A Day in the Life: June 4. 2012

5:10 AM – I’ve fallen asleep on the couch again, watching Youtube on TV.  This is not a good habit to get into.  I strain and peer to try and see the clock but I cannot see the time without my glasses.  I pad the coffee table for them, put them on.

Damn.  Too early to get up and too late to fall back into deep sleep.  I plod to the bathroom to pee, plod to my bedroom and doze until the alarm clock goes off.

5:45 AM – The alarm clock goes off.  I hit snooze and try to wring every last drop of sleep out.  It’s of little use, but I try nonetheless. 

6:00 AM – I plan to have a bite of breakfast before work as I always feel better when I do, but I get distracted reading emails and Google Reader.

6:20 AM – Oh shit, I gotta get moving.  Brush teeth.  Put on clothes.  Run out the door.  No breakfast.  I stuff two apples and leftover curried bean soup into my lunchbag.

6:27 AM – Catch the bus to work.  It’s the same 3 people every day when I get on.  Cute young Asian woman, who looks up from her book and smiles at me every morning.  I smile and nod back, frowning a little on the inside when I see her wedding band.  Next is a middle-aged native woman, who is nice enough, but will chew my ear off the entire bus trip, so now I wave and smile, but keep my distance.  The third is a sullen man in the back, wearing a construction safety vest and ridiculously loud bass booming out of his headphones.  We never acknowledge each other.  I read a couple of stories out of Kurt Vonnegut’s Welcome to the Monkey House.

6:45 AM – Get off the bus, and leg it the remaining 5 minutes to the office.  The first person I always see is Svetlana, our receptionist from Russia with the thick Boris dahling accent.  She is young and very nice and we banter a minute before I get to my desk.

10:30 AM – I have been snowed in with paperwork and invoices all morning and I can scarcely believe it’s this late.  I go for a walk to the Wal-Mart, which is about 5 minutes away and buy pre-cut, pre-washed broccoli and canned pasta for lunch.  I make a mental note to set aside 10 minutes to make my lunch before I go to bed tonight and I also note with bemusement that I’ll get lazy and I won’t bother. 

1:00 PM – Now there is virtually nothing to do.  The classical music playing on our small office radio is making me drowsy.  It’s liable to be like this for the rest of the day.  My workmate in the office, Stan, only works part-time and has gone home for the day.  I’m all by my lonesome in my corner of the building.

4:45 PM – I walk in the door and resist the urge to sink into the couch to play video games until midnight.  I survey the place; it’s like a toy-filled bomb went off in here.  I can’t rest now.  I’ve got to make supper, go for a jog and head out to Nick’s soccer practice.  I put a chicken breast with a splash of olive oil in a pan and set it to medium.  I wash some dishes while it cooks and set up the rice cooker.  While that’s going on, I do two loads of dishes and change into my jogging gear.  The rice is done, so I cut up the cooked chicken, add some frozen veggies and throw it all in a pot with a few dollops of one of a dozen half-filled bottles of sauce I got in the fridge.  I think it’s some kind of rib sauce, but I’m not positive.

5:30 PM – I go for a jog, debating on whether or not to run the 5k route or the 3k route.  I’ve got a lot to do tonight, so I opt for 3k.  The route takes me near my ex-wife’s workplace, and I worry about bumping into her.  I don’t want her to think I’m showing off by running near her workplace, but at the same time, this is the most convenient route for me; no busy streets to cross and lots of shade from trees.  For this reason, I keep this route and let her think what she wants to think.

6:00 PM – I eat supper on the couch, shoveling in chicken and rice with a big spoon right from the pot I cooked it in.  I annoyingly realize the pot is too hot to set down anywhere, least of all my lap.  I eat while holding the pot in the air in front of me by the handle.  This is really awkward, but I don’t want to get up; I’ll just eat really fast.

6:45 PM – I’m at the field for Nick’s practice.  I’m the only one here.  I’m paranoid that I’m in the wrong place.  I text my ex and yes, this is the right place.

7:00 PM – Nick and two other boys from his team are here, but no one else.  The coach doesn’t show up, nor does she message or call anyone.  We watch the boys play in the park for an hour, before I leave.  I observe, with more than a little Schadenfreude how cool and distant the ex and her new fiancée are with each other.  They don’t sit together.  They don’t hold hands or show no affection toward each other at all, and that is not par for the course for my ex.  Then I put it out of my head.  It is none of my business.

