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sábado, 27 de febrero de 2010

A very Spanish hangover

Another plane flies over head.
A man is angry with a ball.
The bench I am sitting on is wet.

The match is slow.
The men are fat.
Another plane passes over.

A fence, a wall some plastic grass.
Buildings, cars, property.
An infinitely baffling amalgamation of things and concepts formed over the course of the world's long history, repeating themselves in a seemingly endless cycle finally come together and culminate in this:

Men chasing leather.

Men I know nothing about.
Who is that man leaning against the goalpost?
Its Dan.
How did Dan get here?
What's his story?
And why that goalpost?

I held back the last question when I talked to Dan after the game.
He is from London.
He speaks Slovenian.
But what was he like as a boy?
Why is his nose bleeding?

Another plane.
I have to come on.
The shirt I'm wearing is moist with another mans sweat.
He has a hairy back.

I score a goal.
Terry congratulates me.
I am being patted by the unfamiliar hands of unfamiliar men.

Another plane passes over.
I stand still.
The world moves around me.

Another plane.
Another profound afternoon.
Time to go home.
I will be back.

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