It was eight-thirty and the clock struck eleven, typical Manila. Not so typical was the fine athleticism—need I say of Galaxial proportions?—on display at the Rizal Memorial Stadium last Saturday. My brother and I had braved the inexplicable and torturous traffic to reach the bleachers where we watched the visiting American team trounce the Azkals without even kicking into second gear.
As Naesa enjoyed David Beckham tossing his shirt into the crowd while the subs were performing calisthenics on the sidelines, I finally got to see Landon Donovan (quiet and seemingly suffocated by the heat) and Robbie Keane (blonder than on TV though just as burly and brusque, the Spurs captain) and one of Beckham's much-lauded free kicks. Found it hilarious that no one knew who Keane was!
The Azkals might play dirty (diving scum) but, boy, were they fit. Naesa and I were particularly enamored with #15 who must remain nameless for now due to the inexplicable lack of a last name emblazoned across the back of his shirt. What is with that? I've never seen team kit without individual identifiers, nor have I ever seen a game where more than 3 substitutes were allowed or where someone previously subbed returned. As my little brother would say, 'Waddawaddaheck?'
Oh #15!
No comments:
Post a Comment