8:00 PM – No one else shows up and we go our separate ways.  I kiss and hug the boys good night and head over to a pub to meet up with a couple of friends.

8:30 PM – We have a beer at a tavern I’ve never been to before, even though it’s been around for nearly 20 years.  They carry good local brew, but at about a dollar a pint more.  The ambiance is nice, but nothing special.  A dozen other places in town have the same beer and ambiance, and it’s cheaper.  We order another round, and they forget about us.  There are literally five other people in the place.  We try to flag the bartender, but he’s busy surfing the web on his laptop.  We get fed up, get up to pay the bill and tries to bill us for the second round.  After a minute of ‘discussion’, and the other people at the bar sticking up for us, we pay for one round, no tip and hit the road.  He scowls at us.  We won’t be back.

9:00 PM – We head over to our usual watering hole.  We’re greeting by our usual good-hearted, if spinny waitress.  We sit on the patio and chat peacefully while the sun sets.

9:45 PM – A van pulls up in the parking lot and some woman, who looks exactly like Snooki from Jersey Shore if she were 25 years older and about 80 pounds heavier spills out onto the pavement.  She is shouting at another car in the parking lot a full five minutes after that particular car drove away.  I don’t know and I don’t want to know.  I only hope she isn’t going to sit on the patio.

9:50 PM – Yup.  She’s sitting on the patio at the next table over, her and a man who looks about 25 years older than her.  She tells everyone in a loud voice that he is her neighbour who was good enough to drive her to cash her cheque, so she’s buying him a beer.  He looks a lot like Jasper from The Simpsons, says nothing, looking straight ahead.  I’m wondering intently what his deal is.

10:00 PM – Snooki Sr. is starting to hit on me.  I think it’s only because I’m sitting closest to her, and her being drunk (and God knows what else) rather than any je ne sais quoi I may possess.  I try being gracious and polite but my gut tells me that that isn’t going to work here.

“Hey cutie, you like to party?  You got beautiful eyes, you know that?”  She is really drunk.  My two friends talk amongst themselves, creating a bubble within, and leaving me to fend for myself.  They look over at me, their eyes smiling, thankful it isn’t them.

I tell her I’m flattered, but I’ve got to get up early for work tomorrow.  It isn’t a lie.  “Hush baby, you can sleep at my place… it’s all good, I won’t kick you out.” she tries purring at me, but it comes out sounding like a slurring mess.

10:10 PM:  She latches onto someone else for a few minutes, before him and his girlfriend get up and leave.  She immediately turns back onto me.  “Hey honey,” she slurs “Give me a smile… I don’t bite… well… not much HAHAHAHAHA!”  Jasper, the neighbour, continues staring straight ahead, pretending to be intimately interested in a billboard on the street.

“I know what boys want.  I know what all boys want.  You wanna see them?”  At first I don’t realize what she’s talking about, but soon, it’s clear enough.  She’s trying to get her tits out.

Except she can’t. 

She’s wearing a very professional-looking button-up blouse and she’s too drunk to work the buttons properly.  I emphatically DO NOT want to see this woman’s tits.  My friends are barely able to contain their laughter.  Thanks a lot, assholes.

“Please, it’s okay… I’m not interested, and I don’t want you to embarrass yourself.”

“What… are you a fag?  All the boys love my breasts, and you’re… gonna see them… and you’re going to love them too.”  She’s trying to talk seductively, but she’s speaking like she fell out of a tree and hit her head.  And she’s still struggling with the buttons on her blouse.  As sad and pathetic is this little attention-seeking stunt is, I’m trying hard not to laugh.  I look over at Jasper, and he just shrugs and holds up his beer bottle as if to say ‘this is all I’m here for, man.’

Sweet Jesus.  I’m actually holding up a hand to my eyes, averting my gaze.  She’s got her blouse buttons unbuttons, and now she’s trying to get her tits out of her bra. 

“Excuse me ma’am, you’ll have to leave the establishment.”  It was the bar manager, making the save.

Thank freakin’ God.  I was expecting a Jersey Shore-style public spectacle, but he just led her outside and her and Jasper walked away, with her shirt still wide open.  It looked like she was sobbing quietly. 

