R.I.P. - My dear football
Champions league final. And then a hole, black, huge, hungry. The whole continent is swallowed in just less than a year, the game is too heavy; except for one. Everything is ready for a Hollywood paradise, if it can, give a transit from one to two, one drop of blood or two on the field, and of course the hero of the night. Liverpool or Milan, the crowd doesn't matter, the spectacl is on the price...
Manchester - Roma, the game that football crowd is hungry for, Scholes, Ronaldo, Giggs... like they've just exit the football dictionary. They can't go to hell, it is football. You just swallow and say nothing, drunk by the glamorous, lights of the reflectors and the fluency they play. It is not strange you can't see, you got pulled with the football fairytale; red stand full with viewers. You look closely; viewers, man."Devils" are stacking, Talians are eating grass from misery, and on the stands, arabian sheik wraped in white sheet, gladly applauding to his favourites. Twenty seconds later, he sits back in his comfortable red chair with clubs emblem on it and waves to waitress; he is thursty. You don't understand my friend. And i don't blame you.
You don' know that accross to you in a pub sits a man with a beer in his hand and bloody eyes screaming at the television, screaming and cheering; and doesn't understand how after 20 years he found himself at the wrong side of the stadium. No "glamorous" for those, never again. All e is left are trainings and reserves; and TV. You stole his place my friend, with you comfortable red chair with clubs emblem on it, on the place where he used to freeze on concrete, all covered with beer with the whole stadium singing. And yet again never happier. Delirium at 0:3, 0:4, it doesn't matter, out of control, against all logics. You stole all that, my friend, that atmosfere and well known faces, his second home, or first, saturday afternoon, and that felling... when everybody goes crazy. Feeling for memories, and nothing else. It's a different time, time of big pockets on reserved seats, shy applauding and big deceptions. NBA. Pooh.
And yet again, everybody is happy, thrilled, in delirium. Everybody but fans. You stole football from them, wrapped it in a colorful paper, transfered it from football stadiums to sillicon boxes and offered it to dollar gods on a plate, to an fu**er for two hours entartainment. You don't live from love ha? Lawrie Sanchez, rings a bell? I doubt it, unless among the most loyal ones. And he was close... so goddamn close. To the glory, power, and yes, fan love, that "street" one. He led Northern Ireland in qualifications for Euro 2008., and man how he led them.They never went to the end, amongs the big boys - and now, Sweden, Spain, Denmark, Latvia, all behind. With incredible chance, and lot of hard games in front; but with chance for immortality. And then slidding tackle - very bold one from behind, Gattuso's specials. Mohammed al Fayed winked, Sanchez broke down and ended in Fulham, between the elite and gentelmans. He got all, and lost just respect and good name. Small price for couple of zeros...
And what are we waiting for this Wednesday? Maked up show and - The death of football. The real one, played in the time when winters were winters and summers summers. On concrete temples without GMO fields, with right and left wing, beer in the hand, standing stand, without moving roofs and LCD screenboards. We lost ourselfs in all that my friend, went too far, for one bill too much. And we are not planning to quit. 30.000 chairs will this Wednesday left on mercy of the sponsors, without any shame. For clients, mistresses and buisness people; people for who this game will mean as much as the finals of the Eurosong ment to me. Golddiggers will ask why there is no Beckham, and why do those people sing when they are losing; and that will be it. End with the first judges whistle. Tragedy directly in your home; with a laugh and popcorns.
And few of those artists, football counts and dribbling oasis, tomorrow will lose themselves in "tacticall missions", "covering and conquering space", "positioning" and ugly frazes like those. Kaka - 10.568 metres covered. Are you normal? That is the statistic? And how many bicycles, dribbles, putting it through the legs? I didn't think so. Sad celebration of overjoyed champion, sprayers and congrat's to the master of tactics; unfortunately are on the menu tomorrow. Waste of ink and time; you don't understand it , my friend, how you love football...luckily you never will...
