Author: SoccerMom

SoccerMom obsesses over FCB and this blog instead of grading papers, burning dinner and/or raising her small children. She blames a Spanish husband and easy access to Hispanic-targeted cable sports channels for her football addiction and consequent failure as a professor, housekeeper and mother.

May 16, 2013 / / Barcelona

Yea! Another season, another show. Of course, it’s not over yet. I mean, you know, not technically. But it is very hard to concentrate when Silly Season is just dawning over the horizon.  And this one promises to be one of the Silliest yet! So let’s get down to monkey business …

arm dealOne of the issues facing FC Barcelona this Silly Season is it’s perennial small squad. Barça has one of the smallest squads in European football. Quick, who’s shorter: Xavi or Iniesta? I kid. I kid because I love — they’re both totally short. Quick, who’s shorter: Pedro or Messi? Stop! I kid! (Quick: How many arms does it take to hug a really short dude?)

April 24, 2013 / / Nonsense

bus

Yeah, well, this sucks. I sucked. We all sucked, man. Major suck-o. God. No one wants autographs today, huh. No pictures with Mr. Number here, hey. Now we all have to get on the bus to go home. I hate the bus. It sucks. I’m a millionaire. How many millionaires you know ride the bus to work. Sandro so damn cheap he makes us punch a ticket every ride too. Damn, that sucks.

March 4, 2013 / / Barcelona

It’s incredible. It’s appalling. We won’t know what to do until we understand what’s really going down. Everyone seems to be involved … is everyone to blame? It’s a real scandal.

I know everyone is feeling a little bummed lately. But there’s nothing like a good, old-fashioned Spanish scandal to buck you right up. Bad taste, you say? Italian scandals are bad taste (cf. “Berlusconi bunga-bunga party”). British scandals are seamy (hack, cough, hack hack), American scandals are cringe-worthy (cigar, anyone?) and French scandals … well, French scandals bore me. What’s the point of living a double-love life if everyone is going to be so well-behaved at the funeral? Haven’t these people ever seen one of their own comedies?

October 3, 2012 / / Barcelona

Wait … we’re not going to talk about it? An interesting link here, a provocative comment there … and then we’re not even going to talk about it?

Don’t pretend that you don’t know about what we’re not going to talk about! Doth not (dothn’t?) protest too much, that you donth’t want to talk about what we’re not going to talk about. Don’t be all separatist about your footy and your poli-sci.

Demur, if you must, because it’s dull. Because The Economist is nowhere near as sexy, or, as the Spaniards say, as sexy (or, as the Catalans say, as sexy), as The Enquirer.  In that case, scroll on.

September 5, 2012 / / Barcelona

There are different kinds of sad.

A. One kind of sad is from spending too much time happy. This is the kind of sad everyone feels at the end of the July festivities in Pamplona, when they gather in the town square singing “poor me, poor me, the fiesta de San Fermín is over.” Then they collectively pass out.

April 30, 2012 / / Nonsense

So, yeah. Well. *sigh*. It’s just. You know. I don’t know.

Not that it’s all been … of course. That was sorta funny. And that turned out o.k. Yesterday was all right. I guess.

Still, it just feels so. Until. Suddenly. For the first time in. Weeks, maybe. It’s …

Sunday, 4 p.m. EST. “Football for Kids with José Mourinho!” on GolTV.

March 23, 2012 / / Nonsense

Real Madrid and the Ras Al-Kaimah government announced plans for the “Real Madrid Resort Island”  set to open in the Arab Emirates in January, 2015. Plans include a theme park, a five-star hotel, 60 stand-alone bungalows with private-beach access, a Real Madrid museum, athletic fields and the first-ever seaside football field with a 10,000 seating capacity. — marca.com (22/03/12)

February 9, 2012 / / Nonsense

Life does not cease to be funny when it is serious any more than it ceases to be serious when it is funny. – Oscar Wilde

I’m not a doctor, but I’d like to play one on TV. So I got an expensive blowout, threw on a lab coat and hopped the Metro to Hospitalitat Generalitat, where I began walking up and down the corridors at a smart clip. “My own expertise suggests Borderline Personality Disorder,” I informed an X-ray technician. “Could we be looking at … alopecia?” I whispered to a cardiologist.

January 25, 2012 / / Nonsense

Those of you with a brain might find it hard to believe, but back when the author was a simple SoMiss, she was quite the social butterfly. Flitting hither and yon, she waited in vain for someone to ask her to dance to the slow part of “Melt With You” … but she is over that now, totally. Really.

[Perhaps you’re looking for a preview. In that case, it’ll be up in a few. You’re welcome!]

It’s a good thing, too, because just the other day I was wandering by Bernaboo High, and there was Joey Mourinho — mobbed, as usual. I stood nearby, pretending to squint upward at a solar eclipse.

December 24, 2011 / / Nonsense

The holidays! When we Americans pepper-spray our way through the mall, occupying food courts and ruining our already-overextended credit at stores with names like “Ye Olde Crappe Shoppe”.

Our amigos across the pond have their traditions too. Instead of the mall, they go to the Corte Inglés, and instead of sitting on Santa’s lap, they sit on the lap of some kid in a bathrobe and black-face, which is not meant to offend any of the real-live Africans also walking around the Corte Inglés. Really. After a coupla copas, a Spaniard will tell you that, deep down and way back, he actually is a Moor. Or a Jew. Before 1492, that is, when all the other Spaniards kicked the Moors and Jews out (it was a busy year).

December 9, 2011 / / Barcelona

The sun sets on the hollow. The hobbits leave off their chores, kicking silver orbs into black sacks, donning their fleece. From the wide tunnel emerges a dark, diminutive Wizard. He stops in mid-field and casts his eyes, flashing like two chips of blackest charcoal, ’round the field. The hobbits draw closer to him.

December 8, 2011 / / El Clasico

On a field in a distant County, just south of the winding Pyrenees, there inhabited some twenty-odd hobbits. It was not a dirty, wet field, spotted with little puddles and upturned pitch; nor yet a dry, sandy hole speckled with bare patches: it was a hobbit pitch, and that means an expanse of short, watered, green grass. The field was surrounded by well-cobbled, upright walls; it had a perfectly oval opening at the top like a giant skylight, and all ‘round lined up straight, freshly-painted seats with brass letters. The broad doors below opened into a tunnel: a very wide one, hung with photographs of hobbit-heroes past, and the floors were smooth. Just outside the tunnel doors, two dugouts provided chairs emblazoned with the hobbit badge, and lots and lots of pegs for mufflers and overcoats — the hobbits were fond of visitors, as they maintained a perfect record at home against them.