Here’s an excerpt:

The concert hall at the Syndey Opera House holds 2,700 people. This blog was viewed about 41,000 times in 2011. If it were a concert at Sydney Opera House, it would take about 15 sold-out performances for that many people to see it.

Click here to see the complete report.

As previously posted here, I’m a devout fan of Juca Kfouri, a writer whose gentle style and poetic footballing knowledge often move me to tears in every blog post of his I read.

Juca is also a fanatic Corinthians fan, and friend of Doutor Socrates;

Here’s a post of his on yesterday’s Coringa victory – translated by yours truly:

“The 4th of December, 2011

A day when one of the world’s greatest fan base woke up crying in pain and went to sleep crying of joy.

A confusion of mixed feelings probably unheard of in the history of football.

At four thirty in the morning died Socrates Brasileiro, the Doctor, the Big Skinny, the Skinny One, the magician of genius back-heels, the most original player in the centennial history of Corinthians.

At seven in the evening the club’s history was enriched by its fifth Brasileiro title, and the fans that had woken up depressed now celebrated the feat in euphoria.

Someone once said that football imitates life, and vice-versa.

It’s a fact.

And if the merely competent alvinegro team had little hopes of becoming unforgettable, they will now be forever engraved in everyone’s memories as the team that were champions on the day Socrates died.

And he, who already was unforgettable, has added to his story the fact that he died on the day that his team celebrated him by being champions.

Which is, you’ll have to agree, a beautiful tale, truly beautiful.

And sad, profoundly sad.”

JK & RB.

The world today woke up to the news of the loss of one of the most innovative, charismatic and mythical sportsmen of all time.

Unique even in his name, Sócrates Brasileiro Sampaio de Souza Vieira de Oliveira, or simply Socrates, was, as the old philosopher, a true thinker.

He was not only a footballer – captain of the legendary Brazil of 1982 – but also a qualified doctor. How many footballers out there hold an MD? And if that weren’t enough, as the frontman of the movement Corinthians Democracy in the 70s and 80s, he did the unthinkable: he politicized the favourite pastime of the nation, and turned soccer into a weapon for social mobilization in a time of ruthless military rule. Socrates created labour unions for footballers and fought for civil rights incessantly, using the sport as the microcosm for greater changes across the country.

He was also a notorious bon vivant; Socrates was as lethal in front of the goalkeeper as he was in company of lady beer. Not to mention the insurmountable vice of chain-smoking. With all of that going for – and against – him, it is shockingly surprising that he became an athlete at all. Standing at 6′ 4”, thin as dental floss, infamously averse to practice, Socrates created an entirely new style of football – it was sheer art. Elegant on the pitch, clinically precise with his passes, he made the game look ridiculously easy with his nonchalant panache, using just the necessary amount of energy needed to get the job done. No more, no less. His natural wisdom transferred beautifully to the style of his physicality on the field. When the ball reached his feet, it was like watching ballet. The game would slow down slightly, the movements would become precise, and the music reached an incredible crescendo that culminated with the ball hitting the back of the net…naturally.

Socrates was, as a whole, as a human being, a work of art in every way. He embodied everything that was beautiful about the beautiful game, and he will be greatly missed.

Rest in peace, sir Doctor Maestro…

RB.

When asked about his infamous flair for seclusion, legendary musician Scott Walker used to say “if I’ve got nothing to say, or do…there’s no point in being around.”

That’s how I’ve been feeling these days, when it comes to football.

I’ve truly got nothing to say. Hence the lack of posts; hence my general lack of interest in even watching or talking about games at this point…

I still love it, don’t get me wrong. But I’ve got nothing to say.

Maybe it’s because last year’s World Cup was a joke (with a dreadful punch line); maybe it’s because this summer’s Copa America was utterly and embarrassingly crap; maybe it’s because of the lack of international tournaments at the moment; maybe it’s because one of the world’s best clubs now, Manchester City, represents everything that’s fundamentally wrong with the game (oil money, lack of true identity, blah blah – God, I’m starting to sound like a lefty whiner)…

Maybe it’s because my favourite footballer of all time is actually gone, for good, now…

I still miss you Ronaldo.

(Yes, I’m embarrassingly sentimental like that).

Or, perhaps, it’s because the world’s greatest footballer of the moment is also the game’s most boring of all personalities: Lionel Messi.

God, I mean, c’mon; the man is indeed a video game player. No charm, no charisma, no warmth, no emotion…no game, really, just…professionalism.

I’m sorry, I find that painfully boring.

…anyways, who knows why the game bores me these days…

And frankly, who cares?! This is just me, a nobody battling his meaningless existential crisis with the sport.

Thus, I’m taking a break. This blog is, as of now, on hiatus, for an undetermined length of time.

On sabbbatical.

No one needs to hear my whining, nor do I truly wish to transcribe my bleeding heart here.

Who knows, though…something may inspire me and get me out of my funky mood tomorrow, or next week, and then I’ll be back at it…

Or not.

Or not…

RB.

Owen Hargreaves: from Manchester to Manchester. Winning!

Shattered tendons

Broken knees

Smashed spirit

Intact hope

Goodbyes here

Goodbyes there

Welcomes not to be found

Until now

Back from home

To the other home

Back on the grass

Surrounded by screams

Whistles and cheers

Boo-ings and clapping

Tears and smiles

Passes and kicks

It comes to me

Rolling perfectly

Smoothly and softly

Touching my feet

I send it away

Again

I breathe in and contract

I give everything I have

It flies and lands

And I run

I run because I can

No longer shattered

I can

A goal.

We win.

I win.

I’m back.

RB.