Game 4: ¡FUTURISMOS! 1 — Los Cadillacos Fantasticos 5

[NOTE: To combine two of Run MC’s favorite expressions, “I’m not going to lie” this write-up will have very little to do with the match because “in my O-pinion” there isn’t that much to say about it from a futbol standpoint. Los Cadillacos Fantasticos kicked our butts, proper-style. That’s just about all there is to say about the futbol in this match.]

“All Life Is Suffering... ¡HUZZAH!"
It surprises me that it surprises people that I’m less than convinced that life is worth living. I’m phrasing that politely because I think my aunt reads these things to my grandma. Oh, fine, I’ll just say it—I’m sorry, but there is no way life is worth living. There just isn’t and I think the briefest of glances around the humanscape bares this out.

For every bit of transcendent glory and magic there are megatons of outrageous cruelty, destruction, and duplicity. If you have a child or are still young enough not to know this, sorry. I just killed Santa and nuked the North Pole for you. Yet even though I know this to be a fact beyond dispute I have a pesky little secret that I hide in plain sight. People, hold on to something: I’m still alive.

¿Why?

This drives me crazy, ¿why am I still alive? ¿What is ¡SOLUSTRON! waiting for? I haven’t “all but” sent a notarized letter to The Great Blue Sky formally renouncing my desire to live; I actually sent a notarized letter to The Great Blue Sky formally renouncing my desire to live. But here I am, yammering away at you all week after week. For the love of Maradona, ¿what is the point?

Enter Game 4 and Los Cadillacos Fantasticos.

Again, I’m not going to sugarcoat this, LCF whooped us bad. I can’t remember the last time we played a game where the other team just kicked our butts like that. The situation was exacerbated in the first half because we were short a lady but even at full strength we’d have to play our very best to keep up with them.

They didn’t just stomp us, they stomped us. I have no idea how many reserves they had but it seemed like 3-teams worth and they’d rotate their whole team in and out. It was crazy. Part of their strategy was clearly to wear us down (we had 2 guy reserves) because whenever the ball went out of bounds they hustled to get it back in as quickly as possible. Every… single… time.

As a matter of fact they were so dedicated to grinding our bones into the shinny green plastic turf that at one point in the first half when they were already up 2 or 3 to nil their keeper put a goal kick in play when they had 12 players on the pitch—exactly twice the legal limit. So their keeper looked up, saw two teams worth of his players on the pitch, and thought something along the lines of “¡YEAH! ¡GO, GO, GO, GO!” rather than “Hmmm, maybe I should wait a couple seconds for my teammates heading off to at least be close the sideline before I put the ball in play.”

The ref’s reaction was emblematic of the game as a whole. He blew the whistle and gazed at the keeper with a look of disbelief as if to say, “¿Really? ¿You looked up and saw 12 of your players on the pitch instead of the permissible 6 and you STILL put the ball in play? ¿Seriously? ¿You couldn’t wait, like, 2-seconds?” But neither the ref nor your ¡FUTURISMOS! took any offense. It was actually charming in it’s own deranged kind of way. The keeper didn’t mean anything hostile by it, he just really wanted to get the ball back in play to continue the process of mechanically separating the meat of your ¡FUTURSIMOS! from our inedible parts.

LCF played fast and hard. The kind of hard where a lady pulled me down from behind (when they were up 2-0 and clearly killing us) after she lost the ball to me. They were crashing into people, flying around, and celebrating every goal like it was the first.

Here’s the confounding part of all that, they were—with only one possible exception— good natured and fun loving about the whole thing. I joked around with just about every member of their team at least once and they laughed every time. They’d laugh and then throw me down to the get the ball and that wasn’t a contradiction for them. King Vidor scored on a crazy sweet shot with roughly 5-mintues left to play to make the game 4-1 (still completely out of reach) and you should have seen the reaction of their keeper. You would have thought he’d just committed a gaff that lost his club the World Cup and therefore his life.

During our first couple of seasons we played a teams who seemed offended by beating us, like, “oh, you’re so bad I can’t believe I even have to go to the trouble of playing this match. You should have just quit to save me some time.” LCF were nothing like that. They whipped us fierce and then followed it up with one of the best natured “good game” lineups I’ve ever experienced.

Here’s the moment I’ll never forget from this match.

One of the LCF guys went through the post-match “good game” line giving everyone the customary waist level “high five” then he circled back to give a few of us proper arm-extended-over-head “high fives.” I was last in our line and he slapped my hand, then held it for an instant, looked me in the eye, and said “great game.” He wasn’t mocking me or us. He meant it. LCF kicked our faces in and were grateful for it.

And there, in that moment, I had a revelation.

The first of Buddhism’s Four Noble Truths is, “All life is suffering.” That sounds bleak but nobody thinks of Buddhist Monks or Nuns as frowning or pensive. We think of them as smiling. The reason they’re smiling isn’t because they’re masochists. It’s because they know at the end of the match of life, after grinding you into oblivion, the essence of existence is going to be there to give you an arm-extended-over-head “high five," look you in eye, say “great game," and mean it.

¿So why am I—despite all known forms of reason—still alive even though I know life isn’t worth living? Because for reasons beyond my comprehension the game isn’t over yet.

