I miss the World Cup competition. Since discovering the beautiful game over a few pints in a London pub in 2001, I’ve looked forward to it every 4 years. Other than Joyce’s son though, I really have no one to talk to about it. Nick plays and will do so at UVM beginning this Fall, but even so, I can’t help thinking that every time I open my yapper about it up he’s thinking, “Oh. My. God. I can’t believe this guy is bringing up soccer again…” Anyway, without any buddies to talk futbol, I’ll just talk to myself about it here…

Top Ten reasons Futbol (Soccer) rocks

1. The field is called “the Pitch.” – I love that! It makes more sense than “gridiron.” The pitch at Old Trafford in Manchester, England is the Yank, uh, Fenway Park of futbol in the UK. It seats 75,957 fans and has the nickname, “Theatre of Dreams.” Old Trafford has been home to the Premier Leagues legendary Manchester United since 1910, except for an 8 year span beginning in 1941 when it was BOMBED DURING WWII! That’s history.

2. Players get “carded.” – If you simply display “unsporting behaviour,” that may get you a yellow (warning) card. Be a real dick and the ref draws red from his two card deck and you are “sent off” for the duration and must leave the area and go to a local pub (OK, I made the pub part up, but I’m certain it’s happened often…). My favorite part is when the ref approaches the offending player and raises the card high above him like, “this is an official citation for your unsporting behavior!”

3. Head – You gotta use it if you want to play the world’s game. The Spain-Germany semi-final was decided by a spectacular Carles Puyol header at the 74th minute as the diminutive defender skied above bigger Germans to slam the “Jabulani” ball into the net.

4. Time Waits for No One (Except the Ref) – Once the official time expires on the stadium clock, only the ref really knows how much “extra” time (due to injuries and other delays) is left.

5. Athleticism – Soccer players have to be in superb condition, and average 6-7 miles of running during a match. You won’t see Kevin Youkilis or David Ortiz out on “the pitch” for long… At the World Cup level, these are among the best athletes on the planet.

6. Skill – Some of these guys dribble a ball with their feet with skill equal to Marques Haynes dribbling with his hands and don’t even get me going on the skill it takes to execute a bicycle kick…

7. No timeouts! – The game has two 45 minute halves with no stoppage… That means no commercials, kids! It also means there are no 5 hour Sox-Yankee death marches.

8. Corner kicks – Of course everyone knows the corner kick was conceived under the Sheffield Rules in 1867. It is awarded to the attacking team when the ball leaves the pitch at the end (goal) line (goals are excluded from this rule… duh) after being last touched by a defending player. The attacking team then gets to kick the ball back into play from the corner closest to where the ball exited. The corner kick is a prime goal scoring opportunity and can be a very exciting moment in a match. Skilled “strikers” will often try to “bend” the ball from the corner up and down into a crowd of players fronting the goal, hoping a teammate can redirect a “header” past the keeper.

9. Drama – In the 2010 Ghana-Uruguay World Cup quarter-final, the teams battled 1-1 into a 30 minute overtime when Ghana was swarming the Uruguay goal for a sure decider. Minutes past the 30 minute “extra time” a sure goal by Ghana was denied when a Uruguayan defender stopped the shot with his hands. Ghana was awarded a penalty kick, a 12 yard unabated boot with a 77% success rate. The game, the futbol hopes of the African continent, and a lifetime of glory or infamy came down to one kick by Ghanaian striker Asamoah Gyan. It was a stunning and sad moment to see Gyan clang the ball off the crossbar.

10. Arts and Sciences – To watch a team work the ball down the field, ping-ponging passes that seem to be drawn by magnets from foot to foot, is sports beauty combining precise geometry, law-defying physics, and infinite artistic imagination. Every kick, every play and every game is so different… and beautiful.

Some soccer suckage:
1. Overtime penalty kicks – Teams compete hard for more than 120 minutes (90m regulation plus 30 of “extra time”), then ties are settled by 5 penalty kicks each? Me no likee.

2. Diving – Some players drop like deer in hunting season if just breathed on by an opposing player, feigning certain death to draw a penalty. They roll with contorted faces and writhe in pain like their knee, ankle or testicles have been blown apart. Moments later they’re up galloping like Bambi. That is a blight on the game that has to be addressed.

