WORLD CUP ROUNDUP, DAY 19

My copious notes about the Portugal/Spain match: 

Eduardo was brilliant.  (Without him, the score would likely have been Spain 6, Portugal 0.)   
Ronaldo stunk.

I'M A LUCKY, SAD, HAPPY, OLD BASTARD

Grade Six graduation today.  Bloody hell, they grow up quickly.  Seems like last week they were in JK.

Time.  Fuck.  It's enough to make you cry. 

I do cry.  On the sly, mind.  Inside.  But nearly all the time.  Over one thing or another.

Oh, sweet jeebus, I've enjoyed my time here.

Pass me the tissues, Llewellen.  And a frosty brew, lad.

Now, let's do some serious reminiscing. 

You start; I have something in my eye.

MORIBUND ENGLAND

From The Independent:

England's loss in stats:

32 Wayne Rooney lost the ball by being tackled in possession 32 times, more often than any other player at the 2010 World Cup finals.

6 Germany scored four goals from six shots on target, while England mustered seven attempts on target.

55 Wayne Rooney completed only 55 per cent of his passes against Germany, less than any other player.

4 The last time England conceded four goals in a World Cup finals game was in a 1954 quarter-final v Uruguay.

37 Frank Lampard’s free-kick against the bar was his 37th shot without scoring at a World Cup.

0 England have not won a game in which they’ve conceded a goal since beating Cameroon 3-2 in 1990. 

From Dr. Boogaloo:

England's loss  via rheumatism:

The handwriting was on the wall during the game against Algeria.  That, for me, was the worst ninety minutes of football I've seen an England side play in any Cup Finals since I began watching in earnest many, many years ago.  Many times worse than today's debacle.

This tournament made the English side look like a bunch of ludicrously wealthy, over-hyped, near geriatric buffoons.

The core of this team is the same side that couldn't cut it four years ago. WTF?  What's been going on in the youth academies for the past dozen years?

Heskey?  'Fer fuck's sake.

Yes, there will always be an England.  But I don't see the lads in a semi-final any time soon.

* * *

Okay.  Time to get my orange on. The Dutch make a decent brew, after all. (And Robbie plays for Arsenal.)

Of course, if The Netherlands go out next, I'll have to cheer for... um, Portugal?

Fuck it.  Maybe I should just go all in with Argentina.

Llewellen... beer, lad.

REGARDING THE BEAUTIFUL GAME

It happens all the time... around the staffroom table; at the pub; at social gatherings.  But it happens with greater noise and frequency every four years.  What is it?  The chant that soccer is boring.  Inevitably, it is pronounced the loudest by guys who suffer gladly through nine innings (and three-plus-hours) of excruciating, mind-numbing baseball -- or those who think that golf is actually a sport. 

Ignore them.  They are assholes who have no concept of physical fitness and athletic conditioning; split-second shifts between attacking and defending; skill, pace and creativity.

Ignore them.

And pity them.

The rest of the world certainly does.

JOURNAL ENTRY/ 6/25/2010

I think I have multiple personality disorder.

Sometimes, this place -- and the crap I drop here -- seems more authentic than my 'real' life.

I've spent a lifetime creating fiction. Along the way, I've discovered it's more comforting to live in the mind than in the world.

We agree.

FATHER'S DAY

Since I'm the only father left in my family (my dad and brother are dead; and as far as I know my son has no issue) I'll tell you what I got for Father's Day.

A cell phone.  My first. And it only took two hours for my son to drill its basic operation into my softening skull.  ('Soft keys'? Blue teeth? WTF?)

My wife welcomed me to the twentieth century.  It's the twenty-first century, I told her. She said, Yeah.  I know. (Smart ass.)

I've actually done some texting and taken a few pictures.

Now I can be as annoying as everyone else I know.


'Scuse me.  I gotta transfer some tunes.

WORLD CUP ROUNDUP, DAY EIGHT

England sucked.  Big time.  Bunch of overpaid twats who seem hypnotized by last year's press clippings.  Today's game was a masterpiece in how not to play football.  A fucking disgrace. The fans were right to boo those millionaire pillocks. I'm a fan and I was booing.  I'm still booing.  Happy birthday, Capello.  (Hey...what did you tell them at half-time?  Must have been something like 'Carry on chaps.  You can look even more pathetic in the next forty-five minutes.')

The U.S. was robbed of a victory.  Worst refereeing decision of the Finals to date. Either the bastard is truly blind -- or on the take.  I mean, fuck, come on.

I think those horns are getting on everyone's nerves.

The referee in the Germany game was a bloody moron.  Fucking card-happy imbecile.  Way to ruin a match, Gomer.

Otherwise, things were just perfect.


NON-RELATED UPDATE: WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED @ WOOZIE'S PLACE?

JOURNAL ENTRY/ 6/16/2010

At month's end, I will join the ranks of retired, gentlefolk.

In other words, I'll be an official

old cunt.

Looking forward to it, actually.

Can't wait to be utterly fucking useless

In a world I no longer understand.

FOOTBALL, BOATS AND BEER

I tend to watch soccer the way I read books: voraciously, and with a notepad handy. My wife reminded me that I'm no longer coaching.  I told her that old habits die hard; and besides, it might come in handy.  She informed me that that particular boat had sailed quite a while ago.  I replied that I might get off the damn boat and fly back.  She said I was crazy.  I reminded her that I wasn't dead... not quite... yet.  She mentioned my knees, my hip, and the antidepressants. I asked her to bring me a beer.

I drained it at half-time and tossed away the notepad.

I really enjoyed the second half.

Damn sweet goal, Maicon.  A fucking beauty.

RE: WORLD CUP

TELEGRAM FROM DR. P. BOOGALOO: 

DO NOT DISTURB UNTIL JULY 12TH.  STOP. 

HELP YOURSELVES TO A BEER. STOP. 

-- END TRANSMISSION --

BUH BYE

 Frankly, I don't know what the fuck I was thinking. 

Later. 

Much.

THE THINGS I'M GOING TO REMEMBER MOST

Working with autistic kids.  (Number one.  Hands down. The job I liked the best.)

Witnessing the 'a-ha' moments, those amazing occasions when one of your struggling students suddenly 'gets it'.

That cold January morning when Mindy got her tongue frozen on a piece of playground equipment.

Hitting a home run  in my last staff/student baseball game.  (Not a huge feat, mind.  But watching that tater sail over the centre field fence... still priceless.)

Cheering them on, watching them mature, and having them drop in years later just to say hi.  (That's better than any home run.)

Kids who seek you out on playground duty to talk about a problem -- usually about 'a friend' who is having difficulty at home.

That warm day in June when Mindy got her arm wedged between two tree branches.  (We needed to call the Fire Dept.)

The yearly visits by 'The Reptile Man'.  (The oohs and ahhs were wonderful.  And that Burmese Python was no slouch, either.)

The smiles.  The missing teeth.  The profound potential.

Working enrichment classes for the really bright kids.  (Damn that was fun.)

Watching them graduate.  (And choking up.)

Receiving at least one marriage proposal per year for twelve years running.

Hearing a kid say you're the best teacher they ever had. (And believing it, if just for a moment.)


Yeah.  I'm ready to retire now.


(Llewellen: a couple of cold Heinekens wouldn't be a bad idea right about now.)