Feels good to wake up in the world’s undisputed soccer power 🇺🇸
It may not be a real sport, but like everything else, America is the best
And the British are punching the air
Messi went to PSG, Ronaldo started saying the SPL is better than Ligue 1.
Messi went to MLS, Ronaldo said the SPL is much tougher than MLS.
Messi won the Ballon d'Or and Ronaldo said the Ballon d'Or has lost its credibility.
Messi won the World Cup and Ronaldo called it a 6-7 game tournament and even said winning the Euro is much tougher than winning the World Cup.
The list goes on. He is obsessed with Messi, and it is making him go mad because Messi is not slowing down like him.
"I'll liken England to the Dallas Cowboys a little bit... they've won it once and have never stopped talking about it."
@kschmeichel1 with more on #WCNow.
Skip is the GOAT when it comes to sports nicknames:
-“Team Obliterator”
-“George Paul”/“Playoff Pee”
-“Bosh Spice”
-“Westbrick”
-“LeBrick”
-“Kyle I should’ve been a Bowler”
-“Joe Fluke-O”
-“Me, Myself & Iverson”
-“Looks like Tarzan, plays like Jane”
-“Ason Kidd”
-“Luka Oncic”
-“Zaza PaCheapShot”
-“Jeff Can’t”
The list goes on…
But I have to say.
“Victim Wembanyama” is Skip’s best work.
Stateside, a gas station. I drank a frozen blue beverage too quickly, and was struck down by a punishment this entire nation knows, and accepts, and has named.
The drink is called a slush. Ice, sweetness, and a blue that does not occur in nature. The day was hot. I was thirsty. I drank like a soldier at a river.
The pain arrived in my skull like a war horn.
Behind the eyes. Above everything. Total. I gripped the roof of my car. I may have made a sound.
"Brain freeze," said the cashier through the door, with no urgency whatsoever.
It has a NAME. The affliction is so common it has a household name, like a cousin.
"Tongue on the roof of your mouth," called a man at the pumps. He did not look over. He prescribed the remedy mid-pump, casually, the way one mentions weather.
I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth. The war horn faded. The healer nodded at his pump, finished, and was gone in a Chevrolet.
In my land, punishment follows crime by way of courts and seasons. Here, the sentence is instant. Drink with greed, and the ice strikes the mind directly. No trial. No appeal. Perfectly fair.
And here is what moves me. EVERYONE has felt it. The cashier. The healer. Children. Elders. An entire nation united by the same small lightning, all taught the same cure, all passing it on to strangers at gas stations, free of charge.
You cannot fully distrust a country once you know it shares one pain.
The freeze does not punish thirst. It punishes haste.
I finished the slush slowly, like a scholar. Blue tongue. Clear mind.
Then at the door I forgot everything, drank deeply, and was struck down again.
"Tongue, hon," said the cashier, without looking up.
Discipline is a journey.