10:45 PM.  I finish my beer and call it a night.  It’s a ten minute walk to my apartment and the night air is cool and refreshing. 

11:00 PM  I get into my apartment, strip to my underpants, and turn on the TV.  I find nothing interesting, so I open my laptop and catch up on my Youtube subscriptions.  As I doze off, I realize that I didn’t make lunch for tomorrow yet.  I’m too tired to get back up.

I’ll do it later.  

ipad Shuffle: Your Future in June.

Shamelessly stolen from Maria from Just Eat Your Cupcake. Take it away...

Rules: Easy peasy. Just put your ipad on shuffle and answer the questions in this order when the songs come up. I dare you to just do one or two if you don't want to jump in for the whole thing.

Thanks. All clear? Here we go!

1) What will your love life be like during the first part of June?
I by The Velvets. Well that’s depressingly pathetic and lonely, but more than likely true.

2) What will your love life by like during the last part of June?
Creatures of Love by The Talking Heads. That’s better. At least it’s more than just ‘I’.

3) Family life in June.
Jaguar by The Who. The boys can move like jaguars, and can fight like them too, when they take a notion to it.

4) Other family life....family that doesn't live with you.
Liddy Buck by John Stewart (no link... sorry!). I don’t know a Liddy or a Buck, but we aren’t a close family, so who knows?


5) Eating habits in June.
Spiralling Shape by They Might be Giants. Like pasta? Sounds like pasta. I don’t eat much pasta, but it’s cheap and filling and easy to make (the packaged stuff anyway). Ate it all the time in university. I hope I’m not so poor that I have to eat it all the time again this month.


6) Workplace in June.
Emelina by Nathan. Hmm. I don’t know anyone named Emelina. According to the song she ‘burned the whole damn kitchen to the ground’. While I’m somewhat ambivalent to my work, I don’t want no one burning it down either.


7) Getting along with friends in June.
Truthfully by Lisa Loeb. Oh Lisa, I always hoped we could be more than friends. Can we please be more than friends? What’s that? Oh. No no, that’s okay, I understand. Really I do. *sigh*.

8) What your co-workers will think of you this month.
Begin by The Wailin’ Jennys. Begin what? Begin taking my work seriously? Grow up? Never!

9) What you think of your co-workers this month
Being for The Benefit of Mr. Kite by The Beatles. Well, sometimes I do work in what seems like a circus…


10) What your sex life will be like in June.
Sister Don’t Cry by Collective Soul. Well this has gotten bloody awkward…


11) What your arguments with spouse will be like in June.
Pineapple Heart by Bela Fleck. My ex-spouse and I don’t argue. I’ve long given up trying to make her see reason.

12) What strangers think of you when they walk by you in June.
Hazy Shade of Criminal by Public Enemy. I do have a past. But criminal is something that people do NOT think of when they see me.

13) Weekends in June.
Travellin’ Band by CCR. I’m not in a band, and I have no travel plans. We are planning a pub crawl for the opening weekend of Euro 2012, but that’s about it.

14) Name five important people in your life. This song describes your June with them.

Nick: Never Let You Go by The Five Discs. No I won’t, at least not until you grow into manhood.


Gerry: Pay the Man by David Lindley. I love you son, but it would be nice when you get older to pick up a check once in a while.


Heather (my sister): Wild is the Wind by David Bowie. All respect to my sister, I love her very much, but wild she is not.


Uncle Fred: Ritual by The Pursuit of Happiness (sorry, no link again!). If we can perform a ritual so Newcastle United can win the league title, then let’s do it! Here is an alternate song from TPOH, which probably contains one of the best lines in song ever: 'Kiss me like you'll never see me again, my angel'.


Karly (my 12 year old next door neighbour): I’m Only Happy When it Rains by Garbage. Kiddo, you’re happy ALL THE TIME. I’ve never met such an effervescent kid. And you are a good soccer player. You just need a little confidence.


That was genuinely fun. Gotta do that again sometime. Good night all.




- PW

Drinking the FREEEEEEE Strawberry Pop and Eating the FREEEEEEEEEEEE Soda Crackers

This is about the 20th time that Gerry and I have watched this, so I'd thought I'd share with you too.

