| On why football is better than dancing |
May. 22nd, 2015|10:37 am |
She picked it up on the halfway line, and I knew (I knew I knew) that her prasme was IN TUNE - and in that moment a note was plucked that in the context of the current drowsy key sent vibrations from OUT of the shell - and a shiver down the spine.
And she was away, possessed with tricks and with the calm fury of that which is sublime: slips past the first challenge; a drop of the shoulder and flick of feet, the second looks around in bewilderment; judging pace and angle instinctively, the third trails in her wake. Applause already breaks out as she enters the penalty area. Does the defender back off? Does she hate to be the one to play the villain? No matter, she has already flashed past her and is one on one with the keeper... who she sends the wrong way. All the players clap and holler, and, now the moment has passed, she sheepishly returns to the centre circle. They applauded the audacity (and her young age), but it was the shamanic intelligence that at its summit could be seen in the likes of Maradonna and Gasciogne that they gave witness to.
The dancing in the Salsa bar was impressive, I judged, gazing at the shifting feet. But there was no instinctive wonder, and the aim was often corrupted in the protagonists' desire to be impress (or clitorally rub).
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