Green Commentary

The Fulham versus Manchester United match today was a wonderful experience. I always felt my first OSCE exam would be the most confusing, but then we did microscopy sessions at histopathology. Now, even that has been topped. As a connoisseur of culture, I resigned myself earlier today to partake in the non-gender-specific but male-dominant ritual of spending about two hours of my day watching twenty-two grown men plus or minus twelve, chasing and kicking a leather ball to the drunken delight of thousands of adults who watch with euphoria at every move.

The match started. I missed five minutes of it but an unwelcome push had me sitting on a couch wondering what I was watching. One of the guys in white(Fulham?) jumped simultaneously with a guy in red. Both fell. The guy in white rolled and held up his hands like he had been caught with weed. I wondered why. Falling is a crime in this sport? Interesting. A guy in red(Cunha?) at about thirteen minutes raised the blood pressure of the one who invited me to watch, before the keeper took the excitement out of his voice and replaced it with disappointment.

At fifteen minutes, the red keeper successfully defended a corner kick taken a few centimeters from the corner. A short flag refused to give up his space to the player taking the kick. The brief appearance of a black man on the sidelines(Onana?) had my inviter charged with spite "you go chop that bench wehweh", he remarked with barely hidden glee. In my opinion, he was the most interesting part of the entire affair. Not many can boast of having their @ 50 be celebrated across the world by disappointed fans and elated haters alike.

A bunch of passes between the red guys around twenty-three minutes impressed me. These guys really do dedicate time to their craft. Twenty-fifth minute, a bearded macho-looking guy fell, rolled, and did the same thing with his hands. I was more confused. Considering the player he fell while running with stopped, I figured it was a sign of surrender or a plea for peace. Maybe he was winded. Twenty-eight minutes. Another fall. I didn't know if the hand-raising sign was elicited. I was drowsy. A recent heavy meal was trying to lull my vessel into the flow of somnolence and its waves of dreams. I held myself back. Last night, I dreamt of a certain professor who had made the last few days fretfully unenjoyable for me. I wasn't sure I wanted to be reminded of him again. My vessel needed the slow breakers, not the storms of nightmares.

Thirty-one minutes. Another corner kick. Same position. Maybe they had not been able to prevail on the flag pole to scoot the thirty-some centimeters required. At about thirty-three minutes, some fierce ìjàkadì went down. The referee ran with the posture of a man whose decisions could change the world. He stooped disappointingly before a short screen. He then declared a penalty, a decision that had my inviter hopping with joy. Moments later, he began calling on every god he knew while threatening the penalty taker: "Ah, Bruno, if you miss this ball,  I go slap you!" His miss was received with energy loss. My inviter sagged visibly from a sprightly standing position to a sitting slouch pathognomonic for depressed people or expert, nearly boneless, chronic couch potatoes. The transition was so smooth, I experienced vicarious sadness. Only briefly. A corner at forty minutes had me convinced. Football players loved to lie face down on the floor. Why? I still don't know.

At forty-two minutes, I began to understand the referee's cocky walk. When your decisions have everyone with any emotional investment looking at you like they would love to cook you for dinner after severe torture, you have to master that walk. It's the same walk I see on surgery consultants, professors, and invigilators at difficult examinations. An offside at forty-six minutes. My inviter seemed as bewildered as I was when I asked the definition of an offside. During a brief discussion with my inviter about the guy in white and his act of ungentlemanly warfare, where he swung the other guy around like tissue he was about to clean up with, I learned he was a Nigerian. I nodded in understanding. Maybe Prof was right about his opinions on Nigerians.

The match resumed. A player suffered an unfortunate loss of his shoe at forty-six minutes. I smiled. I wasn't the only one who lost a shoe at high speed. His didn't happen while crossing the road. Another corner at 47 taken at the almost-but-not-quite-the-corner. I dozed off for a few minutes at exactly 55:49. I wonder if all football lovers are so time-conscious. I doubt it. I woke at about 56-57 minutes to the suppressed scream of my inviter. Manchester had scored. A nodded corner kick that may have given a less fit man an avulsion injury or a head of femur dislocation put one into the net. My inviter was sitting up again. There was hope. I faded again into dark, calm peaceful sopor.

I woke again. Seventy-six minutes. Fulham had equalized. I had no idea how. The match dragged with near misses and almost-there's. I asked my inviter twice if he was on antihypertensives, just in case. Eventually, at about ninety-four minutes, my inviter changed the channel. I asked him why, and asked if it was impossible for anything to change. He said he wasn't optimistic. Or more specifically, in the lingo of football buffs, "We are not optimistic". At this point, I decided that couches were good, but beds were infinitely better. I got up utterly convinced that football was not the sport for me. I went off to sleep, convinced I'd be happier with my nightmares. Did I see my professor? That's a matter for another article. For now, in the words of Michael Stevens, "As always, thank you for reading." 

Salami Wisdom