09 April 2010

Why am I so fickle?

By Dr3

Every day I find a new love. Every day I hail a new performance as the “greatest of all time”. Yet every day I act as if yesterday never happened. I talk about yesterday as if it were ten years ago, and as if things were so different back then that they really don’t mean anything now. The euphoria of the present always makes me forget about the weight of my words, and the sentiments that live only through memory. Strangely enough though, I hold on to some ‘martyrs’ of up to over 50 years ago as if they were in fact the dream of last night, so instead of counting sheep I say “PELE” and “Maradona” as I doze off.

I forgot that my ‘fat-pork’ was capable of 47 goal blitzes of seasons. I forgot that he seemed to burst through players making them stumble at his presence as if it were some glitch in Winning Eleven (or Fifa ) on my ps2. I forgot that he went to the ‘Theatre of dreams’ and woke everyone 'to' hell up. I forgot that he made even the ‘Sir-Bobby-Robsons’ of coaches hold their head in astonishment, as if they had never seen football before. Fat-pork was unplayable. He couldn’t be man-marked, and he couldn’t be zone-marked. He never disappeared when needed most, and was the personification of what being genuinely AWE-some meant, but I forgot. I forgot his world cup exploits. I forgot how both-footed he was. I forgot how he made even legends-of-their time defenders look like golfers caught on a football field (insert Nesta, Maldini, ‘any-damn-defender’ here___). Yet as soon as another Messiah who coincidentally ‘plays with Jesus’, started showing us ‘the light’, my memory was rousted. I’ve been here before.

One day while watching my TV the color went bad. All of a sudden what I thought were clips of ‘Pele’, were clips of a white man, playing for what appeared to be Manchester United. It turned out I was disillusioned. There was no problem with my TV, I had in fact stumbled upon the ‘white Pele’. Now as the euphoria flooded in from the world around me, again my memory was rousted. I started remembering a long-haired, buck-toothed guy. He was an oxymoron. He was the epitome of beauty, yet he wasn’t very handsome. He did things that cast aside all other sports as rudimentary. He had devastating shooting and skill, yet his vision was akin to nothing I had ever seen. Too many times he single-handedly brought out moments of genius that made opponents laugh/smile (to hide their tears of dejection), and made opposing fans applaud at money well spent. But I forgot about him. I forgot, that he was the one that introduced or ushered in the Messiah. I forgot that he was the essence of loving football. I forgot that he was unplayable. I forgot that he made his teammates aspire to be better. I forgot his moments of genius. I forgot that he was solely responsible for a new era for football. I forgot and cast him aside as soon as I saw something new.

In the weeks and years that passed since first seeing and learning about the “white Pele”, the “Messiah” and the “metro-sexual Portuguese”, I frequently had colored flashbacks of left-footed bicyclists, and balding Frenchmen. I even had daydreams about the original incarnation of the Portuguese winger. I felt a genuine shame for myself. I had acted like a child. I threw away my favorite toy, because the new one was just that; new. I couldn’t believe that I had been so callous in using words like “greatest”, and phrases like “of all time”.

I was guilty of acting as if nostalgia is reserved for people who I didn’t actually see play, and who live through the hieroglyphs that are black and white and sometimes slightly colored. In being as fickle as a child, I forgot that ‘YouTubes’, and compilations and word-of-mouth all serve the same purpose as tourism brochures. I had forgotten that I was fickle.

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