I was waiting for some spackle to cure while my wife escorted her grandmother to a dental appointment. Every hair follicle on me was coated with a layer of white micro-dust, pasted there by my own sweat after a first round of sanding. I was waiting for a second layer of “mud” to dry so I could go at it again. Is there any better time to try to appreciate the game of soccer? I think not.
So I fired up Nanie’s TV. Mind you, I wasn’t looking for a soccer game. Like I said, I was waiting for spackle to harden. I’d been repairing some water damage inside the small closet of a back room she never uses. How she spotted the crumbling wall behind the stacks of eight track tapes, discarded remotes and World’s Greatest Grandpa baseball caps I’ll never know, but the discovery was grating on her the same way it does when her preferred supermarket won’t honor an ancient coupon found under the stove for 15% off a pint of Half & Half.
This kind of repair job calls for some serious distraction. After watching a divorced couple argue their respective cases against each other concerning a day care bill mailed to the guy by his ex mother-in-law on Pre-Menstrual Bitch Judge, I happened upon a quarterfinal match between the Netherlands and Uruguay. I don’t know where those places are either, but I still thought to myself, World Cup? Maybe I ought to give this shit another try.
And you know I’m glad I did, because I got to witness the first and what may be the only actual live soccer goal I’ll ever see in my life. Coming in the first half of what had up until that point naturally been a scoreless match, it was a strike of startling suddenness and miraculous luck. The scored-upon team, realizing it now faced insurmountable odds, ceded victory and headed en masse for the Johannesburg pubs.
Just kidding. But I fooled some of you, didn’t I? Because let’s face it, after the initial curiosity phase subsides, this is a sport that in America couldn’t draw an audience running up against the game show Find The Needle In The Haystack Using Just Your Pee Pee. Come to think of it, I may be on to something. I must make a note to contact my agent.
The only truly satisfying aspect of the game is the histrionic display of players who, felled by puffs of wind, writhe on the ground as if they’ve been struck by lightning. I’ve known two-year olds who exhibit more thespian restraint than these clowns. In fact the only effective use of the arms are made as these whiplash victims implore the heavens for righteous retribution.
This is what happens when you don’t get what you want, which in the case of a soccer player would be a visual sighting of the opposing goal, ball in tow. It’s the same thing experienced by a hungry child harnessed to a high chair an arm’s length from his pristine birthday cake: abject futility.
Everyone knows what’s wrong with soccer. If you happen to be a Martian passing through or a recently-defrosted Frozen Man, here is the short list:
A) Nothing ever happens, but that doesn’t keep them from trying on a field the size of Kentucky.
B) When the players are allowed the natural use of their hands, they throw like sissy girls.
C) Incompetent refs make the impossible more so.
D) The average final score is nil:nil.
E) This interminable game does not end even when the clock runs out.
F) Those damn vuvugizmos.
G) I’m sorry. I just came to after passing out. What was I talking about?
How would I fix the world’s favorite game? Here’s how. End the world.
Failing that…
A) I’d use American commentators. Let’s face it, nothing says, “We don’t care” like the sound of a couple of Limeys talking gibberish while a gaggle of foreigners in culottes run aimlessly about, spitefully tripping each other at midfield in order that no meaningful play develops. At least listening to Joe Buck ruminate on how bad it hurts when his daughter kicks him in the shins could burn off some clock time.
B) Make the goalie play like the rest of the team, i.e., he can’t use his hands either. That should put some points on the board. And believe you me, points need to be put on the board. Put him in uniform with the rest of his mates too, the prima donna. There can only be one Ronald McDonald.
C) None of this “injury time” malarkey. A crowd needs a countdown, if only to drown out the damn vuvuthings. What meager sense of drama that might be wrung from this game with a view of the clock winding down is aborted by the ridiculous inclusion of extra time known only to the corrupt ref. It’s bullshit.
D) Two words: instant replay. Duh. And once you’ve installed your cameras you can smugly show American Baseball umpires how it works, Rest of World.
These are reasonable requests, and I personally would like to see more draconian measures taken, to whit:
• Give these guys military-style helmets with spring-loaded pistons on them.
• Since he already dresses like one, make the goalie an authentic Hooters waitress.
• Instead of those ridiculous post-it notes, give the ref a beefy nightstick. Then we’ll see some real wielding of corrupt authority.
• Using newly instituted instant replay, when a player has been caught faking an injury, each member of the opposing team shall be awarded a free kick to his nuts. No protective use of the hands, Cyrano.
• Oh hell, just blindfold them all. Then well see some real contact.
• Finally, the vuvukazoo, while allowed, may only be played through the anal sphincter
That’s my list, which I suspect will be ignored. In any event if these measures are adapted I won’t be there to appreciate them. That lady judge is kind of hot looking when she gets all righteous on her litigants.
Post Script: The World Cup is now over, after a stirring match between Spain and the Netherlands which ended in a zero zero tie at the end of regulation play, ditto at the end of the first overtime period. The world was put out of its collective misery in the second overtime period when a goal was accidentally scored by Spain. The scorer was so stunned he began to disrobe on the field, despite a rule forbidding such practice. I kid you not, there is such a rule, made necessary by the kind of behavior that crops up among gangs of hopelessly frustrated athletes.
