Sweet Lord Etcheverry, it's true! and I've been waiting for tonight since October. In celebration I removed that goddamn Countdown Clock that kept crashing adobe plug-ins and slowed the already slow loading of this shetty bleg. You only think you're sick of the soccer shit here.
I think they'll be better if only because of how bad United was last year - if, and how much, who knows? - but I want to say this: I think they're making one last faithful (business, yes, too) effort to stay in D.C.
Whether making honest moves to acquire better players, trying (we'll see) to improve the stadium experience, running schlocky PR stunts ("D.C. United’s manic quest to have urban hipsters fall in love with them all over again continues on Thursday, with one of the greatest D.C. sports promotions in recent memory"), spending money on advertising, even improving the full-season ticket package reward - last year I got a 5x7 autographed photo of Dejan Jakovic; this year I got a hat (Seat 6: want?), a scarf, a flag, a patch, all 2011 specific - United is trying. That's all I ask in exchange for my rube'$ love. O! primal screams at beautiful goals too.*
- Nothing left to steal.
- Going medieval.
- Sitting here in my safe European home.
- Looking back.
- Obama's Libya speech.
- Imperial presidency.
- Report from Japan.
- That double-rape, murder, attempted murder in Bethesda I wrote about? No rapes, no second attempted murder, just murder.
- *If I can't be kind and generous on Opening Day, when can I be?
- Hey, look where Planet got accepted!
- For yet another week, nothing I want to read in Sunday NYTBR.
- Poetry of catastrophe.
- More Spicer lecture.
- Uh-oh, speaking of driving away readers, I woke up with this in my head:
A BOY JUGGLING A SOCCER BALL
after practice: right foot to left foot, stepping forward and back, to right foot and left foot, and left foot up to his thigh, holding it on his thigh as he twists around in a circle, until it rolls down the inside of his leg, like a tickle of sweat, not catching and tapping on the soft side of his foot, and juggling once, twice, three times, hopping on one foot like a jump-roper in the gym, now trapping and holding the ball in midair, balancing it on the instep of his weak left foot, stepping forward and forward and back, then lifting it overhead until it hangs there; and squaring off his body, he keeps the ball aloft with a nudge of his neck, heading it from side to side, softer and softer, like a dying refrain, until the ball, slowing, balances itself on his hairline, the hot sun and sweat filling his eyes as he jiggles this way and that, then flicking it up gently, hunching his shoulders and tilting his head back, he traps it in the hollow of his neck, and bending at the waist, sees his shadow, his dangling T-shirt, the bent blades of brown grass in summer heat; and relaxing, the ball slipping down his back. . .and missing his foot. He wheels around, he marches over the ball, as if it were a rock he stumbled into, and pressing his left foot against it, he pushes it against the inside of his right until it pops into the air, is heeled over his head--the rainbow!-- and settles on his extended thigh before rolling over his knee and down his shin, so he can juggle it again from his left foot to his right foot --and right foot to left foot to thigh-- as he wanders, on the last day of summer, around the empty field.