Underachiever

My name is Prairie Wanderer.  And I am an underachiever.

I’m not a social climber.  I’m not a go-getter.  I certainly don’t keep up with the Joneses and you won’t catch me being a ‘company man’.  I’m not particularly ambitious, at least not financially, and my nose is nowhere near the grindstone.  I don’t put in extra hours and I’ve scratched myself from the rat race a while back.

I am an underachiever.

It’s taken me years to come to terms with being an underachiever, and what being an underachiever means.

For the record, I have a very pedestrian job at a modest salary with a local building supply company.  I’m good at what I do, and am well-liked and respected in the business, but it is not necessarily an intellectually taxing occupation.  I could do something with more prestige and more money and more opportunities for advancement, but it comes with more responsibilities and headaches and stress.  I don’t handle stress well.  In fact, I handle stress extremely poorly; I overeat, drink, smoke and generally blow a lot of money when under pressure.  Not a good scene, really.  And at the end of the day, I like what I do.  I like my coworkers (for the most part) and my clients and my little office and the rest of it.  I’m not working 14 hours a day anymore, and I’m not tying myself in knots anymore.

I used to be a company man and put my nose to the grindstone and all of that.

I was a sucker.  I knew it even then, but I sacrificed myself to the altar of ‘hard work’, thinking that I was Doing What Was Expected of Me.  The ex and I lived in an older house right beside a brand-new sub development in what was becoming a swankier and more exclusive part of town. 

I hated every single second of it.  I hated the suburbs and suburbanites and the whole lifestyle associated with it.  Nearly the whole suburban existence involved households so terrified of being out of step with everyone else, they were practically neurotic over it.  One person cut the grass.  EVERYONE was out cutting the grass within the hour, like clockwork.  One person on the block got a boat, EVERYONE was looking at boats the next week.  One house had a wine and cheese thing, someone else had to do one, except they would slightly outdo the last one.  The suburbs were dull and vacuous, and full of dull and vacuous people.  They gulped anxiety medication by the fistful and from what I recall, no one was ever really happy.  They worshipped lame fads.  When Sideways came out, everyone started becoming wine snobs.  When Trading Spaces was on TLC, everyone played at being interior designers.  Yoga?  Check.  Pilates?  Check.  Words like man-cave embarrassingly floated into the lexicon. 

As I said before, 14 hour days weren’t uncommon for me.  I worked and worked and worked, and then worked some more.  It was a common thing in my neighbourhood.  Everyone was working.  No one was home before 6 o’clock.  At least one parent in every household worked evenings and weekends.  And then they came home and did housework and yardwork.  And in the summer, they drove out to their lakeside cottages and did work out there. 

Partly, I worked so much because my ex-wife Annie was notoriously bad at holding down jobs.  The best she could do was 6 months consistently before she was ‘let go’, and it conveniently coincided with her eligibility to collect employment insurance.  Needless to say, it was a major point of contention in our marriage.  I forwent finishing my own education so she could go back to school so she could find meaningful work that she wouldn’t ditch after a few months.  This was easily the worst life decision I’ve ever made.  But the decision was made for good or ill, and I worked ridiculously long hours to keep food on the table and a roof over our heads, doing work I absolutely hated.  For her part, shiny new certificate in hand, she continued the same job shenanigans she always did.  Work x number of months, and then find a way to get herself off so she could go back on unemployment insurance.  Rinse.  Repeat.  Eventually she did find a steady job, but it was part-time.  And the cost of putting Nick into daycare made it almost meaningless from a financial standpoint.

Things came to a head in Christmas of 2007.  In hindsight, I think I had a nervous breakdown.  At any rate, after Christmas, I simply refused to go back to work.  I quit my job and took 3 months off.  Just like that.  Between my ex-wife’s lackadaisical attitude to work and money, my job, which was burning me out both mentally and physically, all the overtime I was putting in, and the growing emotional and physical distance between my ex and I, I was just done.  I needed a break.  At that point, I hadn’t even had a proper holiday in almost 7 years.  I was exhausted and overwhelmed on every single level, and was operating that way for nearly 5 straight years.  I had constant migraines.  I grinded my teeth so badly the dentist told me that my teeth were a year or two way from some major work.  I smoked like a chimney, stared at the ceiling wide awake night after night, chewed through bottles of antacids and I phoned in sick at least a few days a month. I had a knot in between my shoulder blades.  My knees killed me.  I felt like a 60 year old in a 30 year old’s body.

