A Strange Language

Early morning on a Saturday, around 9am, (that is early morning for someone who went to bed at 3 am – it all depends on who is telling the story) all of a sudden you are awaken by a group of twenty-two men shouting. You know where the noise is coming from and that the shouts are made by twenty-two men because you can see the soccer field from your bedroom window.

Although you are used to the sounds that come from that field, you still cannot make out the words that are said at the top of their lungs. To be honest, the only words that you actually do understand are those that on a daytime TV show would be censored with a very loud beep.

It is funny how they do not call each other by their names but by some names that refer to their mothers or their blood hood. They usually tell each other to go do things to themselves that is usually done between two people. (Two people- I said usually).

Are they happy just kicking around the ball early in the morning? Hell, no! They also play around 10 pm at night when you are trying to fall asleep because you have to rise and shine bright and early the next morning. You toss and turn and they shout and scream, in addition to the one man dressed in black who tends to blow a whistle on and off. With each blow of the whistle, more mothers are praised.

Finally a final blow of the whistle, more grunts, cheers, shouts and a few cries of sadness, lights are turned out, you turn and glance at your clock and it reads midnight. Oh brother, only five hours of sleep.

There is nothing you can do after all it is an official soccer school and there are games played at all times of the day. The only thing that could be improved would be the language used while they play. But perhaps, without that language it wouldn’t be the same.

(Written July 26, 2014) Todos os direitos reservados a Meire Marion.

Photo by Meire Marion - from the bedroom window