Written 27th March '09
Attraction is not a choice. Committment is.
Loyalty to a football club, is pretty much like a relationship. You are attracted to whatever team, for whatever reasons. Whether it be a particular player. The color of the jersey. Where the team is from. Sometimes because your best friend, your family, your boyfriend liked the team. Some people like to align themselves with winners, others with underdogs. But for whatever reason it maybe, attraction to a team, is like attraction to a woman.
To others she might be plump. Too skinny. Her hair might be too ah lian. Face too round. Butt too big. (Is it really true that guys like big butts? Because if so I don't understand why I'm having a problem with men. Hmnph.) But when you are attracted to this person, all her flaws, while there, stop holding any significance in your eyes. She is hot. She is perfect. Ok. Maybe I won't go so far as to say perfect. Because even Leonardo DiCaprio split up with the icon of feminine perfection otherwise known as Gisele Bundchen, sending my situp regimen spiralling down to the deeper depths of hell because I realised even the most fantastic of abs will not help me hold on to a man.
Now over the last week I've been subject to a lot of criticism. Some crying bloody murder. Outraged that I have the gall to call myself a Liverpool fan because I am well, a fashionista not quite keen on showing up in an outdated jersey dress from more than 5 seasons ago.
To these people I say, hold your horses my men. Steady on.
COMMITTMENT. Is what you want in a woman.
Is it not enough, that I have continued to support Liverpool despite the fact that for a large part of my life, 19 years to be exact, that we have not brought home anything worth a spit shine? In fact, I was too young to appreciate the beauty of how well they were doing when I was a young un watching with my dad. And even he has given up.
Don't blame him. The man has already had a triple bypass. It's for his health we don't have cable.
Yes, I am critical of them. Sometimes blatantly so. Like a husband irritated with his wife of many years. Occasionally, the temptation to wrap my fingers around Rafa's throat when the squad comes out in some ridiculous rotation is overwhelming. But no. Just like a husband knows that killing his wife would not be the best of decisions, I knew that Rafa's departure at any point of this season, would have been untimely. It would have thrown the squad off. And well, look now. It does seem like we have done the impossible. And I don't wanna jinx things just yet, so I'd still like to remain strongly critical and skeptical we will win. (While crossing my fingers behind my back of course.)
The last two weeks, have been phenomenal. I've felt like one of those players who has scored a fantastic point, and jumps with jubilation and almost breaks out into a victory jig, before realising that modesty is probably best, the war is not won, and bites down on his lips to stop breaking out into a cocky smile.
I don't care that my Liverpool over the years has gotten "fat" at times. Played dumb. Ignored my pleas and cries for attention. Yes there was a time where even my passion for him burnt out. But I didn't stray. Wasn't attracted like a magpie to other clubs with their shiny silver things and other bling bling. My heart stayed. And it will, no matter how this season goes.
Yes. The inner me right now is already decked out, pom poms raring to go. All I need, is a donation of a new jersey dress, and I'm all set. (Though I'm not even sure they make those anymore, I've been searching online for weeks to no avail.)
And even better, there is something else now on the scene that has gotten my blood purring. The roar of a good engine has always been able to turn my knees to jelly. Ladies and gentleman, hold on to your knickers because the cars are roaring back to town. Yup, the F1 season is revving back up, and I'd better hurry up to book a suite at Marina Mandarin. I am looking forward to watching the race in September in style baby, and most importantly, in airconditioned comfort.
Mascara and foundation streaming down your face does not a pretty face make. Who cares if they pee in their suits. When you meet a racecar driver, any gal worth her guccis would know that even if you don't know their names, you have got to put your best face forward.
Over and out.