Champions league final. And then a hole, black, huge, hungry. The whole continent is swallowed in just less than a year, the game is too heavy; except for one. Everything is ready for a Hollywood paradise, if it can, give a transit from one to two, one drop of blood or two on the field, and of course the hero of the night. Liverpool or Milan, the crowd doesn't matter, the spectacl is on the price...
Manchester - Roma, the game that football crowd is hungry for, Scholes, Ronaldo, Giggs... like they've just exit the football dictionary. They can't go to hell, it is football. You just swallow and say nothing, drunk by the glamorous, lights of the reflectors and the fluency they play. It is not strange you can't see, you got pulled with the football fairytale; red stand full with viewers. You look closely; viewers, man."Devils" are stacking, Talians are eating grass from misery, and on the stands, arabian sheik wraped in white sheet, gladly applauding to his favourites. Twenty seconds later, he sits back in his comfortable red chair with clubs emblem on it and waves to waitress; he is thursty. You don't understand my friend. And i don't blame you.
You don' know that accross to you in a pub sits a man with a beer in his hand and bloody eyes screaming at the television, screaming and cheering; and doesn't understand how after 20 years he found himself at the wrong side of the stadium. No "glamorous" for those, never again. All e is left are trainings and reserves; and TV. You stole his place my friend, with you comfortable red chair with clubs emblem on it, on the place where he used to freeze on concrete, all covered with beer with the whole stadium singing. And yet again never happier. Delirium at 0:3, 0:4, it doesn't matter, out of control, against all logics. You stole all that, my friend, that atmosfere and well known faces, his second home, or first, saturday afternoon, and that felling... when everybody goes crazy. Feeling for memories, and nothing else. It's a different time, time of big pockets on reserved seats, shy applauding and big deceptions. NBA. Pooh.
And yet again, everybody is happy, thrilled, in delirium. Everybody but fans. You stole football from them, wrapped it in a colorful paper, transfered it from football stadiums to sillicon boxes and offered it to dollar gods on a plate, to an fu**er for two hours entartainment. You don't live from love ha? Lawrie Sanchez, rings a bell? I doubt it, unless among the most loyal ones. And he was close... so goddamn close. To the glory, power, and yes, fan love, that "street" one. He led Northern Ireland in qualifications for Euro 2008., and man how he led them.They never went to the end, amongs the big boys - and now, Sweden, Spain, Denmark, Latvia, all behind. With incredible chance, and lot of hard games in front; but with chance for immortality. And then slidding tackle - very bold one from behind, Gattuso's specials. Mohammed al Fayed winked, Sanchez broke down and ended in Fulham, between the elite and gentelmans. He got all, and lost just respect and good name. Small price for couple of zeros...
And what are we waiting for this Wednesday? Maked up show and - The death of football. The real one, played in the time when winters were winters and summers summers. On concrete temples without GMO fields, with right and left wing, beer in the hand, standing stand, without moving roofs and LCD screenboards. We lost ourselfs in all that my friend, went too far, for one bill too much. And we are not planning to quit. 30.000 chairs will this Wednesday left on mercy of the sponsors, without any shame. For clients, mistresses and buisness people; people for who this game will mean as much as the finals of the Eurosong ment to me. Golddiggers will ask why there is no Beckham, and why do those people sing when they are losing; and that will be it. End with the first judges whistle. Tragedy directly in your home; with a laugh and popcorns.
And few of those artists, football counts and dribbling oasis, tomorrow will lose themselves in "tacticall missions", "covering and conquering space", "positioning" and ugly frazes like those. Kaka - 10.568 metres covered. Are you normal? That is the statistic? And how many bicycles, dribbles, putting it through the legs? I didn't think so. Sad celebration of overjoyed champion, sprayers and congrat's to the master of tactics; unfortunately are on the menu tomorrow. Waste of ink and time; you don't understand it , my friend, how you love football...luckily you never will...