3. Vuvuzelas – I wake up sweating, nightmaring about paying for World Cup flights, accommodations and tickets, only to have some assjack blow one of those down my audio canal for 90-plus minutes. (Maybe it’s just a South Africa thing…)

Futbol is not the worlds game for nothing. Kick me your comments pro or con…

The word itself is sickening. “Suicide.” It sounds gross, messy like some jiggling blob of slimy oil washing ashore with a dead bird in its killing embrace. I don’t want to contemplate the infinite black horizon seen prior to the act, but instead focus on how we can help one another avoid seeing even a shadow of that painful void.

Researching this of course turned up a Wikipedia entry for the 1980 Ozzy Osborne song, apparently written as a tribute to Bon Scott of AC/DC who drank himself to death. Now while sudden suicide is the subject here, I know there are many people slowly killing themselves through one form of abuse or another, but that’s a post I hope I never have to write.

Since the death of my nephew, Ryan, I’ve spoken with four people who have lost siblings to suicide. It’s staggered me how many people just around me are sad remainders of suicide. A couple weeks ago, a warm consoling hug included a whispered, “I can relate.” Only later did I learn about the loss of her closest brother two years ago… Just yesterday one of those conversations brought tears to the survivor as she recalled the loss of her sister 25 years ago… Twenty five years! I guess the impact of that loss never really subsides. The questions, doubts and guilt may scar over, but the wound never heals. As tides move in and out of our personal shores, the emptiness gets exposed when your confidant is not there, at random 10AM Thursdays, and at weddings that should never have been missed.

My sister-in-law is handling the loss of her son with amazing resilience and grace. The Monday after the Saturday funeral I called her to see how she was doing. “I got out of bed!” She then described the beautiful park she was walking in and how she tried to get Ryan to walk with her. If only he had, even just once, the experience might have changed his perspective…

Now Tammy is doing more than walking. Well, she’s walking for the cause of suicide prevention by supporting the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention in a “WalkOut of the Darkness Community Walk” in Wakefield on October 2nd.

Please support her if you can. You never know whose life you might be saving.

Twenty four hours ago I was a whiney bitch, a petulant little boy who wasn’t getting everything exactly the way he wanted it. I was feeling put on and put out. Today I wasn’t all that much better, but an email, a visit from the plumber and a trip to see Megan at the Jathar Salon turned me around.

The “I hope you feel better” email was filled with love and elevated my Zeppelin from a deflated state, face down on the mat. It reminded me of the love that blankets me from life’s occasional bitter chill. The doorbell forced me to turn the Zep 180 degrees (not so easy in a living room) and welcome Shawn the Plumber. Water, while essential, can destroy a home if left dripping long enough, and my 80 year old Craftsman bungalow was sort of in a Stooges, “Water? Turn on anything, you’ll get it” phase. A minor faucet rebuild in my evil lair fixed a hot water leak there, but the real fun was still to come a floor below… Megan’s shower had been leaking into the basement since, oh, when the Sox won the World Series. I’m thinking 2004 or 2007, not 1918, although the house has stood almost since then (1930). [An 80th birthday party may be in order.] Anyway, Shawn was good and he could see with a small chrome flashlight that the water was dripping back from the faucet-head because it wasn’t “pitched” correctly. “Pitch” and water is a theme here lately. On Tuesday, a roofer will arrive to install $3,100 worth of roll roofing on a shallow pitched area of my roof that never should have been shingled, but I digress. Once the fridge was rolled back and a hole cut into the wall behind it, Shawn replaced the problematic pitch pipe along with some other parts and leak be gone! Still, parting with $775 proved painful for plumbing. Yeah, yeah, enough with the palliteration…

An hour later I was under wraps at Jathar while Megan sliced white hairs with shears and childishness with wisdom. [At this point, we’re going to a Luv’s diaper commercial. They are so much more pleasant than the actual experience…] It was a good cut on both fronts. It is extremely rewarding to see my girl so happy. She’s thriving professionally and as a mother, and growing as a woman. I’m so proud of her; I just wish she’s drive slower…

Teeming with a new ‘tude, Kyle and I headed home and engaged in our typical banter. Driving down Main Street in Waltham, I spotted a Cigar Store Indian. “Dude, cigars! You want one?” Kyle looked at me with a filthy, disgusting look and then uttered one of his funniest lined ever, ” “I’ll never turn out like you! Ever.” Screw it. I got two and I’m smoking the Montecristo right now. With smooching off the menu tonight, a cigar is a perfect pairing with Maker’s on ice.

