You give me fever

I'm not a religious man but I do believe in the Hand of God. La mano de D10s. It's what makes Argentina and June and July and Diego Maradona and Lionel Messi all make sense. It even makes Rodrigo make sense. It makes myself, the age of 19 and Buenos Aires make sense.

It makes the most sense right now. It's a shortcut, against odds, admission to Harvard plus a winning lotto ticket. But it's also an act of faith. You look around to see if it's real, if it's even legal. Then you celebrate like crazy and set all your disappointment aside.

In the shower I sing, "Goooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooool, Gooooooooooooooooooool, Gooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooolazo Meeeeeeeeeeessssiii."

It's not the singer, it's the song...



"I want to cry, Saint God, long live football! This is to cry, forgive me... From which planet did you come to leave so much English in your wake? Thank you god for football, for Maradona, for these tears."

A center from Tevez and I'm sprinting towards the English net and I reach up with my head and god's hand.

And then, via two brilliant friends and the University of Wisconsin media library, an old VHS player and some handiwork, I have a functional copy of Fuckland.

The world cup is going to kill this blog deader than punk.