balls to the world

i’m no sports aficionado. however, since i’m trapped in the belly of an obscure cult, i’m being tortured into watching at least one match out of the 64 that make up the FIFA world cup, every night against my will. they do it through remote-control. they control the remote. and the remote controls me (did i mention that i’m a tv addict?)

so far, this is what i have learnt about fifa, football and me –

· don’t rejoice that thou art getting so much football, ye fool. i don’t know about the world cups past, but it is sheer capitalism that has machinated the world cup into a month-long jamboree. the 64 matches have been scheduled so that every single match can be televised and cashed upon – even the inconsequential little scraps that don’t actually register a ripple on the richter.
· a fall-out of such intense televisation is that if your balls get mistaken for der ball, images of your pain and agony reach every tv-watching eyeball in the world. and if you happen to shove your hands into your adidas shorts to massage the martyrs, rest assured that some bitch will give you dubious immortality on her blog. (ya, so this happened to yorke of trinidad and tobago against england last night).
· there are possibly more sponsors than there are teams in fifa 2006, and the money comes in different sizes and shapes – aerated beverage bottles, cars, junk food, boots… actually, rejoice ye fools that there’s so much football. only don’t buy.
· mercifully, unlike in a certain other game that we know, the sponsors are content being in the sidelines. the viewer doesn’t have to miss any leap of history due to the relentless assault of dictums of commerce.
· the print media has turned a willing accomplice to this hyper-hoopla. therefore the only way to hold onto one’s sanity is to contemplate on life’s profundities within the framework of fussball. like, the relativity of aesthetics – a casestudy of kaka’s attractions vis-a-vis the general prevalence of bad looks in the brazilian teeth… umm… team.
· i’ve never been attached to any team. the only time i ever was a loyalist was when batistuta of the golden locks was leading argentina in his white-and-blue stripes. but this year, i’m cheering for the netherlands sans any baggage of teenage crushes.
· i’m hoping that my selfless devotion would be rewarded with a suitable scholarship by the netherlands government (remind me to email the link to this post to them).
· i hate those little guys with knobby knees and pre-pubescent mohawks who escort the gladiators into the arena.
· in other words, it is i who should be holding onto those strong arms that are attached to the most glorious male bodies of our times – beautifully molded torsos, lithe legs that dance to some silent rhythm, and intent faces of warriors. yum.
· which brings me to the next point of education – i don’t stand a chance because most footballers are married by the time they are 22.
· which brings me to the next point – i may actually stand a chance because apparently footballers are very susceptible to infidelity.
· but the next point is that they turn infidels only under the influence of god’s own angels. since i don’t fit the template, i actually don’t stand a chance.

now i am depressed. finis. where’s my keg of beer?