Was it the occult or just some random occurrences that led to El FC’s loss last week? Perhaps there’s something in the Pacific Northwest’s water that has made us winless up there. We’re not making any guesses. All we will say is that, once the chickens found out there were no Sambas in their size, strange things began to happen: Ruben getting hurt, losing the match, our intrepid leader of all things ruthless verticality gets suspended.
Despite fearing their mental state and apprehensive of what I might behold, last night I nevertheless peered into my beloved hens’ coop. I hoped to see them placidly resting on their nests made of the fabric of our lives.
Reader, I did not see them reclining in rest. Rather, I witnessed them dabbling more deeply into the dark arts, both in voice and movement. There were eerie sounds emanating from their beaks as they sat, facing each other and rocking in rhythmic, syncopated patterns. Turning my gaze to the ground between them, I gasped at what I beheld:
I was possessed with the fear of a suburban mom in 1985 encountering Dungeons and Dragons or Ozzy Osbourne in their child’s bedroom.
Like so many parents before me, my first inclination was the throw away the offending materials and chide my charges. Upon a brief reflection, I decided otherwise. Yes, I would lean into this woo-woo shit. Being a bit of a John Berendt aficionado, I knew what had to be done and when.
As the dark night began to send the light of day to its evening rest, the hens and I hopped into my whip, a powder blue, 2 door 1986 Aries K coupe. We left the compound and headed to Valhalla in North Austin. No, not the Domain.
We pulled up to this beauty:
We waited until a bit past 11 p.m. and slipped in through a space that I won’t describe (we, at the compound want to have all the fun) and entered the facility. Years previously, I had learned that ghosts and spirits flourish most around midnight; good spirits work just before then and evil spirits just after.
The 3 of us made it to the center of the field, scratched a small hole right in the center, and called upon the good spirits of Austin soccer. It was then that a gentle, kindly breeze fell upon us. We knew we only had scant seconds to accomplish our task. We softly played samba music while burying a small Adidas logo, all while chanting
The clocked tolled midnight just as we finished our canticle. The breeze fell. I glanced at the hens. They smiled the smile of a chicken and, in unison, took a proud step to the right.
Yes, my dears, I understand.
El FC 1-0 Colorado