I was done.  D-O-N-E.

I stayed home for a few months and looked after Nick full time.  When I was ready, I took a job with less pay and normal hours and much less stress.  I explained to my ex this was how things were going to be from now on.  She was going to have to step up to the plate if she wanted our standard of living to stay the same or get better.

And a little over two years later, we split.  In retrospect, I shouldn’t have been surprised. 

This is all a much longer story with implications that run much deeper.  This is fit for probably about 5-6 blog posts and it casts me in as much negative light as Annie.  But we’ll leave that for another day.

Anyway, I stepped back and scaled down.   Downshifted if you will.  And now I couldn’t imagine living any other way. 

And I don’t see it as underachieving at all.  I am living life to the fullest.  Just on my terms, no one else’s.  I invest my time and energy into the things that matter to me; the boys, photography, soccer, friends and family.  I’m not a bum. I earn a living, I pay my bills, and I fulfill my obligations to my kids.  But the things I work the hardest on don’t have a financial payoff.  I’m cool with that.  And there are so many people who think I’m stone cold daft for not achieving my professional potential, but at the exact same time admire me for having the conviction to say no to all of that.

I ain’t rich.  But I’m happy.

- PW

Uncle Fred Flies Home

I bid farewell to my uncle yesterday.  He flew back to England, tired and looking after a few weeks to be happy to be going home again to his familiar routine.

Somehow in the inevitable fate of the universe, the relatives I like the least live the closest to me and the relatives I love the most live overseas.  My uncle Fred is hands down best uncle I’ve ever had.  I first met him when I was 12 and wished like hell he could be the uncle I could see every week.  He took me out to soccer games, walks, to the seaside.  We did more stuff in those 3 weeks I was there than my dad and I did in our whole childhood.  And no, I’m not exaggerating.  I hate to say this, but I wished Uncle Fred was my father growing up.  He’s a naturally charismatic man, charming and impish.  He’s kind of like Benny Hill without the creepy, pervy sense of humour.

We spent a week travelling around the province, soaking up some of the local flavour, but as nice a face as he tried to put on it, I could tell by the end of it he was bored to tears.  Manitoba doesn’t have a lot to offer between winter and fishing season, summer festivals and beaches.  Most small towns are farming communities full of extremely nice folks, but not really a lot to do and see.  We hiked in Riding Mountain National Park, but his back prevented anything too strenuous.

We had pints in many small towns and posed for pics in front of local large-sized attractions – ‘the world’s largest (blank)’.  And that was fun in and of itself.  I taught him the finer points of hockey as it played on the barroom television and he thought I was soft in the head for playing goal for so many years with hard rubber being shot at you at breakneck speed.  He taught me the finer points of soccer as well, especially playing the back.  We cheered our beloved Newcastle United to two straight losses and them missing the Champions League.  Out of all the soccer we've watched together over the last 25 years, when we're together our teams never win.  Not once.  Not even a draw.

And he was gracious enough to kick around the soccer ball with Nick and Gerry, albeit for a short time as his back was acting up.  But I could tell he was wanting to do more.  He indulged their roughhousing until I had to gently step in and tell them enough was enough, and their great uncle can't do too much more.

While he was here, he didn’t ask about my divorce, and I didn’t ask about Grandma and Aunt Tara’s deaths.  In the space of three months he lost his mother and his wife and it hit him HARD.  It’s not that I don’t care.  I do, and immensely.  Aunt Tara was my favourite aunt and I loved her very much, even though I’ve only met her a handful of times in my life.  But I think he needed family who wasn’t constantly tiptoeing around how he was feeling all the time and just cut loose and have some fun.  Which we did in spades.

But he’s not as young as he used to be, and at 3 weeks he was ready to go home to his son, daughter-in-law and his grandchildren and the pace and life of Northern England.  He could not get over how isolated he felt in Winnipeg, how cut-off and far away it was from other major cities, where the closest major city is 7 hours away in another country.  Driving around southern Manitoba and it becomes apparent that 90% of it is farmland.  Important, obviously… but not necessarily aesthetically pleasing, at least not for the long haul.  That’s not a cut on rural living or anything, it’s just the way it is.

