In praise of Venus shoes

Well, the goal drought has ended; but, in a way, it continues. I still haven’t scored with the new cleats that I bought this summer. But I did make a rather complicated golazo almost as soon as I took off the cleats and put on Venus shoes, some ten or fifteen minutes before the game’s conclusion. So, my record this summer is: four goals with Venus shoes, in less than one hour; zero goals with cleats worn for hours and hours. I could tell immediately that with Venus shoes I was three times better as a footballer.

Of course, it made all the difference that we were on artificial grass and not on the slippery mud-grass of previous weeks.

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I finished reading the shortest item on my book list: Leonardo Sciascia’s The Day of the Owl. Friends, this author oozes intelligence. This book is on a par with, if not better than, García Márquez’s Chronicle of a Death Foretold. A man is killed by the mafia; the subsequent investigation is narrated not only with logical exactitude – this is a police procedural, after all – but also, occasionally, by means of wry dialog between shadowy, unnamed men of power. Sicily is a morass of subservience and paranoia, with inhabitants (one hardly can call them citizens) who nonetheless make their meanings clear through innuendo. Hilariously, they adorn this innuendo with affirmations of Catholic piety. This book is what I wish I were clever enough to write.

Teenagers

Ecuador 2, USA 1 (U-20 World Cup). These are some highlights:

Alas, they don’t convey how dominant the Ecuadorians were. The defensive midfielders, especially, chewed up the U.S. dribblers.

It’s a proud moment for the country: we’ve qualified for our first World Cup semifinal. (Our opponents will be the South Koreans.)

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Meanwhile, other athletes have been doing Ecuador proud. The most impressive is the teenaged race walker Glenda Morejón, daughter of greengrocers. Though she enjoys very little financial sponsorship, she recently defeated a world record holder, an Olympic medalist, a world champion, and the like in a major race, her 20 km debut.

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Very unpopular right now is the men’s senior soccer team. Tonight, Ecuador lost a “friendly” against Mexico. I watched a few uninspired minutes.

David and Stephen and I use the same streaming account, but the company doesn’t allow us all to stream at once, so I watched on a YouTube channel whose broadcast looked like this:

Disco JP

Somebody at work filmed me with his cell phone. He used the “disco ball” effect.

Little did he know, this really is what it’s like to be John-Paul.

The WAG

Saturday night. We’re in our back yard, using our new patio furniture. We’ve bought Bianca a leash and a harness; even so, she refuses to join us outside. …

Aaaannnddd now we’re inside. We missed Bianca too much to stay apart from her. Also, it’s warmer in here.

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You should come to watch your bf play soccer, I tell Edoarda. You probably don’t realize how good he is. Stephen is very, very good.

Absentmindedly she replies: I think somebody told me that.

I’m not that good, says Stephen.

Don’t listen to him, I tell Edoarda. Stephen is truly excellent.

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Easter Sunday. Extravagant breakfast at the church; then, pickup soccer from 2:00 to 4:30. Edoarda goes with us. The sole WAG, she watches from the bench, the sun beating down on her. Stephen and I play quite well, but this doesn’t alleviate Edoarda’s misery. Did you see my golazos?, I ask. Uh huh, she murmurs. With my toe I arch a lovely assist to the male Sabby (I’ve gone back to wearing Venus shoes instead of cleats, and, once again, my touch is beautifully precise). I turn toward the bench: Did you see that pass? Uh huh, says Edoarda.

There’s nothing to do but sit, she says.

Well, that’s how it is, watching soccer.

Afterward, driving home, Stephen turns to Edoarda: Did you like how we played? Yes, Edoarda smiles. I did.

Melting

Most definitely not snowed in; but the last two nights, walking has been perilous due to the ice. There are too few English terms for the different slicknesses I’ve encountered.

Today, though, we’ve had lightning flashes and thick rain. The snow mounds — formerly tall as houses, hard as marble — are greatly reduced.

(Will corpses be revealed, I wonder?)

If we’re lucky, the water won’t refreeze; the air will remain warm until the fluid has all trickled away. Meanwhile our yard is a slushy swamp, impassable in canvas shoes.

The male Sabby has sent me this beautiful thing.

The female has been nagging at me to continue applying, belatedly, for health insurance:

two Facebook messages;
one text message;
one email;
one e-card;
one postcard.

It’s so touching, I almost hate to do it.