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levitySo I woke up at 3:45 in the morning intending to watch Arsenal play Manchester City at the Emirates and then Barcelona play Athletic Bilbao at the San Mamés only to find out that ESPN was not showing the game and that my streams chose today to fail me. Instead of going back to sleep like a reasonable thinking person with a 7 a.m. class, I wrote this. That is my only excuse.
FC Barcelona is an evil organization of evil with morally ambiguous methods and, of course, a passion for playing football their way. Crack. Also, written at four in the morning.
---
He knows he's in for it- again- when Señor Laporta accosts him the moment he steps out of the locker room. Laporta oozes praise and wonder, amazing passing, as usual, fantastic sense of the game, surely the finest footballing brain in the Liga. His eyes gleam. Xavi meets them easily as he thanks the president for his kind words, he gives nothing to the club that they didn't cultivate themselves.
Laporta beams, a child given a long-slavered-over toy. Then of course Xavi understands the club's methods, that the club looks to the youth to carry on its grand legacy, children blessed with the talent to play in blue and claret, for the best club in the world. Children who grow up playing the Barcelona way. Children just like Xavi.
Xavi's heard this all before. That doesn't make things any easier.
One of the men flanking Laporta- and when did they show up?- brings out three pictures. A retired gymnast. An ex-player for the national women's team, career ended by an unfortunate training-ground tackle. A former prima ballerina. They're the ones the club has deemed suitable for-
Xavi shakes his head. He doesn't want to hear about it.
Another one of the men hands him a plastic cup, and without waiting for anything else Laporta might have to say Xavi heads for the showers. The first time they asked Puyi he hawked up spit into the cup and handed it back. They just gave him cup after cup, till his mouth ran dry.
Xavi's always tempted to imitate his captain, never mind that he wouldn't get any points for either originality or clarity of thought. Instead he gets into the first stall, clamping his teeth down on his lip.
It's over and done with within a few minutes. He wipes his fingers carefully, places one palm over the rim of the cup, walks back into the corridor. Laporta and his shadows are still there. Xavi sticks the cup out for any one of them to take, and then leaves. He doubts he can remain civil.
In training three weeks later he is informed that the ex-player is pregnant. For one hysterical moment he wonders that no one has realised just how literal he is when he talks about Barça DNA.
FC Barcelona is an evil organization of evil with morally ambiguous methods and, of course, a passion for playing football their way. Crack. Also, written at four in the morning.
---
He knows he's in for it- again- when Señor Laporta accosts him the moment he steps out of the locker room. Laporta oozes praise and wonder, amazing passing, as usual, fantastic sense of the game, surely the finest footballing brain in the Liga. His eyes gleam. Xavi meets them easily as he thanks the president for his kind words, he gives nothing to the club that they didn't cultivate themselves.
Laporta beams, a child given a long-slavered-over toy. Then of course Xavi understands the club's methods, that the club looks to the youth to carry on its grand legacy, children blessed with the talent to play in blue and claret, for the best club in the world. Children who grow up playing the Barcelona way. Children just like Xavi.
Xavi's heard this all before. That doesn't make things any easier.
One of the men flanking Laporta- and when did they show up?- brings out three pictures. A retired gymnast. An ex-player for the national women's team, career ended by an unfortunate training-ground tackle. A former prima ballerina. They're the ones the club has deemed suitable for-
Xavi shakes his head. He doesn't want to hear about it.
Another one of the men hands him a plastic cup, and without waiting for anything else Laporta might have to say Xavi heads for the showers. The first time they asked Puyi he hawked up spit into the cup and handed it back. They just gave him cup after cup, till his mouth ran dry.
Xavi's always tempted to imitate his captain, never mind that he wouldn't get any points for either originality or clarity of thought. Instead he gets into the first stall, clamping his teeth down on his lip.
It's over and done with within a few minutes. He wipes his fingers carefully, places one palm over the rim of the cup, walks back into the corridor. Laporta and his shadows are still there. Xavi sticks the cup out for any one of them to take, and then leaves. He doubts he can remain civil.
In training three weeks later he is informed that the ex-player is pregnant. For one hysterical moment he wonders that no one has realised just how literal he is when he talks about Barça DNA.