We spent a last night at the pub, having a few more cups than we planned on having, shooting pool (he is REALLY good, while I am not really good), watching hockey, and not wanting the moment to arrive where I won’t see him again for a good long while.  But that moment came and went, we shook hands and promised I’ll be over the pond again soon.  He was a little teary and so was I, but we held it together okay.

I’m planning a trip over in a few years with Nick, all things willing and then later on with Gerry when he’s a little older.  It’s funny, because I’ve only been twice in my life, but I feel its incredible draw.  I’ve always felt I’ve belonged there and not here in Canada.  I feel like I’m home when I’m in England.

Moving Back to the Speed of Normal

That was a busy set of weeks, I gotta tell ya.  But I've been around, periodically checking up on you all and seeing how you've been.  For my part, I've been putting in some overtime at work, going to Nick's soccer games twice a week, taking the boys out to the park one weekday evening, taking them every other weekend, playing soccer & practice twice a week, doing a laundry list of jobs for mom and dad and maintaining a sort-of relationship in my spare time.  Probably not as busy as some of you experience, but definitely busy by my lazy, shoe-gazing standards. 

I've also been half-jogging/half-walking home from work - about 10 kilometers a day.  Not every day, but close to every day and that's good enough for me.  My goal is the 10k run on Father's Day - about 6 weeks away.  Doable.  But I'm not forcing the issue.  If I feel good and motivated enough, I'll go for it.  If not, then I'll do another run on another day.

The ankle is swollen and grumpy and aching - playing soccer has pushed it around a bit and it does not like it.  I'm fine when I play, but I have the icepacks ready to go when I get home.  It's nothing serious, and the orthopedic surgeon told me to expect this.  It's still a little frustrating though.

And yes, I've been seeing someone.  More accurately, I've been having sex with someone, as there is really no other dimension to our relationship.  I met her at a local pub my friend was playing music at, chatted, hit it off and have had this Friends With Benefits thing going ever since.  It hasn't been without its bumps, but she's fun and steady and uninhibited and a free spirit, which I think is what I need right now.  But while what we've had is fun, it has the feel of winding down now.  She wants marriage and love, while I do not. 

Did I mention she’s 51? 

I suppose that’s none too shocking anymore.  Intergenerational hook-ups happen all the time (as they probably always have), and thanks to the Internet, it’s really no big deal.  I’m fine with it.  She’s a little iffier about it, but she was attracted to my maturity and my masculine nerdiness so her defences were breached, so to speak, as she assured me that I was normally and emphatically not her type.  As for me, this isn’t even my first hookup with a woman in her 50s.  I had a fling with a 52 year old when I was 24.  No, I don’t have an older woman fetish or anything.  Sometimes things just work out that way.

My uncle is in town from England, and as it works out, all of my English relatives are the ones that I wished lived here instead of the relatives who actually do live here.  We’re doing some real nerding out over Newcastle United as they make their last concerted push toward the Champions League.  We’re also planning a three day road trip around Manitoba, and I’m really looking forward to it.

So… how are things on your end?  J

- PW

The Beautiful Game

I had my first soccer practice in 9 months this week and I am sore.  Sore in a good, righteous way, not in a ‘my formerly shattered ankle joint is not liking this’ kind of way.  Actually, that pain was mostly muted during the 60 minute kick-around and I scarcely thought about it.  My teammates seemed more concerned about it than I was.

My concern is the beer gut I’ve accumulated in my 9 month layoff.  It’s not big, or even overly noticeable, but it’s there.  It doesn’t keep me up at night, but it bothers me.  And then it bothers me that it bothers me.  I feel silly and vain when I shouldn’t.  I walk lots and begun tentatively running since the snow has suddenly vanished, but the gut doesn’t seem to be shrinking much.  Soccer will sort that out, I’m sure.  Soccer has a habit of pushing and pulling you in all sorts of directions, demanding more out of you than you ever planned on giving, with teammates to potentially let down to keep you honest in a way that solo running doesn’t.  The trouble is I really like a glass of beer at the end of the day.  When I stopped drinking beer six weeks ago, I dropped a bit of weight.  But I really miss my beer.  And this boy ain’t drinking diet beer.  Few things in life top the pleasure of a loaded hamburger with a pint of frosty brown ale.  Whatever happens will happen.

