had algeria beaten the united states in those teams' final game of the world cup's group round this morning, it wouldn't likely be so easy for me to admit how splendid i found the algerians' uniforms. of course, there's probably a consensus on the allure of soccer players as deeply established as their sport's worldwide popularity and its fans' rabid allegiance to their teams. footballers (i'll use because there's more punch in the one word than in "soccer players") look good in pants, and even better in shorts. and today they were looking remarkably good in jerseys as well. i'm not sure if it was the cut of the cloth (puma made them, i think), or just that each of the algerian players seemed to have been outfitted in a jersey one size too small, but the algerians were fine, fine adversaries. suffice it to say -- again, without changing the result of the match -- that it would have been a shame had antar yahia been ejected (on a much deserved red card) before stoppage time.
and saying so here is to do more than point out just a specific example of footballers' physical charms, but to give example that soccer is powerfully multifaceted...while also having set myself up to mention that i was glad to have certain distractions on the television screen to keep me from turning around for no other reason than to peek at the sexy guy behind me. not much less could get me out of the house before seven in the morning -- the draw of the sport, that is; because the man in question was delightfully strange to me, and anyway, how could i be sure who would also be watching the match where i was.
[time lapse]
i was fiercely exhausted last night. and whether it was tiredness that stopped me writing or it was forcing myself into a too calculated quasi-ramble to preface what i should have written earlier in the day while still feeling the caffeine that made me tired, i slept on it. now it's tomorrow in reference to everything you've just read, but let's continue as if the u.s.-algeria match were still this morning, which is to say keep in the frame of reference of yesterday, because that's how i'm still experiencing the match for now -- and how blogger will record it for posterity.
the match required me to be up and away before seven a.m., which, since i didn't think i could make it through work after the same two liters of beer i'd had at the seven a.m. u.s.-slovenia match, meant coffee. i'm in the habit of consuming caffeine only recreationally on my days off, so two sixteen ounce cups gave me more than enough spirit for 90 minutes of soccer (and then for a bike ride, and then well into the rest of my day), and the spirit of 90 minutes of soccer is something special. i'd felt something similar during u.s.-slovenia, but the smell and taste of coffee -- as well as, no doubt, my hyper-aware caffeine euphoria -- made writing about it seem finally imperative. the coffee, the crowd and the smell of early morning alcohol and nicotine reminded me of traveling, and specifically of istanbul.
turkey is enigmatic and embattled. i know that mostly from books and the newspaper. but the time i spent in istanbul between marrakech and meeting a friend in budapest was no less formative for its paucity of historical significance. i did a considerable amount of wandering. otherwise i was likely eating cake (istanbul has fantastic patisseries) or experimenting with masturbation, inspired by an anais nin collection entitled artists and models that i'd found on istiklal st. so i guess i also read. and i watched soccer.
tea rooms in instanbul, which from the way most of them looked double as card rooms in most of their incarnations, aren't the most welcoming places for itinerants. which is exactly the reason that a traveler with limited time to take in a culture should make himself uncomfortable and go to them. for the most authentic experience, look for fluorescent lights and clouds of cigarette smoke. the smoke will be everywhere you visit in istanbul, it's just easier to spot in the bad light. there should be a television too. and that's where you watch the soccer.
no one really talked to me in the tea rooms i visited. of course, i'd given up on turkish after failing to master "thank you" from a man in a taxi, and language barriers didn't help me seem any less the interloper. but no one hassled me for just sitting by myself and staring at the television. the people in istanbul like their soccer as well as the people anywhere else. plus, there was booze and coffee and the occasional german (including one who bought me drinks because i reminded him of his son, as if that's something that people should actually think to do in real life). i won't, though, go so far as to say something so pathetically gay as that the sport is some kind of international language. it's not. if anything, sports appreciation just highlights the hawkishness and blind provincialities that tend toward conflict where the nuance of careful language might otherwise validate and accommodate differences. but it's vicously fun. and at that basic level, most fans can agree to agree. (i'd also arbitrarily decided to support galatasaray, and that came with a built in peer support group.)
so maybe soccer isn't so multi-faceted after all. sure, there are the refined nuances of play and the melodramatic meta-narrative of each match. and i don't think the scale and scoring structure of any other sport allow for the expression of soccer's level of finesse. but -- or maybe just for those very reasons -- the world cup is just a spectacle. and if it's bringing the world together in any other way than collecting national representatives at the stadium, it's because we're drinking and probably surrounded by people screaming for our side. then again, it must be worth something, if not something special, if i'm willing to stomach prost! -- the overpriced, shticky german place on mississippi and skidmore that's the only place in the neighborhood open at seven in the morning with televisions -- to watch it. it's the company, maybe, or the resonance that the game has with my more colorful experiences. i will chase my own detested provinciality down whatever hole i need to to deny it.
but damn if those footballers aren't dreamy. theirs are definitely pants i could get into.
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