The Life, Death, & Life of Ferenc Puskas

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As you may have guessed, I am a practicing Roman Catholic. Within my belief structure, boxes exists for spirits and ghosts and hauntings. Purgatory awaits those with impure souls, the flames of hell toned down to a mild orange so as to burn away sinful elements of our time on this Earth.

Up until this point, I had thought of Puskas as adversarial and one minded. He only wanted goat’s blood. Yet I had been equally adversarial and one minded – I had created major-struggle-mountain out of a molehill. But I took a deep breath and asked myself a very basic, simple question: why did this former Real Madrid legend want goat’s blood? And what did it have to do with me?

I had to expand my mind between simple notions of victory and defeat, life and death, lots of goat’s blood or no goat’s blood.

I’m not going to lie – I exhausted all prospects of killing Pusky. I consulted a digital version of the King Jame’s Bible, but the keywords “kill Puskas” and “murder apparitions” rendered no fruit. I read the screenplay for the Exorcist for the one hundredth time. It was as good as ever, but no clues between the lines. I also consulted the Tibetan Book of the Dead, but was not prepared to follow the overly meticulous instructions. Plus, the prospect of killing three goats to murder an apparition struck me as too Ghostbuster-collateral-damage. I’ve always firmly believed “Let the Marshmellow Man have a night on the town – is it worth blowing up the Met?”

I couldn’t get the cable to work on the plasma screen tv in the finished part of my creepy prairie mansion basement. Thus, Ricardo and my bro went to Ricardo’s parents’ home to watch it. They live a stone’s throw away from my mom’s. And no, people in Kansas are not country bumpkins. We did not ride horses. It’s much too cold. We left SeattleSlump and TripleCrownCola in the barn and, like any civilized person, rode a mule.

I couldn’t focus much on the game – and no, it was not for the uneven quality of play. And it had nothing to do with Beckham’s hideous hair or Donovan’s “irate but not edgy” grimace. It was Puskas…and the implications for the universe. I had either experienced the first cyber haunt or been victim to an internet prank on par, dare I say, superior, to the infamous rick-roll. As the peanut-butter-jelly-time on the game clock ticked away, I smiled. Whatever happened, happened. I had to face Puskas. I had to end or get to the bottom of this. I might as well make my death march a jolly two step.

After the game I went home but my bro stayed at Ricardo’s to pound a few Boulevard Wheat’s. I cautiously descended the stairway,  found my ouija board under a sofa, wiped off the beer stains, and even found matches for the candles. I had all the tools and clung to my Rosary for dear life. But I need to re-investigate my philosophical premise.

What all the books and authors and insight had in common was one thing – after making my spiritual touch through the ouija board, Puskas was now an actual part of me. I was disappointed because my plan b was to go to my dad’s for Thanksgiving, come home in a week, and hope Puskas would get bored. But no such luck. Or fate? This would have to end Harry Potter style, I was afraid.

I had given Puskas life, but now I had to take it away. The monstrosity’s feast for blood did not bode well for family pets and/or livestock. We could have worked out an agreement for the chickens, like one a day or something, but reason had reached it’s end. This was a phenomenon rapidly spiraling out of my hands. I sent a warning shot to Pusky – I declined his friend request on facebook. I venomously hid his poke and ferociously did not reciprocate. Then I lit the candles in the unfinished part of the creepy basement of my now haunted prairie mansion, sat down, and began to pray to my beloved Mary.

I reached my hands out to clasp the ouija board, but realized the board was but a device to open a portal. I had already opened that door and the wide gaping chasm had engulfed even my beloved wikipedia…

I closed my eyes and breathed deeply and waited. The cosmic energy…I wasn’t feeling it. After 15 minutes I got kinda bored, but not “eat to fill the emptiness” bored, so I went to the finished part of the basement where my bro crashes. And what did I see? WHAT did I see?

On his highly advanced, home-made gaming computer an email account was open. An email account for Puskas! There was even a draft saved, a belated apology for missing our immortal duel to end all duels. I had anticipated a Sith-finger-lightning affair, a flurry of wands and “exmorticus” and scars, but the monitor did not lie. The cardinal sin of hubris had done me in, and there is no greater shame than an older brother falling prey to the younger.

That was why Puskas knew about my little brother’s beer pong antics and my mother’s cleaning of the freezer. Some things added up. But some things didn’t…

Also, maybe Puskas temporarily possessed my brother? A possibility. When I confronted my bro about it, his sheepish grin indicated a degree of conscious involvement. But the words “I did it all” never escaped his lips. Perhaps he was just happy that I held him in such high regard as to suspect him of pulling an elaborate internet hoax. Perhaps he just wanted to distract my eye from the other tab in firefox, with the google search terms “honey virgin.” But I saw it.

Various people have claimed to be the puskas twitterer, casting further doubt upon my initial list of suspects. Perhaps better said – casting further doubt upon the limits of scientific-analytic-discourse’s ability to explain the really creepy.

And, to be honest, I know what I felt. The first night, the ouija board…nothing can take that away. And I’ve also seen plenty of horror films to know that 1) The first suspect is not the culprit, 2) You have to kill the monster twice, and 3) The monster comes back…when you least suspect it. But I’m not so sure that Puskas is a monster, perhaps just misunderstood in a Mary Shelley-crazy-author sorta way. After all, the ghost did not drive Hamlet mad, Hamlet let himself go.

I took my brother at his word and tried to get some shut eye last night. The same dream kept coming to me over and over, it was an image I had seen before, on the web, probably a million times. A boy is about to kick his first soccer ball. It is beautiful. This morning I scoured the google, the yahoo, heck, even altavista and the hotbot, and I finally found it…

I wish I knew it’s meaning. I wish I could come to terms with what Puskas means to me, and the universe, and his own native Hungary. He was exiled for a pretty long time, so I guess that explains why he inhabited my family’s simple two story prairie mansion. Some of us find solace in stranger places. The dream’s simplicity, like a Puskas strike of the ball, resonates within me and brings forth a smile. Sometimes we take ourselves too seriously. Sometimes we need to eat candy and not vegetables.

After a night of shake-less sleep, I got some goat’s blood.

No, peta members, no goats were killed. I went to the petting zoo incognito, handed out some food, pricked a leg, and got a few drops. Well, a few drops from several goats. I evaded the employees with aplomb and left a bowl of goat’s blood in the back part of the basement. I promise you I thought about putting band-aids on those poor goats, even if no honest attempt was made.

More importantly, I reached a never-ending ending point. I attained acceptance. I realized my encounter with Puskas was not a chapter in a book, but rather a wave in the ocean. I couldn’t just sparknote it and conjure up a neat and tidy summary for class. But that’s okay. It may bounce back. Or not. But I’m here.

I’m not waiting, but I’m also not afraid.


And now the bad news – due to a family health emergency, Thanksgiving, and some job interviews, this blog may become a bit barren for a week, maybe two weeks. We’re talking haunted prairie mansion barren. I’m hoping to have something special for the Madrid-Barca match, but no promises.

Don’t worry, this is not a “check” in a match of chess between this blog and Death. This is just a market correction to the credit-fueled bubble of posting. Our birthday hiccup went to plan, right? And yes, I will still be teasing you with obscure Real Madrid birthday knowledge on twitter. A merciful-less hint:  if a ghost can add a paragraph to wikipedia, then perhaps a birth date can be a day or month off…