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.
