Murtaugh

It rained a lot in Kansas yesterday, and I'll admit, I think it got the better of me.

Currently, I'm sitting in my living room, computer perched on the body pillow in my lap, Roma vs. Chievo Verona on the small TV that belong to one of my roommates (I'm not sure which).  My upper body is wrapped in an old, sea-foam-green blanket I borrowed (accidentally stole) from a friend of a good friend and my feet are tucked into the bottom of my XXXL track pants I bought specifically for days like this.  

I generally hate Italian football (or Calcio, as one of my more pretentious friends calls it), but I'm sick, and soccer on TV is comforting and familiar.  It's the undulating hum of the crowd that calms me, the indecipherable chants and songs that roll back and forth beneath the match commentary.  Spanish football is the best for this.  I like the announcers' accents, the players' names, the cadence of the game and the fans.

I'm sick, and in the grand tradition of being sick, I want everyone to know it.  Anyone who's ever lived with me can vouch for the following equation:

(Zach + Severity of Illness) X (Duration of Illness) + Proximity of Friends = Increasingly Annoying Requests to Be Brought Food and Drinks

You know that old adage, the married woman's complaint that men become big babies when they're sick?  Well, it's true, at least for me.  I'm a huge baby, a complainer, a conditional invalid.  To express it in analogy form--Zach : Illness :: Italians : A Minor Foul--which is to say that I blow things way out of proportion.

So, I think I've made it clear that I'm sick.  Are we all on the same page?  If you're not sure, said page should read something like "We should all feel SO sorry for you in your sudden battle with scurvy."  But why, you may be asking, why are you so close to death?  Well, dear reader, it's because I was out in the rain all day yesterday, playing soccer.  

As much as I'd like to make this blog all about the World Cup, unfortunately, it's sometimes going to be more about me than international football.  I know that these more personal posts aren't going to be as funny, as entertaining or have the kind of mass appeal that my other ramblings (hopefully) do.  And I apologize for that, but we're all just going to have to deal with it.

I played two games in the rain yesterday,  a Semi-Final and Final in the LASL, Lawrence's local league.  I play for FCACDC, a team/concept I dearly love and will likely write a great deal about in a later post.  It's a team I founded with my younger brother, and that will suffice as explanation, for the moment.  Why we played the championship tournament over the course of one day, I cannot tell you, but trust me, I think it's just as stupid of a plan as you do. 

We won the semi by a bloated score, indicative more of the other team having no subs than actual domination.   The final was ugly, sad, sore and slow.  Both teams limped through 104 scoreless minutes (7 minute halves in overtime?  whaaaaa?), and we eventually won it 5-4 in penalties.  I shot fourth in our order, taking the second worst penalty of my life (the worst being a shot directly down the middle, directly at the keeper that somehow bisected his hands and trickled into the net), but was lucky enough to barely convert.  To their credit, everyone else on my side finished with authority.  Their final shooter had a Roberto Baggio moment (read:  Normally a very good player, but went for power and skied his shot), and anticlimax was achieved.

About an hour later, a few of us congregated at Wayne and Larry's (which I've always thought sounds like a gay bar) for beer (which we drank from the championship trophy) and burgers (I got the Spicy Burger) and other things (that I can't think of, but give me an excuse for more parentheses in this sentence).  We went to a couple other bars after that, where I sang Bowie on Karaoke and danced with some barely legal coeds (read: 22-24 year olds) in what might as well be a steam room.  

The whole night was kind of blurry, mostly from tiredness, less from alcohol.  The whole time, I kept thinking Why are you so tired?  You used to play multiple games in a day all the time.  God, you're getting old.  It was more than just the games; it was a wholesale Murtaugh Experience.

This summer, most of the players I watch at the World Cup will be my age or younger*.  The older I get, the more respect I have for athletes over the age of thirty.  Thirty is no joke.  Thirty, in many respects, is OLD.  I mean, look at me.  Last night, I was home in bed by 1:00 AM.  This morning, I took a bath.  At 27, I have to take ibuprofen before every game I play.  My back hurts if I sit down for too long.  I live in a city where a biggest single section of the population is between the ages of 18 and 22.  My immune system is breaking down.  I listen to NPR more and more.

I'm getting too old for this shit.

-ZGS

PS:  Ronaldo Report - Chips and Dip.

*This figure is completely made up and may or may not be accurate.