Gentle reader, as Thomas Paine tells us, these are the times that try men’s souls. A horrible showing last week. I willed my hens to be optimistic, but should’ve known better. Blues was my theme. I clearly need to heed my own words in the future.
To make matters worse, the club issued this . . . this . . . whatever you want to call this design.
I’m all for helping sick children, but let’s at least do it in some semblance of style.
Style. That’s a word. A word that, when used in soccer, should conjure up delightful triangles, eager runs, joyful play. None of that is us. We are the anti-style team now. All I do when watching is channel my inner Clint Eastwood.
I’m trying to figure out my emotions towards this team of ours. It wavers and flickers like a candle in a drafty room. One moment, Pink Floyd’s figured me out
Another day, another emotion. This one’s encapsulated by Phil Collins.
Yup. Phil’s got it and is supported by Paul.
I know no player goes out to lose. Every competitive athlete (and these guys are more competitive than you or I will ever be) wants to win and catch that euphoric rush.
Unfortunately, we’re not hitting, not gelling, not united in cause. Rather, we’re more like my old 1978 Toyota Celica: sputtering along and not too pleasant to behold.
So, we come now to the upcoming match vs. Frisco. It ain’t gonna be pretty. I tried to ask my lovely hens about this, but both Wolfie and San Julius stayed in their coop, huddled in a back corner, rocking back and forth. They seem to be suffering from shellshock of some kind and I don’t blame them.
It’s horrible that we’re about to lose to a team that keeps a truck behind a goal, but here we are. Having said that, we’re still winning the Copa Tejas.
El FC 1-3 Frisco