Weekend mornings, after I finish blogging and whatever on-line book marketing I can accomplish, I try to catch the Premier League matches on the USA and Peacock cable networks. I was never into “Soccer” when I was younger. The only “football” I was into in my youth required shoulder pads, helmets, hands and hard hits.
Once the sport became political in 2016, I stopped watching American professional football.
I will, on rare occasion, watch a college football game, although it seems some of the passionate purity has bled out of that as well. It’s almost unrecognizable from when my daughter Jackie performed as a D1 multisport athlete.
I will sometimes read about a sporting event after the fact, like with baseball, and how the damn Yankees disappointed me again this post season, although they did beat Boston before crashing and burning. The bitter with the sweet.
I did watch the Knicks win the title in the finals earlier this year – just like I watched them win it in during the 69-70 and 72-73 seasons.
I can be enticed to watch a hockey game during the Stanley Cup finals.
The reason I watch sports is the same reason I watch films and TV series or read a book. I want to be entertained. I want to escape the daily bullshit. I want to observe humans whose physical or intellectual talents have propelled them to the pinnacle of success.
I don’t look to wealthy creatives (musicians, actors or writers) or athletes for political-science lectures for the commoners.
That is the same reason I never introduce politics into my writing. People don’t come here to have me lecture them. I find that there’s a certain arrogance to people who cannot stay in their lane. Whatever your culture, creed, or politics, I’m here to entertain you, not tell you how to think in the real world. Hopefully, you can figure that shit out yourself.
That’s not to say that the conduct of my fictional characters is not impacted by the politics of the moment if it can progress a plot line. But please don’t infer that because a character may say or do something in a story that it reflects my social inclinations or political leanings. It’s a story, folks.
And maybe that’s why I like watching European football. There’s less chance of some American political urine clouding the entertainment pool.
Now there are gossipy scandals that occasionally pop up in the Premier League, like the October 1st decision by the governing powers that be that found that Manchester City, a perennial powerhouse, and presently sitting on top of this season’s leader board, played fast and loose with its finances for a decade or so. I’m not judging, and I don’t know enough about the league to understand how it impacted the performance of the players on the pitch. The sins of a club’s administration should not be retroactively visited upon the players whose blood, sweat and tears are left each match on the pitch. All I care about is how a team does on any given day. I don’t have a favorite team, but I do follow standings and how some of the more elite players perform. That way I can watch each game knowing what is at stake for a particular team and enjoy it no matter who wins. I’m never left with a NY Yankee hangover.
So, anyway, I spent yesterday morning catching some European football matches which energized my ambition sufficiently enough to attempt to atone for my recent exercise of poor familial interpersonal skills and give the first floor of Casa Claire a light cleaning – full floor sweep with shifting and then wiping down the furniture. I’ve mentioned many times how dusty NoCo can be.
I also tended to Claire and Honey, fed them, shoveled and shifted some mule muffins and then topped off the front water troughs.
All little obligations that require my daily attention, humble and ground me.
Now, as is my nature, when I find a free moment, I will grab a cuppa and gaze out my windows to observe the feral creatures that migrate around my property. I find their repetitive presence a sign that Casa Claire maintains its mystical mojo.
I often will catch the recurring drama between my two favorite feral familiars, Smokey and Midnight,
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and our nearest neighbor’s wandering dog, Nakia. You see, one of the reasons I go through so much cat food in any given week is that Nakia, who is older and whose faculties have dulled, still maintains an uncanny ability to sense when I’ve filled the cats’ food bowls. The cats always have a few minutes to chow down before Nakia makes her way through the property fence line and then scoffs up whatever food remains in the dishes, sometimes swiping a bowl to take back home with her. That is why I maintain a stack of bowls out front.
It’s like a feral cat tithe to the dominant dog.
Nakia doesn’t seem to mind the cats as long as they don’t get between her and the cat food.
Smokey will disappear into the high grass beneath JTS, watching from just inches away from the foraging dog.
Midnight, who is newer to the cat/dog interactive experience, retreats vertically to the boughs of Jack the Spruce – which is how I was able to snatch the opening photo.
Now the Beagle Brothers take great offence at the audacity of this doggy interloper, as they would happily clean those cat bowls if given the opportunity. The fact that Nakia has been performing this service long before they arrived does not lessen their affront. If they hear her outside, they head for whatever house door is open and race to the closest border of the interior Casa Claire fenceline – the perimeter border that keeps them and the mules safely on our property and strangers and zombies out – and throw themselves with abandon against that fence in an effort to frighten Nakia into giving up her meal marauding and returning to her own home. Nakia pays the BBs no attention and continues to eat until sated. Tail wagging, she then disappears due east from whence she came.
I can almost hear her call over her shoulder, “See ya later, and thanks for the grub.”
So, when I am not tending to big things, like writing a novel, I don’t sit around and angst like a despairing artist searching for his muse. I fill my time with little things that propel and supplement my enjoyment of daily living here on Casa Claire. The muse and its inspiration will show up when I need it.
Now, my fine, five readers, gently slip back into your respective realities on this Monday morning. Finish that final cuppa, pull up your socks and launch into your productive work week. No prisoners!
And no matter what else we get up to, let us make today a great one.
