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While BFB readers are the most informed, insightful, and (surely) attractive in the whole World Wide Web, Gerardo Martino’s appointment as FCB’s new coach this August took many of us by surprise. However, your humble SoMa, who successfully led the Cheeseburg Lil’ Kickers to a 1-5 season this Fall (ba-bam!), is uniquely qualified to appraise Martino’s managerial virtues. In weeks to come, I will provide the occasional commentary on our new coach and why he gotta be all like that.
First, we must address the dress. Unless its blinding shade has blurred your vision, you will have noticed that Martino wears the same exact shirt to every Liga match. Its unusual color inspired a manner of halftime sport in casa SoMa: Name That Crayola. Serious contenders included: key lime pie; mint chocolate chip ice cream; and flourescent puke (which garnered the most votes.)
The color has been definitively identified as “pistachio.” 
Now, I am not only a community-center trained soccer coach; I am also a married community-center trained soccer coach. And when I first laid eyes on the Wrinkled Green Monster, I turned to my husband, Earl.
“Earl,” says I. “I endeavor to enlighten. And please do not use my commemorative Lionel Messi tile as a coaster.”
“Yep,” says Earl, taking a swig of his Estrella Damm.
“There are only two kinds of men in this world who would wear a pistachio polo to a soccer match.” I deftly remove the sweating bottle from the ceramic ware.
“Yep,” says Earl, reaching deep into a bag of stale Doritos.
“The first kind of man,” I says. “Is Daniel Alves. You are getting Cheddar Blast dust all over my Frank Rijkaard collectible figurine.”
“You ever seen Daniel Alves in a flourescent puke T-shirt?” yawns Earl, draining the bag of its crumbs.
“No, I have not,” I confess. “But a man who sports square diamond studs in each ear is not reticent to don a certain brilliance of hue. Let’s move on to the second kind of man.”
“If’n you don’t mind,” replies Earl, shaking the withered bag.
“The second kind of man,” I continue, dust-bustering the spouse. “Is a married man.”
“How you figure?” Now he done woke up!
“A married man wears a pistachio polo because his wife bought it for him,” I pronounce with an air of triumph. “His wife, to whom he promised before Lord and family to cleave forever and yon, and whom he loves more’n life itself.”
“Meh,” observes Earl.
“And so he would never take said gift and hide it in the back of his closet behind his bowling shoes, in hopes she would not discover that the 2012-2013 away-kit he received as an anniversary present has yet to be worn.”
“And if said kit,” says Earl. “Was to make a man resemble more than anything a traffic barrel?”
“A traffic barrel who has won his twenty-second Liga title,” says I.
“Woman,” sighs Earl. “I tell you what.”
“Hm,” says I, spit-polishing my Thierry Henry bobble-head bobble.
“A married man who wears a pistachio polo,” says Earl, feeling rather loquacious all of a sudden. “Is done tired of hearing, ‘Why don’t you ever wear that pistachio polo I got you?’”
“That may be,” concedes I.
“And just how,” presses Earl, tossing a copy of Der Spiegel on the brocade blaugrana table runner. “Do you fix on explaining this?”
“Husband,” says I. “My gift is prescience. Not omniscience.”
Next installment of Get Your Ta Tas Out: Vol. 2, The Unbearable Lightness of Being Normal.