Roll Call
Ladies: Li’l Pete & Juju. Only two. Ouch. In the second half we picked up a friend of Li’l Pete’s whose name I can’t remember. I think it was a normal name but one you don’t hear often, like Diane.
Gents: Elliot, TB, King Vidor, Heartbreaker, O Touro, and Me.

Fan Roll Call
That’s right, people, we had a couple of fans for this one. Mrs. Melissa “Slüfacé” Pongpitoon and Mr. Melissa “Slüfacé” Pongpitoon (aka Jeff, whose non-Pongpitoon last name I either don’t know or can’t remember) were in attendance. The next day I asked Slüfacé, who has never played futbol, how bad we looked and she said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I was sitting there thinking ‘I could do that. I could run around like that.’ It looked fun.”

Ladies and gentlemen, your ¡FUTURISMOS! are opening futboling horizons.

Game Conditions
Kickoff was set for 8:30pm. In other words, perfect. That means the Sun is setting when the game commences and the floodlights are on at its conclusion. It’s just beautiful. The only bummer was the clouds didn’t cooperate. Instead of a nice dispersion of puffy clouds to play off the light of the setting Sun and accent the darkening blue sky beyond we had a solid grey ceiling threatening rain. Oh well. It was warm and humid. Not entirely uncomfortable but not a breeze either.

KICKOFF

First Half
We played the first half short a lady they ran us ragged. I don’t recall us generating a meaningful chance on goal and they manufactured bushels of their own, converting three, all at virtually pointblank range.

They kicked our butts and reveled in it. Not in a way that was demeaning or mocking. They were just having a grand ol’ time running us into the ground.

HALFTIME: ¡F! 0 — LCF 3
For the first time in team history I gave an augmented version of Bill Murray’s classic “It just doesn’t matter” speech from Meatballs. For those not familiar here’s its rousing conclusion:

“And even if we win, if we win, ¡HAH! ¡Even if we win! ¡Even if we play so far above our heads that our noses bleed for a week to ten days; even if God in Heaven above comes down and points his hand at our side of the field; even if every man, woman, and child held hands together and prayed for us to win, it just wouldn't matter because all the really good looking girls would still go out with the guys from Mohawk because they've got all the money! It just doesn't matter if we win or we lose. ¡IT JUST DOESN'T MATTER!”

I read that out loud to Spectra (who’s never seen the movie, it should be pointed out) and she had a one-word response: “depressing.”

Of course, I beg to differ.

“It just doesn’t matter” is the westernized version of “all life is suffering.” It’s the cry of joyous liberation in the wake of the enlightened revelation that sometimes (and ultimately every time) your fate just isn’t in your hands (actually, it never is or was). Anyone who disagrees is free to debate me in eternity after he or she has found a way to live forever. ¿How will I meet you there for the debate? That’s for me and ¡SOLUSTRON! to know and you to curse at your moment of death.

SECOND HALF
With Li’l Pete’s friend joining us at halftime we at least had a full compliment of players for the second half. It made a difference too. LCF still outplayed us and outscored us in the second half 2 goals to 1 but it was a considerably less lopsided affaire.

¡WAIT! Before you get any crazy ideas, don’t get me wrong, they kicked our butts in the second half too, just not nearly as bad as the first. King Vidor’s goal was a thing of beauty but to belabor it would be like Kobe Bryant talking crazy smack about how awesome he was in Game 5 of the NBA Finals. Inappropriate.

FULL TIME

O Touro, Just Crazy Enough
As I mentioned a couple weeks ago, I hadn’t appreciated the true meaning of the expression “a bull in a china shop” until I’d seen O Touro play. After Game 4 I can say my insight into his character has been confirmed and expanded.

Anyone can be a little crazy when she or he is playing in the field. You just run a little too hard after everything and before you know it you’re be crashing into people left and right. It’s easy. Even I did it one game. But to be a little crazy while playing keeper is another thing altogether.

O Touro claimed to have kept a little in high school and Elliot wanted to see if he would be a proper substitute so they switched in the second half. Before I continue I have to remind everyone I’ve spent several games playing keeper myself and I can tell you from firsthand experience keeping is nothing like playing in the field.

In the field you’re playing with a net, so to speak. You can run hard for a ball or try for a steal and know there are other people protecting the goal. If you’re the keeper the only net you have is the one that stops the ball after it’s already crossed the goal line. It’s nerve wracking. Or rather it’s nerve wracking for normal humans but apparently not for those whose life essence is infused with Bull.

O Touro played keeper like he played in the field. That means well, but it also means crazy. He charged off the line wildly waving his arms at LCF people bearing down on him with ball (“It confuses them”). He was diving, sliding, and generally throwing his body all over the place.

His signature play was an LCF guy got the ball in the box with his back to the goal and O Touro sneaked around him from behind and scooped the ball up from the ground at his feet. ¿Did it occur to O Touro that had the LCF guy simply turned around he could have gently nudged the ball into the goal because O Touro—the keeper—would have been standing on the wrong side of the ball vis-à-vis the goal? It’s both impossible to say and completely irrelevant. This is always the case in dealing with something crazy.

Not insane, mind you, O Touro is crazy. The kind of crazy that spawned the idea: “That’s crazy… just crazy enough to work.”