It’s football season.
Everybody’s blood pressure is smoking weed all over the place. Mine hit an all-time high with whatever it is the Super Eagles did on the pitch. Honestly, they call that soaring? Try souring!
You probably haven’t picked up on this, but I wasn’t very happy on Saturday. First, Messi’s miss then Etebo’s boo. Not a good day people!
Bad as my day was, I have special thoughts for those without Chemistry for the game. Staring at the screen and not getting it. Reaching for the remote that’s suddenly truly remote; making eye contact with your beloved and making zero contact; strutting in lingerie (which cannot be easy in this weather) and scoring only the lingering memory that the body on the couch was once hot for you…worry not darling, at least he’s on the couch…just keep your mouth shut, avoid the eye rolls and the labored sighs…this too shall pass.
It is only a season.
Now, some people might have the gall to be offended by that statement. I can just see it in their eyes. Glaring and asking questions they don’t want answered –
What do you mean, season? Football is not a season! Football is oxygen. When do we ever stop gulping it down? Can you pinpoint the point of saturation? Can you?
The point of saturation:
For those of you who have no chemistry with Chemistry, this simply means the point of screw this shit!
I know I’m treading on thin ice because saturation is the point where chemistry and I parted ways. To be clear, I did not walk away from Chemistry; it walked away from me. There was no kicking and screaming from me though. I just waited all of 3 seconds before slamming the door. There was an awkward moment when Chemistry came back 5 seconds later and found me burning stuff, because that’s what women do when they want to obliterate a memory. So Chemistry stood there looking burned. The nerve! I mean, it dumps me and then it expects me to mope around all day?
Anyway, as Chemistry hightailed out of my life, I had an epiphany; a series of epiphanies if you may:
- Chemistry is not oxygen.
- Breathe. You still have the oxygen.
- Screw this shit!
Sorry about the detour:
You’ve probably been rolling your eyes and sighing heavily, wondering why the heck I’m yammering about Chemistry. Relax. It was just a long pass. I’ll cut to the chase now:
Ladies, we’ve all seen the memes. The letters of notice. Basically, your royal is getting bumped off the flight in favor of soccer.
When you get dumped, abandoned, neglected, ignored, whatever you do, do not mope around. Yes, those eye rolls and labored sighs fall smack in this category.
So what if he treats you like part of the furniture? If I’m going to be brutally honest, you probably rank lower than the furniture right now; at least the TV’s getting conversation; at least the couch is getting physical contact; at least the footstool gets missed if it’s moved – in fact, when he asks where it is, that’s probably the only hint you’ll get that he knows you still exist.
There’s hope yet! If you can make him watch Alejandro and his three mujeres, surely you can watch twenty-two hombres chasing a ball!
It is doable. Just ask my friend Julie who finally got around to watching her maiden match – Morocco vs Iran. In her words: Unnecessary stress…that’s what football is!
Okay…not the resounding endorsement I was looking for. But, think about it for a second – she cared enough to get stressed. That’s telling! The flame is burning now. I just know she’ll be clamoring for more unnecessary stress.
If nothing else, it is a great way to give your heart a physical. I made this particular discovery quite young…
At the age of 7, Ludo was probably my favorite board game. If you’ve played it, you know that the first, most important step is picking one of 4 colors: Green, Red, Blue or Yellow. In our version, the colors had to mean something. Something badass. My big brother called dibs on green because it was the color of The Super Eagles. Red was danger. Blue was the habitat of sharks. These colors were badass. None of them belonged to me. By some twist of fate, yellow was the only color left when it was my turn to pick. Yellow was soft and sweet and warm and urgh! How the heck was I supposed to channel badass with yellow?
Once the colors were sorted, the next step was to take turns rolling the dice and hoping for a six. Only a six could get your players onto the pitch.
Our Ludo was incomplete without football commentary by none other than Mr. Super Eagles, aka Ben. Every move he made was a dribble, a slide, a goal. If any of his players got ‘sent home’, they were just resting or warming up. If any of our players got sent home, they were ill, weak, unfit for the (football) game. Yes. I’m still talking about Ludo, the board game.
It got painful sometimes. Teary even. You finally get all your players out on the ‘pitch’ then one by one, they get picked off by sniper fire. And the commentator won’t even let you lick your wounds in solitude. Oh no. He has to whip that drum sore.
Super Eagles this, Super Eagles that.
I hated The Super Eagles.
Strike that. I hated football.
I love the Super Eagles. Only, they have this tendency to piss me off, getting my hopes all high I’m practically pummeling the drums of war…and then…I don’t need to complete this sentence, do I?
How did I evolve from a football hating super eagle hater to present state?
Well…we’ve just marked Fathers’ Day, so allow me to place my dad on a higher pedestal than he usually gets.
I was maybe ten when he introduced me to Sunday afternoons at Nyayo stadium. Just the two of us. He’d break it down for me. He’d explain the moves, the passes, the fouls. I was especially tickled by the spectacle of grown men faking an injury to evade a card. There was commentary. It was never as vicious as foot-ludo. Not once did I hear the commentator laugh in the face of the losing team.
I became fascinated by the names of African teams. Badass names:
The lions of Teranga. The Black Stars. The Indomitable lions. The Pharaohs. The Desert Warriors. The Elephants. The Cranes. Harambee Stars. Bafana Bafana…
Each name sounded to me like a war cry. There was pride and passion in those names. There was history. Heritage. Unique stories of who we are. What we’re about.
I was in love.
Then somewhere along the way, Mr. Super Eagles fell for the Red Devils. Hey Ben, if we played foot-ludo today, which color would you pick? Green or Red?
I’d pick yellow. Yes. I know about Brazil now. Wait…I’d pick blue because Argentina does things to my heart strings. Never mind Messi’s miss. Heck…I’d shut my eyes and let the color pick me. One way or another, I’d have something Badass to attach to it.
I’ve woken up in the wee hours to catch a game. I’ve cheered like a drug-crazed cockerel. I’ve watched 30 minutes or more of a game, while standing by the door because I’m too furious to watch this shit yet too hooked to walk away, I’ve walked away in protest, only to jet back 3 minutes later screaming What happened?
The skill, the adrenaline, the tension, the genius, the heartbreak, the eye candy. The eye candy…Santa Maria…I’ll spare you the list of my soccer crushes. I’d probably need a whole other post just for that, hehehe…
P.S: The picture of Ronaldo is totally random.
The Bottom Line:
Football is not a season.
There’s always something going on.
It’s like someone figured out a way to drive women crazy and just kept improving it!
Ladies, if you can’t beat them, (and I assure you, on this one count, you can’t!) just join them. At least you won’t have to bend over backwards to cheer him up after Brazil draws – you’ll be too busy wallowing in your own misery.
How Messi is that!