’ve unshackled yourself. I actually surprised myself. I’ve beat an addiction without thinking much about it, without trying to fight it and without shedding sweat. It just happened, or maybe it had been coming long time and it just passed me over. Something changed, and I just went with the flow of emotions that a change brings. As in my latest piece, the backroom politics, or more accurately backstabbing, hypocrisy and greed did it to me. And the match just coupled all this, like a honeymoon couple. What I looked for a whole week could be pathetic and downright depressive. The performance at the Riverside put it all into perspective and the writing was on the wall for me. And it just didn’t bother me. I went for neither a roller nor the old paintbrush to scrub it off.
And then Real Madrid called at Anfield. Watched only the last forty-five minutes. Everybody knows the score. Then, that match at Old Trafford. I decided to watch from home. It felt like something’s on the box and I might as well watch. And then that performance. And the result. And that little rush of blood through my head, that brought back some good old memories. It was sweet. It was agreeable and drily poetic.
Yesterday, I made my way to the club again. Slowly and just before kick-off. It’s always good to see old mates. And a bevy tastes good. And there was a small kid just before me. His eyes lighting up after every goal. My own world felt good. I saw myself in him.
Dirk Kuyt opened the scoring. A limited player with yet unrestricted work ethic, that probably goes home and wouldn’t understand the number of zeroes on his paycheck. He just bamboozled home a rebound with vengeance, the only way he knows and what the situation asked for. And then Albert Riera. Sometimes showing unlimited skill, that somehow though could only be performed in flashes every now and then. Yesterday he showed the better side of himself. The crossbar threatened to repel his shot and effort but its power was too much to take. Then, Steven Gerrard did it three times for his first league hat-trick.
And then we went home with a wry smile. Got a fortnight to return to it all. A good break and a good rest. I think I owe it to myself to watch closely what might be a grand-finale.
In the meantime, Yanks OUT!
posted by jean paul at 9:55 pm
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