I was so excited to get a ticket for the football game, also known as soccer, between Liverpool, the team I had loved since I was four or six, and some other team that I frankly do not even care to remember. It may have been an Italian team since the game was in Rome, the 1976-77 European Cup. No! I googled it. It was against Borussia Mönchengladbach, a German team. No wonder I forgot them. I only remember World War Two when it comes to anything German in the 20th century, and World War One was not a ball in the park either. I remember the game as if it happened the day before, but luckily I do not remember the war, both of them, since I was not even born. Lucky me, I suppose.
Everyone was dying for such a ticket and I only got it because of my aunt Perla, a real pearl, who lived in Rome at the time, and got me the ticket knowing that I would love her forever after that. I would have without the ticket, but it is true that I loved her even more after the game and even before. Not only was I going to see the final of the European Cup, but Kevin Keegan as well, my favourite football player of all time, more than Maradona, even more than Pelé. I was in heaven at 14 years of age. All my friends were happy for me but crying inside. I would have cried too had I been one of them.
She picked me up at the airport, treated me as if I was her son, she had three daughters, and the rest is a blur since I only remember the game. The score was 3 to 1 for Liverpool, of course. Why so soon? you may ask. Because it happened close to 44 years ago and that it is not the point of the story. Even the title is surely an indication. There were 60,000 fans in the stadium. That is the number that I could never forget. There were probably less or more. Who really cares? My friends back at home cared when I returned happy but blasé.
What happened? they asked. Tell us! How was the game. Liverpool won, they all shouted in excitement, and you saw them score three goals. What a lucky guy (boy, really)! Why are you silent? What happened?
Sixty thousands, were the only words that came out of my mouth.
Sixty thousands, what? they all asked in unison.
Sixty thousands, I replied.
Sixty thousands, what? they kept asking.
Sixty thousands, I kept answering.
Come on! they all pleaded.
Sixty thousand fans and the bird shit on me, I finally replied.
They all laughed and I eventually joined them, but I never forgot my luck. I got to see Liverpool win the European Cup, but a bird had to ruin it by letting go of its white shit all over me, 1 out of 60,000, and on my new red Liverpool shirt. It may be the reason why I dislike and even abhor the colour red. Who knows?
...
I Prefer Silver: A Bronze Poem
If I ever run away
I’ll run a marathon
hopefully at least halfway
twenty-one kilometres (thirteen miles)
A one-hundred-metre dash
would get me out the door
or the window as one big hurdle
The four-hundred metres
would be a cinch to complete
though I would have to go back in time
when I was a rapid catch-the-bus runner
The car awaits me now
I take her whenever I miss her
lemony skin and eggplant lines
She wears dark heels
She smells
as if she has just been created
I only take her for short spins
around the food stores
She gets lonely too
I presume
She loves to run
as long as I’m in her
I’m not a car-racer though
I prefer to run for my life
I would never accept the Gold
for anything
I prefer silver
It’s less demanding
The bronze is too archaic
About the Creator
Patrick M. Ohana
A medical writer who reads and writes fiction and some nonfiction, although the latter may appear at times like the former. Most of my pieces (over 2,200) are or will be available on Shakespeare's Shoes.
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Mastering the mind games of Mourinho..
In the bustling streets of London, amidst the roar of fans and the clash of football boots, there existed a man whose tactics transcended the pitch. José Mourinho, the mastermind behind many a football triumph, possessed a unique ability to wield not just the tactics board but also the minds of his players.Cesc Fàbregas, a gifted midfielder, found himself under Mourinho's spell during their time together at Chelsea. As he reflected on those days, he revealed the intricate web of influence Mourinho spun around him."I think with Mourinho, he played with my mind in a different way that nobody else played before," Fàbregas recounted, his voice tinged with both admiration and a hint of bewilderment.Their relationship was not merely coach and player; it was a complex dance of manipulation and inspiration. Mourinho, with his charismatic persona and keen understanding of psychology, knew exactly how to push Fàbregas to new heights."He would send me messages, he would speak to me nearly every day," Fàbregas recalled, painting a picture of relentless communication that kept him perpetually engaged, perpetually focused.Mourinho's words were not just casual chatter; they were strategic maneuvers designed to shape Fàbregas's perception of himself and his role within the team. Each conversation, each message, carried with it the weight of affirmation and importance."He would speak to me in a manner where he makes me see that I'm one of the most important players in the squad," Fàbregas revealed, the memory still vivid in his mind. Mourinho's words weren't empty praise; they were calculated strokes that bolstered Faàbregas's confidence and sense of belonging.And it worked. Under Mourinho's guidance, Fàbregas flourished, his performances on the pitch reflecting the belief instilled in him by his coach. He became a linchpin in the team, a maestro orchestrating plays with precision and finesse."That always had a really powerful message in my brain," Fàbregas admitted, acknowledging the lasting impact of Mourinho's manipulation. The coach's words weren't just fleeting encouragements; they were seeds planted in Fàbregas's mind, blossoming into a steadfast belief in his own abilities.As Fàbregas reminisced about those days, it became clear that Mourinho's influence extended far beyond the tactical realm. He wasn't just a coach; he was a mentor, a confidant, a master of the psychological game.Their time together at Chelsea may have come to an end, but the imprint Mourinho left on Fàbregas's psyche remained indelible. Even now, years later, Fàbregas found himself reflecting on those conversations, those messages, and the profound impact they had on his career.In the world of football, where physical prowess and tactical acumen reign supreme, Mourinho stood out as a master manipulator of the mind. His ability to understand his players on a deeper level, to tap into their emotions and motivations, set him apart as a coach of unparalleled skill.For Fàbregas, Mourinho's influence was a double-edged sword, simultaneously empowering and enigmatic. He had been both puppet and prodigy, a willing participant in Mourinho's intricate game of psychological chess.And yet, despite the complexities of their relationship, Fàbregas couldn't deny the role Mourinho played in shaping him as a player and as a person. The lessons learned, the confidence gained, were invaluable gifts that would stay with him long after the final whistle had blown.As Fàbregas gazed out onto the pitch, the memories of his time under Mourinho flooded back, a testament to the enduring power of the coach's voice. In the world of football, where triumph and defeat hung in the balance, Mourinho's words had been a constant, guiding Fàbregas through the highs and lows of the beautiful game.
By Eric anexis 6 days ago in Cleats
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