We all must part or join at some point, through the vicissitudes of time or the mistakes that estrange us from one another. King James leaves Cleveland for Bosh and Wade in South Beach, home of the family friendly hotels across the street from the all-night clubs. Cliff Lee goes from Seattle to pitch in Texas, where he will wilt in the southwestern sun. The Cubbies can’t score a run against the eephus-pitching Vicente Padilla of the LA Dodgers, costing us a big payday (for entertainment purposes only).
Our episodes are epic. Why! We recall them better than who’s the pitcher after the All-Star break for the Queens County Dodgers/Giants, i.e., the New York Metropolitans, a senior circuit baseball club that disturbs its fans with streaks of brilliance and abysmal failure.
Fail or triumph, we must. We are creatures who resemble our primate cousins when we bare our teeth in screams of agony or delight and see them in slow motion HD TV. Our fourth cousin, once removed, Mr. Donovan of the United States soccer team, resembled the great ape when he pounded the rebound into the goal against Algeria in the silly game known as futbol. Why doesn’t anyone pick the darn thing up and throw a forward pass, as Teddy Roosevelt commanded?
The taverns and ristorantes were filled to the gills in our corner of Brooklyn with folks enamored of the play-not-to-lose game called, accurately, futbol. We must admit, these guys are fine athletes, but c’mon man, take a shot now and then. And who was the fellow with the hair who couldn’t head the ball into the goal on a corner. Maybe he needed a haircut.
Meanwhile, the most exciting futbol game around is being played by “hosers” in North America’s northernmost nation. Our beloved Alouettes recovered mightily in the 4th quarter to win the day against the Eskimos, who seemed to have the upper hand. More than one man in motion is exciting. Teddy Roosevelt, where are you?
Showing posts with label soccer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label soccer. Show all posts
Monday, July 12, 2010
Monday, June 14, 2010
The One That Got Away
While working on our tan the other day, braving the risks of melanoma but capturing Vitamin D in copious amounts, we thought about the benefit/reward of relying on the solar system that God created and the number of perfect putts He has granted us.
Our laps around the star that lights our world, as a friend of ours puts it, is limited, but lap we must, and sometimes we gallop. Mr. Posada, who returned behind the plate for the Highlanders yesterday, stroked a grand slam homerun for the second day in a row. Has he used them up?
Mr. Bryant of the Land of 1,000 Lakes in subtropical Los Angeles scores 38 points in a losing effort against the Pierces and Rondos of the New England Westies. What does a guy have to do? Take another lap.
Ted Lilly of the baby bears and Gavin Floyd of the pale hose each flirted with no-hitters late into the Midwestern afternoon, but while flirting is fun, it leaves us misting up for the one that got away when our song is played. Harvey Haddix, he of the perfect game for 12 innings before losing, must wish for one more lap.
Mr. Green, the goalkeeper of the sceptered isle in the World Cup football matches, has earned the scorn of tabloid journalists in his native land for his butterfingers when Mr. Dempsey from the pines of east Texas slithered a round ball into the net. Mr. Green, meet Bill Buckner.
Mr. Strasburg of the Nationals baseball club was pulled after 5 1/3 innings, strikeouts galore with walks as well, but 100 mph cannot be denied. Kerry Wood can relate.
As the Kinks sang, “The World Keeps Turning ‘round.”
Our laps around the star that lights our world, as a friend of ours puts it, is limited, but lap we must, and sometimes we gallop. Mr. Posada, who returned behind the plate for the Highlanders yesterday, stroked a grand slam homerun for the second day in a row. Has he used them up?
Mr. Bryant of the Land of 1,000 Lakes in subtropical Los Angeles scores 38 points in a losing effort against the Pierces and Rondos of the New England Westies. What does a guy have to do? Take another lap.
Ted Lilly of the baby bears and Gavin Floyd of the pale hose each flirted with no-hitters late into the Midwestern afternoon, but while flirting is fun, it leaves us misting up for the one that got away when our song is played. Harvey Haddix, he of the perfect game for 12 innings before losing, must wish for one more lap.
Mr. Green, the goalkeeper of the sceptered isle in the World Cup football matches, has earned the scorn of tabloid journalists in his native land for his butterfingers when Mr. Dempsey from the pines of east Texas slithered a round ball into the net. Mr. Green, meet Bill Buckner.
Mr. Strasburg of the Nationals baseball club was pulled after 5 1/3 innings, strikeouts galore with walks as well, but 100 mph cannot be denied. Kerry Wood can relate.
As the Kinks sang, “The World Keeps Turning ‘round.”
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Aristotle
Who has it better than us?
Does it get any richer for the sports fan over the weekend than two girls’ soccer games at the Parade Grounds in Brooklyn, pennant races, college football drama on Saturday, U.S. Open meltdowns on Sunday and uncomebackable comebacks against the best on Monday, and National Football League all day Sunday and two more on Monday night?
Nope. It’s all good (is that still the au courant saying?).
Mr. Del Porto, guns glistening in his sleeveless blouse in the Queens County September sunlight, somehow dispatched Mr. Federer, whose black sox may have undone him. Superstitious, I know, but these things have consequences. To my detriment on the golf course and elsewhere, I continuously rebel against Aristotle’s admonishment: “We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, therefore, is not an act, but a habit.”
There’s more, though. Sometimes it’s better to be lucky than good. A defensive back makes a remarkable leap to slap an arching pass into the hands of a Denver receiver behind everyone who scoots to the score with seconds remaining.
But is luck, as Aristotle posited, the residue of practice? The defensive back did what he was trained to do and ended up costing his team the game. Should we teach him not to disrupt the play and allow the pass to take its course? Of course not. Can’t do it, as Mike Singletary would say. One must always try.
Does it get any richer for the sports fan over the weekend than two girls’ soccer games at the Parade Grounds in Brooklyn, pennant races, college football drama on Saturday, U.S. Open meltdowns on Sunday and uncomebackable comebacks against the best on Monday, and National Football League all day Sunday and two more on Monday night?
Nope. It’s all good (is that still the au courant saying?).
Mr. Del Porto, guns glistening in his sleeveless blouse in the Queens County September sunlight, somehow dispatched Mr. Federer, whose black sox may have undone him. Superstitious, I know, but these things have consequences. To my detriment on the golf course and elsewhere, I continuously rebel against Aristotle’s admonishment: “We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, therefore, is not an act, but a habit.”
There’s more, though. Sometimes it’s better to be lucky than good. A defensive back makes a remarkable leap to slap an arching pass into the hands of a Denver receiver behind everyone who scoots to the score with seconds remaining.
But is luck, as Aristotle posited, the residue of practice? The defensive back did what he was trained to do and ended up costing his team the game. Should we teach him not to disrupt the play and allow the pass to take its course? Of course not. Can’t do it, as Mike Singletary would say. One must always try.
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