I have never cared at all for football. Or soccer as the English call it. Calcio, in my country.
I used to watch the matches as a child because my grandmother was a fan of Juventus and my grandad did not object to watching games. My brother and I used to sit on the small sofa behind their large comfortable armchairs and laugh at the funny names that some of the players had. Capello was a favourite one. It means hair (singular) in Italian. Zoff was the only player I sort of cared about. Because he was the goalie and as such not as much part of the unwashed peasant masses of the rest of his team. Plus he was very good. Yes, my noble blood always strove and recognised excellence even at a young age.
That said, the only other player I cared at all about from that time to more modern ones, was Zizou. Zinedine Zidane. I had no idea how he played but I saw an interview he did a few years before his infamous last world cup, and I liked the guy for his qualities as a man. He didn’t let fame go to his head. Loyal to his wife and children. From a humble background he didn’t become an arrogant consumer. I liked him as a man. And when he headbutted that rat-weasel-wop Materazzi I was sorry for two things:
One: That I knew it would always be considered a “mark” on his name, which I knew he’d care little about, as would I in his shoes, but I was sorry for him nonetheless.
Two: That he didn’t hit that rat-weasel between the nose and upper lip, breaking his nose and knocking his teeth out. Fuck Materazzi. With his sports ethics of a maggot crapped out by a rat-weasel.
The best came afterwards though, when Zidane was being interviewed by an Italian presenter, who probably originated from the same litter of rat-weasels as Materazzi. The presenter asked a question of Zidane that was essentially “How could you?! A headbutt! You’re a professional, the captain of the team, it’s the world cup, what kind of…” and on, and on, and on, he went describing how Zidane was supposedly obviously some kind of savage for reacting in such a barbaric way to a non-event.
I was fuming at the TV as the wop-rat-weasel blabbed on, and on, before finally coming to the end of his “question”, which was really a J’accuse!
I mean, I get it, for that presenter, whose sister I assume must indeed be a cheap whore who sells her ass in the back streets of Naples for a couple of Euro, it would have been a non-event to have a total stranger, while playing a sports game, accuse your sister of being a whore.
But for a normal man like Zizou… not so.
And Zidane’s reply was brilliant. I don’t remember it verbatim but it was along the lines of:
“Yes, I am the captain, yes it’s the world cup, yes I’m a professional, but first, and above all, I’m a man.”
It shut the rat-weasel up almost as well as a headbutt would have.
So that is the sum total of my football knowledge and “heroes”. Except for one more.
Pelé.
I was small when on TV they showed his world famous kick where he basically did a backward somersault to kick the ball in the net.
I never forgot that, although I never followed his career as I had no interest in football. But every time I saw a snippet of him somewhere, he was smiling and friendly and humble. He had a quality that I found in many Brazilians who do martial arts, a genuine love of the game and no ego, regardless of their skill. A true sportsman. And by all accounts he was, and he was also a very loving man who espoused the principles of loving others as yourself (if not more) very well.
He was one of the true great men of sports as sports was intended to be: a competition among men of honour and dignity, born of honesty, fair play, and a lot of hard work, sweat, and blood.
May he smile down on us from above, his sins forgiven and in the presence of a loving God I am sure he knew.
Requiescat in pace et in amor, Pelé
I have never cared at all for football. Or soccer as the English call it. Calcio, in my country.
I used to watch the matches as a child because my grandmother was a fan of Juventus and my grandad did not object to watching games. My brother and I used to sit on the small sofa behind their large comfortable armchairs and laugh at the funny names that some of the players had. Capello was a favourite one. It means hair (singular) in Italian. Zoff was the only player I sort of cared about. Because he was the goalie and as such not as much part of the unwashed peasant masses of the rest of his team. Plus he was very good. Yes, my noble blood always strove and recognised excellence even at a young age.
That said, the only other player I cared at all about from that time to more modern ones, was Zizou. Zinedine Zidane. I had no idea how he played but I saw an interview he did a few years before his infamous last world cup, and I liked the guy for his qualities as a man. He didn’t let fame go to his head. Loyal to his wife and children. From a humble background he didn’t become an arrogant consumer. I liked him as a man. And when he headbutted that rat-weasel-wop Materazzi I was sorry for two things:
One: That I knew it would always be considered a “mark” on his name, which I knew he’d care little about, as would I in his shoes, but I was sorry for him nonetheless.
Two: That he didn’t hit that rat-weasel between the nose and upper lip, breaking his nose and knocking his teeth out. Fuck Materazzi. With his sports ethics of a maggot crapped out by a rat-weasel.
The best came afterwards though, when Zidane was being interviewed by an Italian presenter, who probably originated from the same litter of rat-weasels as Materazzi. The presenter asked a question of Zidane that was essentially “How could you?! A headbutt! You’re a professional, the captain of the team, it’s the world cup, what kind of…” and on, and on, and on, he went describing how Zidane was supposedly obviously some kind of savage for reacting in such a barbaric way to a non-event.
I was fuming at the TV as the wop-rat-weasel blabbed on, and on, before finally coming to the end of his “question”, which was really a J’accuse!
I mean, I get it, for that presenter, whose sister I assume must indeed be a cheap whore who sells her ass in the back streets of Naples for a couple of Euro, it would have been a non-event to have a total stranger, while playing a sports game, accuse your sister of being a whore.
But for a normal man like Zizou… not so.
And Zidane’s reply was brilliant. I don’t remember it verbatim but it was along the lines of:
“Yes, I am the captain, yes it’s the world cup, yes I’m a professional, but first, and above all, I’m a man.”
It shut the rat-weasel up almost as well as a headbutt would have.
So that is the sum total of my football knowledge and “heroes”. Except for one more.
Pelé.
I was small when on TV they showed his world famous kick where he basically did a backward somersault to kick the ball in the net.
I never forgot that, although I never followed his career as I had no interest in football. But every time I saw a snippet of him somewhere, he was smiling and friendly and humble. He had a quality that I found in many Brazilians who do martial arts, a genuine love of the game and no ego, regardless of their skill. A true sportsman. And by all accounts he was, and he was also a very loving man who espoused the principles of loving others as yourself (if not more) very well.
He was one of the true great men of sports as sports was intended to be: a competition among men of honour and dignity, born of honesty, fair play, and a lot of hard work, sweat, and blood.
May he smile down on us from above, his sins forgiven and in the presence of a loving God I am sure he knew.
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