Day 10: miniature gods and me


Thursday

Midnight

The Irish Village / World Cup Qualifying Play Off:  France VS Ireland


By midnight, I wrapped up Day 9 and head off to the Irish Village (superlative assemblage for the drinking herd of Dubai) to meet my friend / co-alcoholic / sister’s fiance Alexandre for the World Cup quali play off.  It was electrifying!  The whole of IV (acronym for the Irish Village my friend Kristeen and I made up being regular dwellers two years back) was packed, flooded by half poured Guinesses and Stellas on the floor, tipsy and plugged with testosterone – I was already lightheaded even before I raped my girlfriend, Stella Artois.

Alex and I was putting our money for France of course.  Three days back, first draw match between Ireland and France was a hectic hour-long 0 against 1 sweat fest.  France won of course and it paved way for the Paris bout that brought my French future brother in law and myself to IV at midnight in complete optimism that France, would again, win over Ireland.  This win will qualify the French team to the big football diety called the World Cup. The Monday match was contentious as both teams exchanged aggressive remarks after the game with Ireland’s manager, Giovanni Trapattoti exclaiming, “It’s a massive two-legged tie, only halfway finished, so for someone to come out like that and say something was bitterly disappointing. But our lads are aware of it and we’ll see what happens on Wednesday.”

I do not know football.  I was never into football.  I grew up in the Philippines where basketball is considered the only ballgame in the world.  Well, first of all, I was never really into sports as most of the Verzosas were.  I was a classic wallflower, who spent his teenage years locking himself up in his room, reading corpulent books, drawing and staring at the mirror for ours pricking acne using rubbing alcohol and unsterilized pins.  In school, every one was watching PBA (Philippine Basketball Association) and raving about it the next day in school.  I have never been so out of place.  I can’t tell them that I was happily practicing dance steps of Madonna’s Vogue with my sister Kit the night before.  Anyway, there we were, keyed up and slightly devoured by the Irish community as there were like a million of them there and there were no French nationale at all.  I considered myself French, so, that made 2 meows against a gazillion howling Irish men who kept on singing their national anthem every three minutes.

Game went on.  An hour.  No goal.  The French have greatly improved in their defense from last Monday.  Amid the fact that they’ve won last time, their moves on technical simulation was anemic.  Tonight, they were angrier, despite Ireland’s dominance in the first half.  Being led by the vigorous 32 year old, Reebok endorser,  Thierry Henry, it was a crossfire of sorts, his undermining hand usage / handball over his roving eye for procedural impasse with the ball.  The Irish was brilliant all throughout, but Henry’s inventive sport initiated wizardry for an hour and half.

I could not get off my eyes on Henry.  He is an animal.  With his dark, lush looks and virile stamina, he swerved through the field and infused us all.  Well, me, in particular.  I was practically smitten.  Today, I found out,  a football novice as I am, that in his years of playing, he has surpassed Michel Platini, French legend, for being the top goal-scorer in the French team, of all time.  He is also an active supporter of Racism in Football.  I have not read a lot about him but growing up in Les Ulis, in Paris suburbia, I am sure he’s got stories about being a black French man in football.  I am geared to know all about those stories soon.   I mean now.

Ireland’s supremacy on the second half of the game was pretty apparent.  They scored goal after about a hundred years of ball-busting.  It was dazzling.  The Irish’s full-blooded performance was extremely legendary that I considered laying a wager on them, especially after being bedazzled by the fabulous Kevin Doyle.  Young, agitated and with 57 goals to his name, he is so marvelous that it was hard to miss him.

Kevin Edward Doyle, 23, Ireland’s pride.  He became a pro at an early age dodging to the sound like the Celtic goddess Eriu waged war across the green field when he first stepped in it.  His moves delineate sinewy accuracy and his mercurial foot work is above everything else geometric.  I have never seen someone being chased by the television cameras so swiftly, as he is, in fact, a puck.  He is a virtual Peter Pan and I had to wreak my neck watching him turn a hundred degrees in seconds wondering where his wings were located.  In his feet?

I fell in love with him.  He is a cherub of this ballgame and I found his defense skillful in all ways.

France got the gold after they scored to the last minute.  A disputed goal? Blatant handball by Henry? Unjustifiable ball game altogether? Ireland got robbed?  Hearsay ruled the day after the game.  Cruelty came in clean or clean came in cruelty . . . In my own estimation, I think I have enjoyed the game.  There is nothing more sacred in this world than being devirginized, so after today, I am following them until the World Cup.

I could care less for opinions here.  I was happy that France won and we got qualified for the World Cup –   C’etait dur! –  but I am happier to have met Thierry Henry and Kevin Doyle.  They became my gods of the night.

I went to bed with them too.

Advertisements

About this entry