Cold War II - Football v/s Football

Never in the history have two synonyms meant so different. Americans call Football as Soccer and football as football and the rest of the world calls football as football and football as American football. Confused? Yes, blame the corporate cartels for inducing this cold war.

The following words are meant to bring peace between the two footballs. By chiseling the rules and laws of the game to each of these sports, it would not be difficult to make them lovable to both parts of the world. Now that Nobel peace prize is within anybody's grasp, one can give a shot to make this happen and get called to Stockholm :D

Let me start with "Soccer" ... changes that can be brought into "football" so that Americans start loving it:

1. America lives on corporate money. The game with two halves of 45 minutes lasting a total of 90 minutes would not generate money from commercials because there is only room for 15 minutes of commercials during half time. So my solution is to change the format to 4 quarters of 15 minutes each. Let there be 5 to 10 minutes interval between each quarter and then 20 minutes for half time. This way, corporate market soccer well making sure it is prime time and also no other sport is aired at that time.

2. Reduce the size of the field. No kidding. Americans like seeing big figures running around. Having smaller field makes the TV camera panoramic and the players look bigger.

3. Remove the goal keeper from the damn sport. Americans like everything open. Either a fast-food drive-through or gas stations with no attendants (excuse NJ).

4. If a team A shoots at the goal and misses, allow the opposition team steal the ball in hand and run like that dude in Gods must be crazy, throw the ball in the other goal for 7 points. Meanwhile, team A should try to block this dude. If successful, then allow team A gets a free kick over the goal post (not inside), again with no goal keeper. Team A would get 7 points. Don't ask me why 7 points; may be because it is a prime number and nobody tries to mess with it.

5. Wear shoulder pads and helmets and headbutt instead of using corners.

6. Last but not the least ... where are the damn CHEER LEADERS?! I am really really surprised that nobody has thought about this till now!!

Now the "other football”...

1. I think the rest of the world is exasperated because the sport is named football and their sport is called Soccer. They would not start playing or watch football because they already have one since ages. When a guy says, "Dude lets watch football", they would end up watching soccer because it is football for them; played with FEET!
So it would be wise to change the name to Runball. Also in all fairness all other sports are named aptly. Baseball because it is the only sport which works with bases, basketball is not named handball because it is the only one with baskets. "Ice hockey" was not named Hockey because there is already one and ice is what differentiates the sport. So why mess with football? If Runball isn't good, then lets think of unique names like how rugby or cricket or tennis have been named.

2. Not call MLB as World Series or NBA winner as world champions. Come on guys... cities play against each other in these championships. Actually franchisees play against each other and in NBA only Toronto is from a different country. UEFA or Copa America winners don't call themselves world champions even though at least a dozen other countries are involved because it is still not "world wide".

3. Have the players participate in international tournaments by representing "USA" and not just Eagles playing Falcons.

4. Show the faces; don't wear helmets. Spectators would not know who is headbutting whom.

No sport is better than the other. They are just sports. Lets respect both and make the world a better place by playing both the balls in harmony. World Peace ...

Off beat ...

On a day with bright sunshine
I was sitting on the porch drinking wine
Thoughts ran through my head which was fine
Judging people all over the world who for no reason whine

There are people who are sorry
But there are people who make merry
Just thinking of oneself and one’s gain
Not giving a thought for people who are in pain

Oh GOD, give everybody a good heart
Tell them living is an ART.

The tale of the Z and the Materazzi...

“Taxi”; I heard someone yelling. I am not a cabbie but for some enigmatic reason I slowed down. I must have heard it as that rhyming S word and perceived as a compliment to my new Z. I was at no terminal velocity so the deceleration took no time. The windy street of Van Ness with downward trajectory was enough for the rubbernecked Hakkinen to rear-end my Z. Thud! My heart sank and hit the crooked street winking at me like an IM smiley.

Did Coppola feel the same when Godfather III fell? Did Dean Kamen feel the same when Segway lost track? Well, to me it certainly felt like Zidane being head-butted by Materazzi.

I opened the door and leapt out as if St. Peter was just about to close the doors of heaven and I could see the zip code of hell written all over the rear bumper. There was a trough on the lips… of my Z. I fell on my knees like a knuckle-dragger. The passenger of my car, tried to pacify me in one of those high frequency, low wave length female voice, “R, it is just a car, it is OOOK”. HUG. Cliché!

Is it just a car? Or is it that a person should not be attached to anything which consisted of matter and atoms? Am I being naïve? Is it that heart is meant to be broken and sunken?! I was at rendition.

Well, at least my Z is still mine. Never did it eventuate that the Z called me or text me saying it liked the Materazzi and wanted to be with it! I exchanged facebook IDs (yes the era of insurance exchange is blow) with the Materazzi and sent it on its way. I crawled back into the Z.

The dream of Z was always there; for heptads of years. I betrayed the dream by adopting a Subie. Was it the right thing to do is what the world ponders. Well, the Z was unreachable and was not ready for adoption. Now that I finally had the Z, the Materazzi sun-burned it.

But St. Peter was now smiling. He had just thought outside the bun and had closed the door of heaven for a quick quesadilla snack. It was not a permanent foreclosure! I felt the perspiration disappear; felt my knuckles are no more being dragged; felt serene! ZZZZZzzzzzz …

Just then the passenger, with the same high frequency, low wavelength whispered. “R, are you ok? Wake up. Will you please make coffee and pancakes? I have to leave in 10 and you have to drop me to ...” The dream of Z. Cliché!

A tale of an Ostrich turning into Pelican

It sounded like the war chants of the Norse gods in Valhalla. The wind swept through the ears and reverberated the cerebral tissues like a symphony of Beethoven. Life suddenly seemed surreal.

Yes, it was the experience after the sortie from the underbelly of an aircraft. The day was clear. It was not a day supposedly at the Le Mans for an endurance test. It was a day to just fly like that apple which fell on Newton’s head (read Isaac not Becki), except that I was at the mercy of a Savior who would defeat the fourth horseman of the apocalypse by deploying the chute. For those mere mortals: it was a day of Sky Diving. And yes I’ve Acrophobia.

50 seconds of free fall felt like that FTP connection lingering without being able to get through to port 21. The compression ratio of the heart had to be within the threshold limits. The chute was still not deployed; my prayers to those gods of wars and love was from the newest testament out in Beverly hills bookstore; love thy neighbor’s chute skills. Earth from 13000 feet looked like Hitler’s moustache which slowly turned into Stalin’s stature and then Churchill’s belly as I descended with gravity pulling me down.

My tandem jump instructor yelled “банан банан”. I felt I had forgotten everything mama had taught me singing lullabies. Little did I know that he is descendant of the Cossacks and банан meant banana in Russian. To perform this shape when skydiving, arch head up and your feet back to make the shape of a banana.

I must have said Grace before my dinner some day during spring ’08 and the chute deployed alright. The glide after the chute opened was like how the leaves wither from the trees during fall season, an experience I did not want to end unlike the FTP linger before. The 5 minutes assisted fall ended with a landing a la the “Great White Egret”. I thanked god a gazillion times for inventing the parachute forgetting that I should actually thank HIM (or HER for the feminists out there) for blessing me with 150$ to pay for the battle of the Spartan.

Was I scared? Hell yes. Do I still have Acrophobia? Of course (My insurance does not cover psychiatrist). Would I do it again? Swear on Olympus; I would definitely.