God is a goalkeeper

Hadyn is busy with a new job and stuff, so I’ve decided to step in for my bi-yearly post and fill the chasm in his absence.

Well the only thing I’ve been paying attention to lately is the world cup. Shockingly early mornings that turn into rather later arrivals at work and laughable productivity have led many to question the public broadcast of such a tournament.

Due to the sun, the size of the earth, rotation, etc, we antipodeans have been forced to watch the much anticipated football matches in the, now official, “ungodly hours”. Its been tough, for with even God abandoning these hours, its very cold, and uninviting. If they play football in heaven, they certainly don’t play it at two o’clock in the bloody morning. Yet most mornings this month has seen me huddling round an electric heater which appears to have been based around the idea that a 2 watt light bulb gives off sufficient warmth to heat an entire room. Alas no. Still I have a blanket, thermals, hot water bottle, another blanket, slippers, socks, a scarf, mittens and woolly hat. So there I am, 2:00am on a Wednesday morning. “Come world cup, come world elite players, I have toiled hard and waited long. Play for me!” I announce. The thumping of my flatmate’s fist on the wall puts an end to any more announcements. I am bathed in the ghostly glow of the television set. Some pommie bugger talks to himself (but to all the English speaking world at the same time, amazing) for 90 minutes. In those 5400 seconds, I experience the full spectrum of my emotions. Anger (he dived or “simulated”), intense anger (the bastard gets up and keeps playing as if nothing has happened), joy (the cameraman has picked out a particularly comely South American lass), frustration (the cameraman has turned back to the game), mirth (the portly Spain coach is banished to his bench), mouth open awe (Maxi Rodriguez’ score against Mexico), impressed clapping (Spain’s thrashing of Ukraine), shocking boredom (Switzerland vs Ukraine), anger (diving bastard has returned), and sadness (a penalty shootout – surely the worst way to decide the result of a football match). I stumble back to bed, spent, at about 4am-430am to get up again for the 7am match. The same emotional rollercoaster is repeated. At 9:00am or sometimes later I begin my wander down to work. On the way I swap knowing glances with others who emerge to face the near midmorning sun. We share a now common appearance. Pasty white faces, sunken eyes, poor grooming, but with a fire, burning inside us. For we have witnessed something special. A game as beautiful and simple as its name. The world cup comes but once every four years. Health, wellbeing, employment. These can all take a back seat.

I, for one, shall never question the public broadcast of the world cup, and indeed will forever celebrate it. I reckon if I survive this final week and a half then I will probably live till about 80 years of age. I can squeeze in another 13.7 world cups. Which means I’ll probably die at about this time during World cup 2054 in Iraq. What a way to go.

The dropkicks are back this week or early next. Watch out for us and our world cup special. Boomzing!