Any heretic that scoffs at the premise that football (soccer to Australian and US readers) is a religious experience is a doubting Thomas… or Miguel or Gabriela to give it a slight Brazilian.
Only an association football apostate would dispute the fact that miracles are being performed in the World Cup by the wine vat-load.
I’m not talking about how some of the players’ mohawks and afros stay up, or Tim Cahill’s goal — forget Betty tapping him on the shoulder with a sword — just give him that Sydney expressway, but I digress.
Every single match a player is apparently tragically killed, or at the very least mortally wounded — rolling around on the sprayed-on grass, their face a twisted, grotesque mask of agony, as they desperately clutch a body part that is in danger of falling off at any second.
Then yea, once the ref bloweth thou whistle and thine penalty is awarded, the dead and wounded spring miraculously to their feet, the “injury” fully cured, without even a splash of the holy water from the magic sponge.
Hallelujah! Resurrection! It’s like Easter every ninety minutes, just without the cave and rock bit, and chocolate bunnies.
Messianic miracles are not only happening ON the pitch.
Nay, a group of wheelchair-bound Brazil supporters were suddenly cured of their afflictions, jumping up in an exalted leap onto their not-so atrophied limbs. They then followed the word of the law-d, taking up their wheelchairs and walking out of the stadium escorted by security guards not swept up in the ecclesiastical euphoria.
Jesus! If I could see just one World Cup game without a player prostrate in penalty prayer, THAT would be a miracle.
Here endeth the lesson.
©Steve Williams 2014