Back in the day I wrote a short story while living in Paris, I felt it was high time. You can read it here.
During one of my roaming trips through Europe I stumbled into a pick up football game. I joined in with the local french kids and started playing. At some point I remember playing the perfect pass, a beautiful curved ball in front of the running attacker that had only to slide into the goal. A thing of beauty.
While I was still savouring the achievement, marveled at its beauty, I looked around. Absolute disdain, obliviousness. No one had even noticed that moment of sporting poetics. I couldn’t believe it. And that thing stuck with me.
Later I went on to write a dystopian story of how a sensitive, creative soul feels absolutely alone when there isn’t anyone around that shares any of his aesthetic sensibility.
Read The Narrative of H. T. Roti here.
I too find so much poetry in sport, football especially. It’s a spiritual experience, transcendence, an art. An art better enjoyed with others…
Indeed, there’s something basic, unexplainable about running and kicking a ball around in the company of fellow human beings. It’s enough to consider how strong of a passion football is around the world.
There’s the dark side of Capital taking over this passion and turning it into a pragmatic, predictable money-making machine. I’m considering playing (pun intended) with this idea in my next book.