I am happy to join you all here at BFB! I come here to learn (always), to celebrate (often) and to commiserate (ah, sometimes). When Kevin, Isaiah and Hector kindly invited me to post my ramblings in a bigger space rather than dragging all of the comments down I was honored.
So I offer this first post as an ‘entremés’, or a little something enjoyable between two bigger enjoyable things, like acts in a play, courses in a meal or (ahem!) posts in a blog. Please review last Wednesday’s review and look forward to Saturday’s preview. And if you need a little chuck-under-the-chin, warm-n-fuzzy-sports-fan hug, or a wicked little grin, visit me here. I have some shamelessly stolen quotes, altered verses and obnoxious rhymes to munch over while we await our next vist to Villareal. ¡Visca!
From: “One Art” by Elizabeth Bishop: “The art of losing isn’t hard to master; / so many things seem filled with the intent / to be lost that their loss is no disaster.”
A Homage to Sports, Fans and FCB, adapted from “Baseball and Writing” by Marianne Moore
(my editions are noted with an asterik)
Fanaticism? No. Writing is exciting /and soccer* is like writing.
You can never tell with either / how it will go
or what you will do; / generating excitement –
a fever in the victim – / striker, keeper, left back, winger*
Victim in what category? /Owlman watching from the press box?
To whom does it apply? / Who is excited? Might it be I?
It’s a midfield* battle all the way – a duel -/ a keeper’s*, as, with cruel
puma paw, Valdes* lumbers lightly / back to goal. (His spring / de-winged many a swing.)
They have that killer instinct; / yet Valdes* – whose bobbled / ball has hurt them, some, in the past –
when questioned, says, unenviously,/ “I’m very satisfied (or not)*. We won (or lost)*.”
Shorn of the selection’s* crown, says, “We”; / robbed by a technicality.
When three players on a side play three positions / and modify conditions,
the massive run need not be everything. / “Going, going . . . ” Is / it? Henry*
has it, running fast. You will / never see a finer dash. Well . . .
“Messi* leaping like the devil” – why / gild it, although deer sounds better –
snares what was speeding towards its ropey* nest, / one-touching the souvenir-to-be
meant to be caught by I. or K. or C.*
Assign Ibra* to Cape Canaveral; / he could handle any missile.
He is no feather. “Strike! . . . Strike two!” / Fouled back. A blur.
It’s gone. You would infer / that the ball* had eyes.
He put the cleats* to that one. / Praised, he says, “Thanks, graciés.*
I think I helped a little bit.” / All business, each, and modesty.
Xavi, Pique, Alves* … In that galaxy of ten*, say which
won or lost*? Each. It was he.
Those magnificent crosses from the line / by Alves*, finesses in twos –
like Piqué’s* three kinds of posish and pre- / diagnosis
with pick-off psychosis. / The free kick is a large subject.
Your aim, too true at first, can learn to / catch your corners – even trouble
for M. Messi*. (“Grazed the post!”) / My baby striker, Bojan*!
With some pedagogy, / you’ll be tough, premature prodigy.
They crowd him and curve him and aim for the knees. Trying / indeed! The secret implying:
“I can stand here, ball* held steady.” / One may suit him; / none has hit him.
Imponderables smite him. / Muscle kinks, infections, spike wounds
require food, rest, respite for Iniesta*. (Drat it! / Celebrity costs privacy!)
Cow’s milk, “tiger’s milk,” soy milk, carrot juice, / brewer’s yeast (high-potency –
concentrates presage victory / sped by Pedro Rodríguez, Xavi Hernández* –
deadly in a pinch. Pep*: “Yes, / it’s work; I want you to bear down,
but enjoy it / while you’re doing it.”
Mr. Joan and Mr. Pep*, / if you have a rummage sale,
don’t sell Jeffren or Chigrinsky* / Studded with stars in belt and crown,
the Camp Nou* is an adastrium. / O flashing Orion,
your stars are muscled like the lion.
“An Unenlightened Haiku” by SoMa:
MouMou’s Master Class:
Park the bus at Inter, and
then act like an ass.