So here I sit under a huge oak while birds whistle their last pre-slumber songs. Wonderpets sing Maddy to sleep in the living room. From my lair above, I hear Kyle laughing. My old house may be leaking, but it’s full of love. Megan just called, deliriously happy and on her way to see Lady Gaga with one of her graduation presents. It’s a privilege to be able to help make dreams come true…

Speaking of dreams come true, right now in a very happy hollow, Joyce is “futzing.” That’s her word for filling her Cape home with loving touches. Her boys in red sox are on in the background. A couple girlfriends are close and she’ll laugh with them this weekend. Her son will join her soon. I miss her, but knowing how good she feels right now is all I need.

Now Maddy needs me to cover her with a loving “blankie.” Life is beautiful.

It was like listening to the Red Sox or Bruins some 40 years ago on a transistor radio tucked under a pillow lulling me to sleep. Yesterday, Carl Yastrzemski and Bobby Orr were replaced by Landon Donovan and Clint Dempsey via a live stream into my office. While organizing my projects, I listened to the ESPN3 (it’s just a matter of time before “ESPN8 – The Ocho” is a reality, isn’t it?) game coverage courtesy of my friends at Comcast… uh, I mean Xfinity. Around the 88th minute of a 90 minute contest, one of the announcers, um, announced, “It’s becoming desperation time for the Americans.” I had to watch.

The US team was dominating Algeria, but unsuccessfully peppering their goal with shots. Finally, this happened. My reaction was the same as when the Patriots won their first SuperBowl in 2001 on a game ending field goal except it had to be a silent movie… I was in the office. I bolted upright from my chair with my arms shooting toward the blue moon. GOOOOOOOAAAAAALLLLLLL!!!!!!!

I wrote about the beautiful game four years ago when I was rooting for butt-head Zidane and the French, but to have our national team in contention is amazing. In those four years, I also happily learned that not only will soccer knowledge help you in an increasingly global business world, but it will also give you something in common with your girlfriend’s son! How cool is that?

Forget the “soccer is boring” thing and jump on the World Cup wagon! There are games every day, and our US boys play next v. Ghana Saturday at 2:30.

Me: “Do you want to talk about Ryan?”

Kyle: “Not really.”

Me: “Do you understand what happened?”

Kyle: “Yeah. Ryan died.”

(Pause)

Kyle: “But we still have Michael.”

Last Tuesday I donned a blue patterned noose and attended a fundraising event at the Vesper Country Club in Tyngsboro. As I arrived and walked down the deck stairs to the poolside patio, the golden near-solstice reflecting off the Merrimack River  eclipsed the sunshine I was seeking. A waitress glided by balancing a tray of martini’s and I lessened her burden by one Cosmo. (Hey, it was a ‘Martini Spring Fling” and dry Bombay Sapphire wasn’t on the menu…) I soon spotted some co-workers including “K-Fic” who immediately reminded me I was there to do Barb’s bidding… Ugh. Barb was deeply involved in this United Way “Summer Experiences in Greater Lowell,” a charity that helps some 3,000 children participate in quality summer programs. She secured Kronos as the lead sponsor and then called in every favor she could to collect cool silent auction items that now surrounded the patio. I walked along the long row of white papered tables and read each of the descriptions carefully put together to effectively market the auction items. There were lakeside mansion and luxury hotel weekends, golf getaways, Sox and Pats tickets. I kept walking and scanning… Then I saw it. I was “authorized” to go high, and while I wasn’t sure I could bid at all, I had to. Barb wanted the Derek Jeter ball… I needed another Cosmo. After a long sip I tabled the drink and then bid the minimum $50 with a shaky hand. I quickly moved down the table to avoid association with what many attendees would consider an evil orb. “What the…” I couldn’t believe it. I was looking at a group of items with “Uncle Tupelo 89/93: An Anthology” the centerpiece. I just smiled. I knew Barb was behind it, and somewhere vacationing in Maui, I’m sure she was wondering what that moment would be like. It was magic. With no reservations I bid $100.

The speakers gathered on the deck with one of the charity co-chairs welcoming and introducing guests, including US Representative Niki Tsongas. After a few speeches, including the best one of the evening by a local young man and beneficiary of the program, the second co-chair stepped to the podium… Whoa. A stunning brunette. I do recall she said “thank you” to many people and used quite a few hand signals. I think she may have signaled a double dribble on a guest slurping their Appletini, but I wasn’t sure, so I let it go. OK, back to the bidding… What? Someone bid $100 for the over-actor’s ball? Damn, time was running out and I had to bid, but I couldn’t get that SEGL brunette out of my mind. OK, $150 for Barb’s Ball Boy. What? I’m outbid to the Tupelo stuff, too? No way. I hastened to $150 as the clock ran out…

As I paid for my items and Barb’s, I overheard SEGL members talking about how great Joyce was to work with and how hard she worked. Yes, my SEGL brunette worked tirelessly to recruit members, maximize auction items, and plan and execute a great event. I’m so proud of how her (and others) selflessness helped so many kids. She and Barb were a force. Frankly, they scare me. In fact, one of them had a friend bid up the Tupelo stuff so I had to pay more… Oh, and I did mention Barb was in Maui, right?

