Die-hard Ultras / Hardcore Supporters
in Fans ·
What can I even say? I finally got back home, opened this up, and I honestly can't believe what I'm reading. 🙂🙂
I actually remembered an old piece of mine saved on my computer.
...bam bam bam bam bam bam bam bam bam ULTRA!!!
..Forgive me, please. I didn't realize. I didn't know my thoughts would pierce through the words, through the silence that holds us together while we betray one another. Forgive me, please. I don't love you. And I lie when I say it hurts. With just enough pathos to make you believe me. Like I always do...
I can't take it anymore. I don't love you. I don't love your left back or the melted ice in his double-named drink. I don't love how slow he is, how drunk he gets, or how his dribbling is worse than mine at five in the morning. I don't love the grueling Wednesday-to-Sunday grind or the rehearsed apologies; I don't care for private struggles or the struggle to simply exist. I hate their smiles after a loss or a goal scored without a single embrace. I have no interest in oceans or distant worlds already conquered in their minds while they struggle in reality, lacking even two or three decent seasons in their careers. Careers that scream for an escape abroad and a step forward in their journey. With the imprint of a cleat upon your shoulder.
I hate it when you play without intensity, just guarding a 0-0 draw and tactically grinding out a match without ever taking a shot. Without heart or emotion. Without sweat on the crest. I hate clean knees or being caught offside. I hate the outer goalpost, the track field, and the flowers at a farewell. Neither the first nor the fourth official. I hate the red cards, the advertisements behind the goal, and the stadium announcer. I hate draws or the suits in the luxury boxes. Not even the luxury boxes. I hate the confetti, the fireworks, the fear of defeat, or any other place.
I hate how you drag me into football wildernesses without postcards, defending a reputation in knee-deep mud in exotic villages decorated with visas. I hate nights without flags or gates without scarves. No new police batons or unbuttoned collars, just strained nerves. I hate peace and logic, lukewarm applause, or changing jerseys. I hate the silence of the stadium. That Jesuit silence living in empty rows, failing to wake the pigeons of my city—ready for a night out and new romances behind your back. I hate crowded streets while chasing points, the question of "Who's playing?", non-alcoholic beer, and bus seats.
I hate the precursors to the precursors, and European trophies without your name on them. I hate futile hopes, sporting misfortune, air without smoke, and shattered dreams of historic attempts. A missed penalty, the seating, hostel floors—none of it. I hate the summer break, and the winter break even more; I hate the managers pacing your hallways and the reporters waiting outside his door. Crowded and sweaty, hovering near the entrance to paradise. Or for what amount of cash for a single word of praise? I hate agencies or secret contracts, microscopic clauses, or percentages tucked into someone else's pocket.
I hate the black-and-white European trophy case, forgotten and yellowed at the edges. The ones you dance around. I hate the Champions League that will never be yours. Or mine. I hate that I don't know that feeling, though I wish I did. To be the best. I hate the insults and mockery they throw at you there; I hate how they mourn you, forget you, and get over you in a single tear before moving on. I hate bowed heads or the ball sitting in your half. I hate the handshake under the table, the unknown numbers, the songs from the opponent's locker room, the snow on your ears, and the chill in your bones.
I hate the lost memories of painful defeats, the black veil wrapped around European victories, and sad birthdays without celebrations. I hate the road through unknown rivers that leads them toward a different kind of adulthood and never brings them back. I hate... a day without you...
P.S. Only when you realize—if you ever catch even a single sentence from this text—will you understand the true meaning of "ultra" and cheering with a flag instead of just muscles.
BLACK KNIGHTS ABOVE ALL!!
I actually remembered an old piece of mine saved on my computer.
...bam bam bam bam bam bam bam bam bam ULTRA!!!
..Forgive me, please. I didn't realize. I didn't know my thoughts would pierce through the words, through the silence that holds us together while we betray one another. Forgive me, please. I don't love you. And I lie when I say it hurts. With just enough pathos to make you believe me. Like I always do...
I can't take it anymore. I don't love you. I don't love your left back or the melted ice in his double-named drink. I don't love how slow he is, how drunk he gets, or how his dribbling is worse than mine at five in the morning. I don't love the grueling Wednesday-to-Sunday grind or the rehearsed apologies; I don't care for private struggles or the struggle to simply exist. I hate their smiles after a loss or a goal scored without a single embrace. I have no interest in oceans or distant worlds already conquered in their minds while they struggle in reality, lacking even two or three decent seasons in their careers. Careers that scream for an escape abroad and a step forward in their journey. With the imprint of a cleat upon your shoulder.
I hate it when you play without intensity, just guarding a 0-0 draw and tactically grinding out a match without ever taking a shot. Without heart or emotion. Without sweat on the crest. I hate clean knees or being caught offside. I hate the outer goalpost, the track field, and the flowers at a farewell. Neither the first nor the fourth official. I hate the red cards, the advertisements behind the goal, and the stadium announcer. I hate draws or the suits in the luxury boxes. Not even the luxury boxes. I hate the confetti, the fireworks, the fear of defeat, or any other place.
I hate how you drag me into football wildernesses without postcards, defending a reputation in knee-deep mud in exotic villages decorated with visas. I hate nights without flags or gates without scarves. No new police batons or unbuttoned collars, just strained nerves. I hate peace and logic, lukewarm applause, or changing jerseys. I hate the silence of the stadium. That Jesuit silence living in empty rows, failing to wake the pigeons of my city—ready for a night out and new romances behind your back. I hate crowded streets while chasing points, the question of "Who's playing?", non-alcoholic beer, and bus seats.
I hate the precursors to the precursors, and European trophies without your name on them. I hate futile hopes, sporting misfortune, air without smoke, and shattered dreams of historic attempts. A missed penalty, the seating, hostel floors—none of it. I hate the summer break, and the winter break even more; I hate the managers pacing your hallways and the reporters waiting outside his door. Crowded and sweaty, hovering near the entrance to paradise. Or for what amount of cash for a single word of praise? I hate agencies or secret contracts, microscopic clauses, or percentages tucked into someone else's pocket.
I hate the black-and-white European trophy case, forgotten and yellowed at the edges. The ones you dance around. I hate the Champions League that will never be yours. Or mine. I hate that I don't know that feeling, though I wish I did. To be the best. I hate the insults and mockery they throw at you there; I hate how they mourn you, forget you, and get over you in a single tear before moving on. I hate bowed heads or the ball sitting in your half. I hate the handshake under the table, the unknown numbers, the songs from the opponent's locker room, the snow on your ears, and the chill in your bones.
I hate the lost memories of painful defeats, the black veil wrapped around European victories, and sad birthdays without celebrations. I hate the road through unknown rivers that leads them toward a different kind of adulthood and never brings them back. I hate... a day without you...
P.S. Only when you realize—if you ever catch even a single sentence from this text—will you understand the true meaning of "ultra" and cheering with a flag instead of just muscles.
BLACK KNIGHTS ABOVE ALL!!