The fuss we men make over the pastime that is called football or soccer in Americana, is just but that; a fuss. Not that I believe any of what I have just said.

But listening from members of womenfolk’s confabulation over that otherwise very serious matter leaves you thinking that perhaps we men are just but a bunch of overgrown kindergarten kids.

They say, the ladies, that football is a sight to behold. Grown men yelling overzealously on the sidelines of other grown men with hairy legs chasing after a piece of inflated leather with no other particular reason other than to kick the ball or each other, whichever comes first.

This, they do with the intention of passing the ball into the mouth of a goal for the better part of an evening, never mind, that a camel can dance through the so-called mouth without any worries in the world.

They do not seem to understand that this game, which happens to mesmerize the better side of the world’s population, involves such humongous amounts of not francs, British pounds, in the range of a hundred million, because that is what some sheiks offered for one talented Brazilian called Kaka, recently.

Honestly where else would a man buy another man for a hefty fee without attracting the wrath of self-appointed holier-than-though moral demigods?

The thing which people (read women) have to understand is that football offers that brief moment of insanity in this very logical, analytical, everything has its consequences world.

During the soccer match, you can easily get away with yelling, screaming and kicking your neighbour every time your team approaches the goal’s mouth and not pass for a fool.

You get to analyze the team tactics like a retired professional or soccer manager when at best you are just nothing but an armchair analyst whose ideas can only pass the judgment of fellow football fanatics, usually drunk, who have never kicked a ball in their long life.

So when the nag-nagging goes over board, the jump-jumping of children over daddy on Sunday afternoon, never mind the drag-dragging of dad by mummy to church by force because we have to give the best example to the children, is too much to bear, we take refuge in the football.

Football is a perfect tonic to this restless world of people trying to get most out of other people. On the pitch, the best-team-wins kind of fair play mentality ends at the first whistle and begins with the final whistle.

In between, men are allowed to become animals. They maul each other, elbow, push, shove, kick, and emasculate each other off the ball until when some lucky fellow unintentionally deflects the ball into the net.

The lucky fellow yells his lungs out, pretends to have a God-given talent, runs around the pitch like a mad man (in Africa, you do the courtship dance when you score).

The fellow who concedes hates his guts, feels like trash for the rest of the week, takes his frustration out on his family, or sobs himself dry under the pillow. And if they live in Colombia, they may sometimes get shot dead.

Enough of the diatribe, Football is real sick to some people, but for some it is the fresh air after a week muzzled by the realities of a difficult life.

Contact: kelviod@yahoo.com