In all religions that promise either eternal bliss or damnation based on an evaluation of a human’s life, babies pose a problem. Namely, babies sometimes die before they can really do anything great or super bad. Thus, do babies automatically get shipped off to Heaven? Do they frollick in super dope cribs while angels hover above on clouds and sprinkle the softest talcum imaginable? In the Catholic faith, most babes go to purgatory, a land between heaven and hell. With any luck and a few hundred prayers from below, many eventually gain admission through St. Peter’s gate.
But what about stillborn ideas? What about concepts that linger in the air but then disappear? I’ve complained about transfer rumors with an air of inevitability before. However, just as sad is the transfer rumor snatched from our grasp at the last minute.
Oh, David De Gea, runner off of Casillas, stopper of shots, donner of un-full beard, where art thou? Not on a plane to Madrid for a medical. Not making statements about blank checks to be forgotten in years’ time. No. In Manchester. Cold. Feeling alone.
Oh, Florentino Perez, crafter of puzzling deals, seller of good players as of late, unjust executioner of Italian coaches, what happened? Ye he shipped poor San Iker to Portugal, an Iberian purgatory for aging Spaniards, the land that swallowed Capdevila. Why the wait for a few million Euros? Why even bother signing Navas last summer?
Oh Balague, premature confirmer of rumors in Twitter, hearer of sources and evening winds that drift in from the Sahara and across the Mediterranean, why hast thou misled us? Why doth thou play with our emotions, our hearts, our innermost desires? And does Andi Thomas really follow you on Twitter? Him?
Oh Ward of Wood, brash dealer of desires with eyes too keen to put a dollar sign beside names, like seriously what the fuck dude? Where has my Chicharito gone? Why did my Di Maria fly to Paris? The trolls of the internet sing your praises, they hum a chorus and proclaim you as one of their own. Yet others doubt you, they ask to see recent online timestamps and receipts for Adobe Pro purchases from years of long ago.
Oh June Solstice, why have you now gone so far from here? Days were long and plentiful, the summer’s heat filled each hour with promise. Oh barren trees as leaves turn red then fall, as windows of transfer close at the stroke of midnight, never to open again. Or until January.