Sunday was a celebration of Jesus's Resurrection, and Today was about a resurrection of a
different kind. A rising unexpected, and possibly uncontainable. A resurrection that is ready to
give Wembley a double-fisted rocking in the weeks to come. The dogs of War are snarling,
straining at the leash, and there is only one thing standing in our way to the final, and that is a
little red fire hydrant. After a match such as this one, where I am caught out sober, by
circumstances not the fault of my own, similes and metaphors rain down on me like...well, never
mind, plenty of time for that, later.
When Moose, off the LASH site, posted our starting lineup for this match, there was a remarkable
lack of replies as we all pondered what we had just seen. Finally, a timid lad set finger to
keyboard and asked, “Is that for real?â€
“Yes.â€
“McFadden?â€
“Yes.â€
“Oh.â€
That was fine with me, I decided. I have a lot of projects to catch up on before going to work at
the petrol station and verbally jousting with the Hostess Driver who is convinced that I am a
retard, and I am convinced that he is quite old. I will catch the results later, and get busy for now.
But I tuned in to the stream. There really is no help for us Evertonians. And then Everton got
busy. Well, not right away. There was plenty of sky, and ball in sky, and long, lonely volleys from
forwards back to their own goalkeepers. In fact, this match was like a lazy spring afternoon with two old dogs lazing on front porches in different neighborhoods, and once in a while one of
them would bark, “Hey!â€
(Long Pause) “What?â€
(Long Pause) “Nothing.â€
(Long Pause) “Okay.â€
And then it was halftime.
Oh, I can't say I was glued to the screen for the first half. I got up, made some toast and bacon. I
let the dog out. I returned to the screen. Put a pot of water on for coffee. Returned to the screen.
I ate my breakfast and then began mixing baking soda with rock cocaine and took some huge,
greedy riffs off the pungent clouds, scratched myself a few times and returned to the computer
for the second half.
The swirling patterns of colour on the screen began transfixing my mind. It looked like blue and
white weather patterns descending upon the Sunderland part of Goodison. Soon, little 'taking the
piss' droplets began to fall. I went to the stove and turned up the flame and returned to the
screen. Everton were at these fools! Maguye, Osman, Pienaar, McFadden...ha ha, as if, Neville
doing step-overs again. And then I returned to the kitchen, and when I came back, exhaling
smoke, I saw another little ball, but this one was on the pitch, not on my sheet of tin foil. A
deflected Osman rocket rolled to Maguye who ran onto it from the left corner of a white line. He
shot a dragon chasing trail into the top corner of the net. I sipped coffee, I needed caffeine. This
was good. If Everton can make this hold up—Osman scored from the same spot into the same
spot. I re-examined the contents in the foil on the kitchen counter. Who did I buy this from? I
came back to the screen and Drenthe was in the match. He was sniffing the air, trying to find out
where the smoke was coming from. I exhaled again. “It's coming from YOU, my man,†I told the
black man on the screen. And then Drenthe began cooking up his own little somethin' somethin'
down the middle, weaving like I do in traffic, down the left side and passed way over to Maguye
on the right. Maguye passed to Pienaar in the middle at the edge of the area. Pienaar did not
move. He looked at a spot beyond the goalkeeper, cocked his foot back, and kicked the ball. It
sailed to it's chosen destiny, somehow surprising the keeper. That piss-taking downpour
exploded from the skies.
Next, Moyes looked to his subs bench and spied Victor. Victor looked back at him and arched his
eyebrows. “You remember my name yet?â€
“Vic, get in there.â€
“Hmm, hmmm, mmm, I'm humming a song, I can't hear you.â€
“Victor!â€
“La la la, ooh, look at the bird in row C.â€
Moyes rolled his eyes and exhaled. “African Mandigo Warrior Whose Name Means NOT A SUB
in African, Get out there!â€
Victor got up, and if my lip reading is what it used to be he told his fellow subs, “Later, bitches.â€
Minutes later, Pienaar went skidding through about fifty Sunderland players at the right hand
corner flag, ducked inside and found African Mandigo...Victor. Victors eyes became saucers when
the ball came to him, and he stuck his tongue out, swung his leg and pegged the ball about a
foot straight up in the air. Victor's momentum carried him around 360-degrees and his leg hit
the ball again before it could touch the ground. This time the ball smacked some poor fool in
black and red and ding-donged the net for the fourth goal. Vic unleashed his deadly and
disarming smile, the sun came out, and “Tell me ma†blared from the sun system. In the
background, on my stereo, Jim Morrison was singing, “Meet me at the back of the Blue Bus, Blue
bus...†I headed back to the stove. Be right with you, Jimmy my man.â€
http://www.schoolofscience.eu
different kind. A rising unexpected, and possibly uncontainable. A resurrection that is ready to
give Wembley a double-fisted rocking in the weeks to come. The dogs of War are snarling,
straining at the leash, and there is only one thing standing in our way to the final, and that is a
little red fire hydrant. After a match such as this one, where I am caught out sober, by
circumstances not the fault of my own, similes and metaphors rain down on me like...well, never
mind, plenty of time for that, later.
