America, we should align ourselves with the rest of the world and reconsider calling football football and football something else. By calling football soccer we separate ourselves from the other nations—and being an American—at these times—we can use all the unity we can get.
With that being said, let me spiel about what’s really on the brain. Football.
This whole Ronaldo and the transvestites thing is crazy!
What is it with superstar-athletes and hoes? Well, I suppose prostitutes and paupers wouldn’t make any cents since the objective of a prostitute is to get money. But Ronaldo! Come on. It’s different when it ain’t personal. But this feels personal. This is Lenny’s Ronaldo—my ambassador of Joga Bonito.
I was cheering for Brazil in the last World Cup—not France (as some would suspect)—not Landon Donovan. Why? Well, before Ronaldo, soccer didn’t exist. Ok, let’s just say Ronaldo = America. And I = Columbus.
See, New York, your friendly neighborhood virgin grew up in a very rural town in the South—to this day I credit God for giving me football. There’s no other way to explain my passion for this game. It’s still not popular down there. Last summer I sat alongside two of my cousins (both male) at my mom’s house and as we watched the 2007 MLB All-Star Home Run Derby—well, as they watched it—I (with the compute on silent watched football). But as soon as a commercial would come on it was “Oh, you gotta see this one!” I’d just discovered YOUTUBE and couldn’t get enough of showing clips of Robinho and Thierry Henry. I was so hype trying to win them over to the bonito side.
My little cousin said, “We’ve got this kid from Africa on our team at school—he’s pretty good.” I beamed! I’ve been beaming since 1998—the year that I discovered football. One of my pen-pals, a Singaporean named Lenny wrote me about Ronaldo. She was so excited. She LUVVVVVVVD RONALDO. #9. And she was excited about The World Cup.
“The World what?”
I had no clue but I would soon learn come summer.
In June it will be ten years. Wow. Picture it. 1998. Summertime. A kid fresh out the country into the big city recognizing nothing and no one but my mother and her friends riding along behind me up the escalator inside of Trump Tower—imagine the thrill, being this fish out of water and seeing a larger-than-life-sized familiar face welcome you at the entrance of Niketown. I think I scared a few people with my shriek. “ RONALDO!!! MOM, THAT IS LENNY’S RONALDO. TAKE A PICTURE!! OMG OMG LENNY IS GOING TO LOVE THIS!!!” And she did. And I do.
So, when people, making conversation, ask me if I heard about that Braziliansoccer playerandthetransvestites, I cringe. It was only a couple of weeks ago that I sat at Celtic Bar eating fries sipping cranberry juice watching Barca play Manchester Utd. that I chatted about this game with an Irishman who was amused by my puzzled look. You see, Henry didn’t play in the first half of this game and being the American that I am I like to know why and actually see the player sitting on the bench and/or hear an announcer give an explanation to the player’s whereabouts and why-they’re-outs, but I didn’t get that. So I of course expressed my concern with a “Where is Henry?” But it was a quiet exasperation I didn’t think anyone heard. Wrong. An Irish accent came at me like lightening, “The Frenchman?” “He probably got a sniffle and needed pampering. You got his phone number? I’ll call him.” he said.
I laughed. And we chatted and later he asked “What about Ronaldo?”
To which I bemused, “RONALDO—WHO DOESN’T LOVE BRAZIL?!”
Then it hit me. I realized that he was referring to the Ronaldo who’d just missed a free kick, the one on the screen in front of us. “Oh,” I said recognizing my error… “You’re talking about Cristiano Ronaldo.”
He chuckled. “Yeah,” (in the most Irish of Irish accents) you were referring to the fat guy?” he said.
“What?” I was taken aback.
“Ronaldo,” he said.
“The fat guy?” I said.
“Yeah that one’s past the expiration date!”
He laughed.
I crossed Ireland off the Bucket List.
You know, New York, this summer I will commemorate a decade of devotion to the beautiful game. Perhaps I’ll go back to Niketown. Truth be told I haven’t been back there since 1998. Perhaps I’ll unite with an old pen-pal and tell her “Thank you.”
Perhaps I’ll fly to Europe and watch my favorite footballer lead France in this summer’s Euro 2008...Perhaps that’s a stretch of the imagination. But it is a dream. And you know what, in a time when reality and its strangeness leave little to the imagination. I still have a dream. One day we’ll all call soccer football, my little cousin will call football "cool," Thierry Henry and I will have a tête-à-tête and Ronaldo will be remembered for defining Joga Bonito.
Amen.
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