Am I the only person on Earth who hates the Brazilian national football team, then? Am I the only person who finds their sublime skill and carefree attitude unbearably irritating? Am I the only person who sees something like this:
…and aches to see a Fearless Booterer type like Neil Cox or Paul Robinson (not that one) come skidding in two-footed and launch the show-offy little twerp into the third row of the stands?
I mean, look at it. That’s not football. Football’s mud and blood and commitment and effort and big burly ugly men kicking a scuffed white sphere as far as they possibly can. It’s got beauty, but it’s in small, sweet moments among masses of drudgery, like an unexpected doughnut on a Wednesday morning. It’s the beauty of a whipped cross or a forward laying out to connect with a thumping diving header. It’s the beauty of a perfectly-timed sliding tackle or a full-stretch reaction save.
Look at that clip. That’s not football. That’s a theme-park ride.
It’s possible that my formative years watching lower-division football in general and Watford in particular mean that exposure to genuine skill leaves me fearful and suspicious.
It’s equally possible is that I’ve no joy in my soul.
no comment until now