July 05, 2006
Erotics of the World Cup
Was it, uh, as good for you..?
Passed on without comment:
What a stunningly beautiful game. I don't think I've ever seen anything quite like. Both teams playing at the peak of their abilities, with well-executed, distinctive styles of play. Moves and counter-moves. Effort, but no goals. Overtime. Four minutes until the horrid fate of a penalty kick shootout, and Italy scores on a beautiful diagonal shot from the top of the box. The Germans come on strong, and then whoops, Italian counterattack, and another heart-rendingly perfect goal with one minute to go. The diving keeper's glove inches to the left, the goalpost inches to the right, the defender moments behind, and the promise of an awkward turnaround moments ahead. German fans crying. Players in white, orange and black jerseys lying face down on the field, in pain quite a bit worse than what you feel when you knock knees with a defender or bounce your temple off an opposing player's forehead while fighting in the air for a header. Maximum tension, maximum release; the phallocentric eros of football doesn't get any better. One big male orgasm in an enveloping oval stadium, lined with the softly corrugated undulations of the crowd's emotions that caress the game to its finish. The second goal left no question about the finality of its achievement. The rift between joy and grief emotions overwhelmed by their unmistakable combined intensity.
Why does this matter? Its beauty lies in the fact that it doesn't, but manages to supercede things that do. Pointlessly beautiful, beautifully pointless.