My love of soccer has been a slow burn, simmering for over 20 years.  Like any good Canadian boy, I loved my hockey, and football (CFL football, that is) but nothing prepared me for the intoxicating buzz of watching Newcastle United play at St. James’ Park.  How could a sport that on the surface seemed rather slow and dull enrapture 50,000+ people?  It didn’t make sense to me.  The crowd cheered, booed and chanted on every play and even though they lost (1-0 to Nottingham Forest) not one person left their seat.

Two years later was World Cup ’90 and Paul Gascoigne’s heartbreaking yellow card and penalty kick loss to West Germany.  And the 90s saw witness to Newcastle United storm the league while managing not to win anything and nearly spending their way into bankruptcy while doing so.  They were heady, if ultimately unsatisfying and heartbreaking times.  I got married, and stopped following soccer, and it was probably just as well.  Underwhelming performances by England in Euro 2004 and World Cup 2006.  The so-called Golden Generation led by David Beckham was anything but.  The biggest memory I have of WC 2006 is Becks throwing up on the pitch in a match against Ecuador (which he scored in) in the grueling German summer heat.  And let’s not even talk about Newcastle United.  They faded out as the bills piled up, the lowest point where they were relegated to a lower league a couple of years back.  And especially don’t mention World Cup 2010, and the worst performance by an English team ever.  Tied the United States.  Tied Algeria (!).  Narrowly beat Slovenia.  Got destroyed by the Germans.  Ugh.

Things are getting better though.  Newcastle United are within a whisker of playing in the Europe for the first time in a handful of years, and on players they paid a song for.  England went undefeated in 2011 and went down, but gamely against Holland, probably the best or second best team in the world right now.

I’m probably labeled a soccer fanatic, even though I don’t really feel like it.  When non-soccer fans ask me why I like soccer so much, I tell them it’s a ridiculously easy game to learn.  You attempt to put a ball in a goal using any part of your body except your hands and arms.  There’s the offside rule, which seem to hang people up, but otherwise you can’t get much simpler than soccer.  It’s a lot like chess.  You can teach a four year old how to play chess.  Just like you can teach a four year old how to play soccer.  It’s pretty accessible.

The beauty of soccer (and chess) is its near infinite strategic complexity combined with an artistic imagination.  Much more so than any other sport, even American football, with its militaryesque playbooks.  Newcastle’s manager Alan Pardew trains his squad with GPS tags on them, which tracks every movement, which is then crunched into computer data.  A little sterile, but players’ movements can be corrected with surgical accuracy.  Couple that with a human flourish, a poetic turn that makes fans gasp.  Lionel Messi or Christiano Ronaldo can move with a ball at their feet in ways that put ballet dancers to shame.  David Beckham can strike a ball that seems to defy physics, so breathtaking that ‘bend it like Beckham’ has entered the popular lexicon. 

Soccer, like life, has its ugly side.  It’s a side that shouldn’t be ignored, but sometimes it is overemphasized.  Diving, making simple challenges seem worse than they are to get a free kick or a penalty is probably the one thing that makes soccer fans see red and non-soccer fans scoff.  It’s the one thing I cannot deny when scoffers declare soccer to be stupid.  My solution is simple:  caught diving?  Red card.  Piss off.  Off the field.  Let your team play the balance of the game short-handed.

That pales in comparison to a much worse and deeper problem in soccer, which an ugly form of tribalism exists, particularly in Europe and South America.  Racism is a rampant and recurring problem, particularly in Eastern Europe, but in every country (it is customary at some grounds for black players to have fans make monkey noises at them and have bananas thrown at them).  Many teams have ‘firms’, the division of fans that engage of acts of violence, vandalism and intimidation.  Usually, this ebbs and flows with the rise and fall of unemployment and poverty.  This is what most people think of as soccer hooliganism.  It is horrible, but thankfully it appears in most places to be on the decline.

But I believe in the inherit goodness of people, and I firmly believe that the good drives out the bad.  And most footy fans are the tops.

My muscles ache.  But in a good, satisfying kind of way.  Knowing that I’ve done something good.  I’ve much more to tell in my two weeks of silence, but I think this is all for now.  I crave a beer.  I think I'll have one.

- PW