OK, Futbol. Football. Whatever. For the conspicuously hip soccer fiend, overnight for the most part, it’s back to obscurity in search of the next hobby, bit, schtick, anything that may and might define him. Anything. Like a junkie looking for the next score, the faux soccer fan moves on. What next?
This evening on a Popsicle run, I happened by a neighborhood Irish pub and standing outside was a pal, dejected and forlorn. Clad in a USA soccer jersey, he look inconsolable. His identity had been lost to and by Ghana. His gimmick. For my pal had set out to “outfan” the most ardent of soccer aficionados.
Almost overnight he was a veritable repository of soccer arcana, stats, history name it. He tried his best to keep up with Irish publicans and barkeeps stat for stat. That proved rather easy as many Irish bartenders are known to go round for round with their patrons. One in particular was the most easy to wax authoritative with: think a ruddy completed, marble-mouthed sot. But a good egg.
My ersatz soccer fiend loved how his friends marveled at his extensive knowledge and couldn’t remember when he became so ardent in his new-old passion.
But today it all ended due to Ghana’s win. It wasn’t the same rooting for Brasil. No, it was his team, our team, or the highway.
His conspicuous hipness was gone. Or Ghana.
And I laughed a mighty laugh. Sucka!