No tall tale this…
The sport known as soccer in the United States, known as futbol in more lands than not, identical to the version played in more lands than not, resides deeply inside the wickedly honest hearts, the wide open eyes and minds, and the passionate souls of each and every one of the millions of two legged mammals, male and female, young and old, who have devoured the bittersweet exhilaration of simple ball, grass, concrete, sand and like-minded companion.
But there is a plague upon our indigent joy. Dark and powerful
forces, flush with soulless mammon, are dizzyingly busy convincing all who
listen without reason, and all who would butcher their very essence in order to
sell bloody pieces to the rancid plague, that the millions should set aside their
honest hearts and passionate souls for a version of our love twisted to enrich the
malicious misguided few.
We must set our bare feet firmly in the fields of our dreams
and bring the misguided souls back to the creative conscious which spatters the
green canvasses of Sunday afternoons with near perfect touch, motion and
emotion.These whispering few, safe behind thick walls, counting future riches, deserve honest praise for honest work. Yet their counting is the result of our soul’s passion.
We must insist they see each and every one of the millions
of like-minded companions as different but equal.
For too long, too many, far too many, of those who have
danced along the beach or green field, have seen the folly of the few lost and
lonely souls. But slowly the many are seduced by the few.
The climax of the seduction is empty. Like the snake oil
salesman on the corner, screaming for attention, selling promises which will
never come true, the climax is manipulated, hyped, a mass marketed haze of
nothing, our soul passing through without touching.
Soccer, futbol, is our sport. Give the few their due and
then insist, without compromise, that the millions creating the dream have the
opportunity to be part of any and all of the dream.
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