I could see the mother and daughter were holding back Niagara Tears, and I was quiet, my body rigid. That’s how I get when I’m scared. Kyle sat comfortably, the only one of us calm as we waited for the results in Radiology. A phone call told me Kyle’s primary care physician took one look at him and sent them immediately for an ultrasound. Mindless sports radio distracted me on what may have been a record commute West.

Earlier in the week Megan had been teasing Kyle that he needed new shorts. She pointed out that while sitting, all Kyle’s um, stuff, was really jammed up.  My glance confirmed the plus in the pants, but I just thought he was lucky… On Saturday morning I issued an order for personal hygiene exercises to commence, followed by a request that the boy not sing the entire soundtrack to “Wicked” while in there. I needed a shower too… I folded laundry on my bed as Kyle approached. I asked if he had everything he needed to dress and reminded him to use deodorant.

Sorting navy, black and gray socks in dim light is a thoughtless challenge, so wandering worlds passed through. I thought of Megan’s teasing just as Kyle removed his towel. “what the f%$!,” I thought as an avocado sized left testicle replaced socks as a focal point. There was other massive swelling so I asked Kyle if it hurt. He said no, but I was so shocked I wasn’t sure whether to believe him. He got dressed and I observed his behavior the rest of the day. He didn’t exhibit any pain of discomfort, so I deferred an ER visit, opting instead for a visit to his regular doctor on Monday.  (File under “Someone’s watching over him” – Kyle coincidentally was scheduled for a physical on Monday…)

“Kyle has a hernia” said Dr. Daga in her usual calming demeanor, to which I quickly responded, “That’s great!” Nervous laughter loosened some space in the tense room. With the much uglier possibilities dismissed, relief filled the room like a cool breeze and smiles replaced lines of concern. There’s no blockage and blood flow is fine, but it will have to be surgically repaired with an outpatient arthroscopic procedure.

I had planned to hit the gym or do more yardwork, but when I got home I did nothing. I was completely deflated of stress and content to simply experience profound relief.

The waves of heat rising from the near liquefied asphalt blurred perception of the 3 basketball courts beyond the one we were on in a flat parking lot of Stonehill College. It was circa 1975, and somehow my single-Mom financed not one, but two weeks at the Sam Jones – John Killilea Basketball Camp. Now for any Celtics fan of a certain vintage, Sam Jones has name recognition. His shooting clinic was just that, a clinic. The man started by sitting on the floor directly under a basket and arched a shot up and in. He proceeded to bush himself back about three feet at a time and still sitting, rained down shot after shot until the last one from the top of the key! Then he stood up and really started shooting. He also took about 8 of us “2-weekers” to Burger King on the Saturday night between weeks. Yep, Sam is the man, but as his teammate, Bill Russell once said, “Defense wins championships,” and John Killilea was a defensive genius who earned two NBA championship rings as an assistant coach with the Celtics.

The 30 or so teenagers were already hot when Coach Killilea took five minutes to teach us the proper defensive position. Legs spread a little more than shoulder-width, knees bent so your thighs are parallel with the hot surface below and with arms extended out to the sides and heads up. Simple right? Why don’t you try it right now? The coach went on to talk to us about defense. For the next 45 minutes of the clinic. He’d occasionally have us shuffle side to side, up or back, but for the most part, we were expected to assume the position and stay in it while feet, thighs and backs burned. Coach raged at anyone that let their ass defy gravity, “What are you doing? You look like you’re trying to shit against a wall! Get your ass down!” Kids were crying. A couple gave up and at least one I recall collapsed (he was OK). With about 5 minutes left in the clinic, Coach Killilea let us stand up and relax, but he kept talking. I’ll never forget what I learned in that clinic. He talked about how everyone wants to be the hero and score baskets, but not everyone wants to put that same effort into defense.

Finally, pointing at his chest, he said, “What you did today takes heart. This is what defense is about. It’s about heart. It’s about who wants it.” Then he walked away.

Tonight we’ll find out about the heart of this Celtics team.