United State 2—Ghana 1
“Hey, Tony!”
The heat outside rolls off the partially filled asphalt parking lot. The threatening skies seem distant. I am already comfortable, squeezed between one clean and well-worn table and the chairs of the table behind my spot. Pre-game is on and Tony rates a shout-out, but the courtesy of standing to greet the third of many friendly faces will have to wait a few seconds.
Two more sips of iced tea, pacing, pacing, pacing, at fifty pacing is important, beer in good time. Now, rise, smile, shake, and feel that much more comfortable.
“Dave!”
“Tony, great to see you!”
#########################################################
The hum of televisions is a conduit for the excitement building within each like-minded red, white and blue clad soul. It’s as if the moving pictures on the screen snatch a small piece of our wide-eyed excitement. The players formed by the imperceptible pixels run, stop, turn, spin, dribble, and pass with a current of energy stretching over mountains, oceans and beaches. Even in Natal’s sand dune covered tropical brilliance, the current cannot be seduced by the warm water melting into the endless shore. The connection is made, the energy flows, impossibly, back and forth.
And then, IT happens. Only thirty seconds have passed, but so have four years. The unthinkable. A forward pass to feet. A simple single touch to an onrushing player. With purpose, a first touch through two. A second touch past an unsure, penalty area stranded, central defender. Bring the ball back in line, never breaking stride. The finishing touch, inside of the left and the ball caroms off the far post and settles in the goal. 1-0 to the team mystically powered by the throngs of red, white and blue clad souls thousands of miles away.
Step back now. The energy is still there. The connection has not been broken, yet it all seems too much. Gather in numbers. Don’t let the spaces between become heart rending chasms. One sliver of magic, can it really be enough? More than an entire game seems to pass.
There is another current. It bleeds red, yellow and green. It too stretches across an ocean. The very same space on the pristine green field, which started the unthinkable thirtieth second goal, has retained some of the magic of the red, white and blue. This time, the red, yellow and green heart slices through a trio of players and places the ball neatly inside the near post.
The pixels of the televisions slow. So achingly slow, they become visible. The players in red, white and blue are not whole, just pieces without purpose. Only a few minutes remain and the connection is almost lost. Millions stand at home. Wherever they gather, through sheer strength of will, they create the connection anew. The tiny, meaningless, pieces on the screen come together again.
A foray forward. A last ditch lunge results in the ball being placed in the quarter-arch of the corner. The ball is whipped in. A young American rises. Forehead meets ball, and in the eighty-sixth minute the red, white and blue have collected three precious points.
##############################################################
“Sunday?”
“Oh yeah!”
“6pm. Do you think we can win?”
“2-1 again. I’m calling it right now.”
“Sounds good. Meet here, 4:30.”
“Great!”
(If you are so inclined, you might take a moment and check out Helton Janglom’s Template for Life. Find Helton online at the Amazon bookstore. For the incredibly low price of $4.99 you will get to follow Helton from Basu, Senegal, to Columbus, Ohio. Helltown’s own Larry W. Johnson designed the cover. Yours truly, Vidda “JibJab” Grubin is the humble author. If you do read Helton, many thanks. I hope you enjoy)
“Hey, Tony!”
The heat outside rolls off the partially filled asphalt parking lot. The threatening skies seem distant. I am already comfortable, squeezed between one clean and well-worn table and the chairs of the table behind my spot. Pre-game is on and Tony rates a shout-out, but the courtesy of standing to greet the third of many friendly faces will have to wait a few seconds.
Two more sips of iced tea, pacing, pacing, pacing, at fifty pacing is important, beer in good time. Now, rise, smile, shake, and feel that much more comfortable.
“Dave!”
“Tony, great to see you!”
#########################################################
The hum of televisions is a conduit for the excitement building within each like-minded red, white and blue clad soul. It’s as if the moving pictures on the screen snatch a small piece of our wide-eyed excitement. The players formed by the imperceptible pixels run, stop, turn, spin, dribble, and pass with a current of energy stretching over mountains, oceans and beaches. Even in Natal’s sand dune covered tropical brilliance, the current cannot be seduced by the warm water melting into the endless shore. The connection is made, the energy flows, impossibly, back and forth.
And then, IT happens. Only thirty seconds have passed, but so have four years. The unthinkable. A forward pass to feet. A simple single touch to an onrushing player. With purpose, a first touch through two. A second touch past an unsure, penalty area stranded, central defender. Bring the ball back in line, never breaking stride. The finishing touch, inside of the left and the ball caroms off the far post and settles in the goal. 1-0 to the team mystically powered by the throngs of red, white and blue clad souls thousands of miles away.
Step back now. The energy is still there. The connection has not been broken, yet it all seems too much. Gather in numbers. Don’t let the spaces between become heart rending chasms. One sliver of magic, can it really be enough? More than an entire game seems to pass.
There is another current. It bleeds red, yellow and green. It too stretches across an ocean. The very same space on the pristine green field, which started the unthinkable thirtieth second goal, has retained some of the magic of the red, white and blue. This time, the red, yellow and green heart slices through a trio of players and places the ball neatly inside the near post.
The pixels of the televisions slow. So achingly slow, they become visible. The players in red, white and blue are not whole, just pieces without purpose. Only a few minutes remain and the connection is almost lost. Millions stand at home. Wherever they gather, through sheer strength of will, they create the connection anew. The tiny, meaningless, pieces on the screen come together again.
A foray forward. A last ditch lunge results in the ball being placed in the quarter-arch of the corner. The ball is whipped in. A young American rises. Forehead meets ball, and in the eighty-sixth minute the red, white and blue have collected three precious points.
##############################################################
“Sunday?”
“Oh yeah!”
“6pm. Do you think we can win?”
“2-1 again. I’m calling it right now.”
“Sounds good. Meet here, 4:30.”
“Great!”
(If you are so inclined, you might take a moment and check out Helton Janglom’s Template for Life. Find Helton online at the Amazon bookstore. For the incredibly low price of $4.99 you will get to follow Helton from Basu, Senegal, to Columbus, Ohio. Helltown’s own Larry W. Johnson designed the cover. Yours truly, Vidda “JibJab” Grubin is the humble author. If you do read Helton, many thanks. I hope you enjoy)
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