Results tagged ‘ World Cup ’
World Cup 2010 Final
Tomorrow you can ask what all that buzzing was about but not tonight; tonight is for finding sound and loving it.
I was walking along, trying to find a spot to watch and, just as importantly, folks to watch with. My laptop would work, if a TV broadcast was all I was looking for. But it wasn’t. My first shot was a pub that didn’t look promising; following that, I found out I was in a spot with no TV. Finally, I found a food joint and got lasagna.
I normally rush through my food, but I took as long as I could, though my lasagna was growing cold. Trying to stick around, I saw almost all of that match’s first half. In slow-motion, it was vibrant; colors approaching, colliding, tumbling. A color flashing down again and again. I had to tilt backwards, but it was okay: I saw what I was trying to.
Nobody was waiting for my booth, so I paid but sat still. Not so much drama, but nothing that would count from any attack.
Though now and again, a shot would almost go in. And from an adjoining room, sound would follow that.
I wasn’t rooting for anybody, and was glad for bonus football. I had to go to a bathroom, but didn’t sit back down in my booth; picking up my cup, I sat down in that adjoining room.
Almost as soon as I did, I found out what I hadn’t had in my first room. Sound. Discussion from guys on TV–and, too, fans’ music. This World Cup had a hum to it. Not a song with a protagonist I could latch on to, rooting and hoping from start to finish. Not phony chords, harmony about harmony. Not just discord and frustration. No, it was many thousands in unison. Annoying to fans hoping for familiar chants, possibly. But without a sight of TVs pointing out of windows so I could watch from roads, not in this small town, it’s sound that can drag a non-rooting patron in.
And though I didn’t root, though I wouldn’t mind PKs (okay, I’ll modify that paragraph…broadcast sound can annoy if I don’t know who all is playing for Spain, Bud and Lou could work on this), I could groan or gasp at good shots. “Ohhhh” just sounds right in a group. I didn’t ask if anybody was rooting, and still don’t know now. But that’s okay.
Finally, a goal. I didn’t shout for long, not caring who won, but I did shout.
So, if you saw this championship as part of a crowd–probably not my crowd, but any crowd–as a proxy for all of us wanting a match to pull us in, wanting to know this sound; thank you.
Crown of sonnets
Would you rather see beginnings or ends?
I haven’t given you enough to say.
Unless you know who’s playing, it depends
On many things; the sport, the round, the day.
If you were rooting, you’d watch from the start.
Loyal no matter how the game turns out.
Perhaps you’re busy, and need to depart
Halfway through. But when endings are in doubt
You live with hope. There’s no need to assume
Things won’t end well just because you’re behind.
Wonder what’s going on, fend off the gloom,
Uncertain what you will come home to find.
When there’s something to cheer for, win or lose,
Each moment matters. No news is good news.
Each moment matters. No news is good news
If all you want is for the game to take
As long as possible. You don’t know who’s
Playing. But when web sites show a mistake,
Unable to display the score, it draws
Us in. Though I can’t quite appreciate
The craziness of the scoreline, it awes
Me nonetheless. Even I know it’s great.
A play or two are silly wipeouts. Most
Are strangely simple; unreturned serves, aces,
Or sometimes vollies to another ghost
Sharing the same white clothing and pale faces.
Fast in its way, though saying that feels wrong,
The games quickly wrap up and move along.
The games quickly wrap up and move along,
Especially with four crammed in one day.
Accompanied by the same tuneless song,
The same at every tempo, you could say.
I wondered which to watch that afternoon
And chose neither, of course. They almost got
Done what would have been relatively soon,
Before adjournment. That said, they did not.
There had been games that morning. I saw part
Of one of them, although not very well.
The live video screen would stop and start
So erratically, it was hard to tell
What was occurring. Still, I sat alone,
Trying to keep up with a far time zone.
Trying to keep up with a far time zone
Can be easier than it might appear.
The times that MLB.com has shown
Are rarely mine. I’m relatively near
To my team even when it goes away
Out west. Eleven-thirty’s not too late
(At least it’s not right now) for me to stay
Up and listen to them meeting their fate.
Is this how West Coast fans feel all the time,
Made blatant by the road trips to Seattle?
The surety that there’s always more time
So settle in, ready for a long battle?
“Nite game”, this would be called in our home park.
Tonight, there’s nothing there; the scoreboard’s dark.
Tonight, there’s nothing there; the scoreboard’s dark.
Turned off as if in respect. Numbers don’t
Do justice anymore, as each old mark
Is obliterated. Some watching won’t
Understand much, but elegance, we get.
Polite applause, scores read in monotone,
The darkened board, the white clothing–and yet
The players make their images their own.
A necklace, here and now? And more bizarre
To me, at least; a backwards baseball hat?
Yet Nike swoosh and all, that’s what they are.
A rally might help, if you put it that
Way. So into another night they stay,
Hours pass; the score creeps up as they play.
Hours pass; the score creeps up as they play,
Becoming more urgent. Without a goal
It’ll be over. There’s more than one way
To qualify; it isn’t like the sole
Hope is a stoppage-time goal. That’s the stuff
Of stories for children, far too cliché
For the real world. A draw would be enough
If…Slovenia could tie it up, say…
The timing is the fourth official’s whim.
And at this rate, officials? You can’t trust
Them very far. I wouldn’t count on him
To help you out. This year might be a bust.
Ninety minutes gone. Hope, worry, guess, pray–
They can’t keep going like this. Or can they?
They can’t keep going like this. Or can they?
I don’t know. I saw fragments, heard defeat
A couple nights. But that is not to say
I missed it all. I saw part of a feat
Unsurpassed–yet people could surpass that.
That’s the thing about sports. You never know
What the future will mock as just old hat,
Nor how much longer anything can go.
And I could read about it, after all.
I could see highlights, if I wanted to;
The journeys in distant times of a ball
Hit, pitched, or kicked, until at last you’re through.
And so we ask ourselves as play suspends;
Would you rather see beginnings or ends?
