Over a year and a half ago, that’s when I completed this entry for my old blog.
I sit here, listening to my playlist.com songs, and thinking back on the wonderful experience that was to watch the World Cup last year, to have shared that with people close to me in real life, and those that belong to Giantess.com, wonderful people that feel as deeply as I do about the Beautiful Game.
It was also nifty to watch these games (I don’t think I missed more than one) and think of all those tall images that please my mind, such as what I would look like at two hundred feet in height and sitting on the Olympiastadion‘s tiers with minuscule spectators crowded around me, all wearing the colors of my beloved flag (or not—I hardly think I would care where I sit at that height).
Another thought that amused me was to think of the Golden Shoe as a foot instead. My favorite winner was Davor Ŝuker, all those years ago. He could really play… but back to the present. The man in the image is David Beckham, who scored a nightmarishly winning goal for England against my team, and therefore deserves my poking a bit of fun at him as I award him the official Golden Foot to carry on his back for all eternity.
He can take it. All the scandalous amount of money (yet not baseball-level scandalous) he’s making now in Cali with the LA Galaxy will help pad his painful back against the foot’s unrelenting pressure. I read somewhere that Beckham is an icon for the gay community, and I wonder why. Simply because he poses naked for pictures? Don’t straight men pose for naked photos all the time?
All seriousness aside, I have some expectations Beckham will further soccer’s popularizing in this lovely country long confused by that odd, hypnotizing nothing-is-happening-on-the-field quality of baseball and basketball, or that other sport that’s played with a misshapen “ball”. While my lack of cable service will prevent my watching every widely broadcast national football game, my desire to witness a Borg-like assimilation of the masses into a frenzied passion for the game will only culminate when I witness my first televised knife stabbing between opposing team fans on the field, enraged by the other one’s mere existence.*
After all, a sport is not properly watched unless you can keep score with the ink of your own blood, or at least feel the experience heightened by the possibility of death by panicked trampling. Don’t give me this:
…when I can have this:
I love the Game, and all that it inspires. I love the way it brings people together… unless “together” means that you spend so much time playing abroad that when you go back home you have no idea how to maneuver the ball with others in your own nation’s team. But mostly I love it when it inspires a person to get off her couch and go play it, instead of only watching it
*Second, actually. One of the most vivid memories of my childhood was the stabbing of a man on a football field after a game, by a man that was rooting for the other team. I watched it on TV, but my mind can still reproduce those red wounds on that white shirt as transmitted onto the screen, and into my brain. TV censors for Latin America? No such thing.
New Order – World In Motion