Cesare: The Escape
So how did this all start…..hmmmm…..
Well, two years ago I found that I was incredibly bored and desperately needed a new hobby. Sitting on the floor of an empty house with no TV and no furniture was slowly putting me in into a One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest type of mindset. So I needed my Chief Bromden escape!
Why was I in this situation? Well my ex, or as I like to refer to her, the demon diving from Satan’s ball sack had movers take everything I ever owned out of the house - the sofa to sit and watch TV, the TV, the shelf the TV sat on, and the in-wall wiring for the TV(how I don’t know), my entire comic collection, and the dog (yup). Using the very few possessions that Typhoid Mary couldn’t carry on her back, I looked up soccer clubs in Chicago. Why , I don’t know, just kind of did.
I saw that in my old stomping grounds of Lincoln Square resided a group called the Chicago Spurs. When I looked up the group I thought well this should be fun, so I noticed that Ms. Ratched still left me my keys to my car, Satan was always kind like that, and I took a ride over to meet the group. Here I found a bunch of people watching soccer and enjoying themselves. I didn’t understand any of the chants nor any of the slang, but they always had a smile and more importantly I could start drinking at 6AM! I met new people within the group, an Englishman who kept screaming “that’s a yellow card” of which I replied “throw the flag”, I was quickly corrected for that one. A kind woman who always greeted me with baked goods, and a short Asian man who constantly reprimanded me for not knowing a player that played on the squad for like 10 mins three years ago, doing this while I am hungover mind you!
But somehow this motley crew of characters where charming. I went back to my humble abode in the suburbs and found myself waiting for that next match, what else was there to do, play with dirt. Then it hit me, for those 90 glorious minutes, there was no divorce court, no witch who tricked me into buying a brand new mustang convertible two weeks before leaving me, no succubus who conned me into taking a loan to pay off her credit cards. There was just plain simple soccer, where 22 men on a field(sorry, I meant pitch) are chasing a stupid white ball and a bar full of idiots dancing, and I was one of them. Now I am traveling with these idiots overseas to watch the team play, running around London with no care, and I look forward to every weekend where my new friends and I can laugh and smile.
Now two years later I am wiser to the sport, and came away with very important rules. Mostly around specific words. That to pronounce the team is to say Tottenham Hotspur and not the Hot Spurs, and pre-nup. Motherfuckin PRE-NUP!!!!!!