When Moose, off the LASH site, posted our starting lineup for this match, there was a remarkable
lack of replies as we all pondered what we had just seen. Finally, a timid lad set finger to
keyboard and asked, “Is that for real?â€
“Yes.â€
“McFadden?â€
“Yes.â€
“Oh.â€
That was fine with me, I decided. I have a lot of projects to catch up on before going to work at
the petrol station and verbally jousting with the Hostess Driver who is convinced that I am a
retard, and I am convinced that he is quite old. I will catch the results later, and get busy for now.
But I tuned in to the stream. There really is no help for us Evertonians. And then Everton got
busy. Well, not right away. There was plenty of sky, and ball in sky, and long, lonely volleys from
forwards back to their own goalkeepers. In fact, this match was like a lazy spring afternoon with two old dogs lazing on front porches in different neighborhoods, and once in a while one of
them would bark, “Hey!â€
(Long Pause) “What?â€
(Long Pause) “Nothing.â€
(Long Pause) “Okay.â€
And then it was halftime.
Oh, I can't say I was glued to the screen for the first half. I got up, made some toast and bacon. I
let the dog out. I returned to the screen. Put a pot of water on for coffee. Returned to the screen.
I ate my breakfast and then began mixing baking soda with rock cocaine and took some huge,
greedy riffs off the pungent clouds, scratched myself a few times and returned to the computer
for the second half.
The swirling patterns of colour on the screen began transfixing my mind. It looked like blue and
white weather patterns descending upon the Sunderland part of Goodison. Soon, little 'taking the
piss' droplets began to fall. I went to the stove and turned up the flame and returned to the
screen. Everton were at these fools! Maguye, Osman, Pienaar, McFadden...ha ha, as if, Neville
doing step-overs again. And then I returned to the kitchen, and when I came back, exhaling
smoke, I saw another little ball, but this one was on the pitch, not on my sheet of tin foil. A
deflected Osman rocket rolled to Maguye who ran onto it from the left corner of a white line. He
shot a dragon chasing trail into the top corner of the net. I sipped coffee, I needed caffeine. This
was good. If Everton can make this hold up—Osman scored from the same spot into the same
spot. I re-examined the contents in the foil on the kitchen counter. Who did I buy this from? I
came back to the screen and Drenthe was in the match. He was sniffing the air, trying to find out
where the smoke was coming from. I exhaled again. “It's coming from YOU, my man,†I told the
black man on the screen. And then Drenthe began cooking up his own little somethin' somethin'
down the middle, weaving like I do in traffic, down the left side and passed way over to Maguye
on the right. Maguye passed to Pienaar in the middle at the edge of the area. Pienaar did not
move. He looked at a spot beyond the goalkeeper, cocked his foot back, and kicked the ball. It
sailed to it's chosen destiny, somehow surprising the keeper. That piss-taking downpour
exploded from the skies.
Next, Moyes looked to his subs bench and spied Victor. Victor looked back at him and arched his
eyebrows. “You remember my name yet?â€
“Vic, get in there.â€
“Hmm, hmmm, mmm, I'm humming a song, I can't hear you.â€
“Victor!â€
“La la la, ooh, look at the bird in row C.â€
Moyes rolled his eyes and exhaled. “African Mandigo Warrior Whose Name Means NOT A SUB
in African, Get out there!â€
Victor got up, and if my lip reading is what it used to be he told his fellow subs, “Later, bitches.â€
Minutes later, Pienaar went skidding through about fifty Sunderland players at the right hand
corner flag, ducked inside and found African Mandigo...Victor. Victors eyes became saucers when
the ball came to him, and he stuck his tongue out, swung his leg and pegged the ball about a
foot straight up in the air. Victor's momentum carried him around 360-degrees and his leg hit
the ball again before it could touch the ground. This time the ball smacked some poor fool in
black and red and ding-donged the net for the fourth goal. Vic unleashed his deadly and
disarming smile, the sun came out, and “Tell me ma†blared from the sun system. In the
background, on my stereo, Jim Morrison was singing, “Meet me at the back of the Blue Bus, Blue
bus...†I headed back to the stove. Be right with you, Jimmy my man.â€
http://www.schoolofscience.eu
