I missed him. I also had a few questions that required some super spiritual stealth – like who will win the FIFA Ballon d’Or and also what to make of recent FIFA “reforms.”

Thus, I made a trip to Matamoros to get a Santisima muerte icon, some santeria dominoes, returned home, fired up the old gchat, and asked our favorite apparition some questions on those pressing matters. His answers will confuse you. And disappoint you. But not me. Ahorale!

Yes, I know that the Santa Muerte is not recognized by the church. However, the Catholic Church has shown a proclivity to mix and match official religious fixtures with local Pagan customs. Granted, it takes a super long time. The wheels of change in Vatican City do not roll as quickly as the four attached to the Pope-mobile. But I’m sure Santa Muerte will get some love some time, just like the Virgen de Guadelupe. Basically, Santa Muerte is like that really talented band you saw in a college town before they got big. Enjoy them while you can.

On a historical note, anthropologists like to think that the Santa Muerte is based on the Aztec worship of Mictlantehutli, a God of the underworld. I respectfully disagree for obvious reasons. For example, if you look at ancient artifacts of Mictlantehutli, he is always either Tebowing or making dinosaur arms ala the scheming hamburglar. The Santa Muerte does neither. Case closed.

Blah blah debates aside, many Mexican@s pray privately in their homes to images of the Santa Muerte and ask for a stroke of luck or that a dead relatives’ sins get burned off ever so gently. Since my thoughts had recently turned to FIFA, I figured a few prayers and some sin-absolution-requests were in order. I hopped over to Matamoros during the day and got me a lonche, found a hole in the wall santeria store which had dominoes (not the pizza), and was back in the US of A by nightfall.

When I finally found myself in my one story Texas ranch-house with the family asleep, I inhaled some special odors to cleanse my spirit and open my mind. I prayed a rosary or two. Then, I opened gchat and pulled out the dominoes. As luck would have it, Pusky, the omnipresent apparition, was logged in. In fact, he is always logged in. I think he has gchat on his iPhone or something. It’d been awhile, so I shot him a nice, friendly warm hello from Texas. Pusky was a little taken aback. I imagine him just sorta casually strutting about, doing whatever it is that Dead Hungarian footballers do late at night, when he heard a click or alert sound from his iPhone. I also always get startled when I get those messages. And for a dead Hungarian footballer that is used to moving in stealth-see-through mode, who can blame him for being taken aback? Still, though, as a blogger-journalist of the highest integrity, I had a duty to cut to the chase and try to pry some facts out of that dead Hungarian source. I did try to tactfully transition into it though… For those of you without gchat, the “…..” is normally not a good sign. It’s a nonverbal clue that the responder is pondering what you just said, but normally with a strong degree of skepticism. It was at this point that I realized this may be one of my more difficult Dead Hungarian Footballer exclusive interviews. I braced for the worst. Seconds passed, then minutes. Pusky wasn’t into it. He finally responded with a half sentence and another “…”, but I laid it on thick. When the fish is half-hooked, they struggle like hell and you either have to hall them in or cut loose. Then came the suspense. The gray text informed me that Pusky was entering text. Yet seconds turned to minutes turned to more minutes turned into minutes that seemed longer than sixty seconds but that’s because each second really felt like a second and one-fortieth a second which by itself seems like a second but when you have several seconds like that it feels much, much longer. I held my breath. I also kicked myself – disclosing the lack of possible goats’ blood as a reward was truthful and may earn me long-term credibility with Pusky, but also maybe revealed my hand a bit too early.

And I was right. Sigh. Dead Hungarian footballers can be so shallow and bloody narrow-minded sometimes.

I couldn’t really blame him. Season Four of the Office had some good moments. And nobody likes to dive halfway into a TV show’s season to come up for air prematurely. Deep down, I’d known Pusky would blow me off. At least on a direct and material median of communication like gchat. It’s happened before. I had my dominoes. I had my quasi-Catholic pagan idol. I had my expanded mind. And I had my questions.

Besides, Pusky has always communicated best via haunted medians like Ouija boards, Wikipedia, and tarot cards. He comes off as a bit discourteous in gchat. So I lit the appropriate scented candles and pulled out the dominoes.

I shuffled my bag of dominoes, channeled Pusky and though about FIFA’s current attempts at reform, and then pulled out three dominoes.

Now, I’m no expert at dominoes divination. However, I swear I could feel Pusky’s spiritual essence guiding my hands to grab certain dominoes. I also know that the first domino means your past, the second your present, and the third your future. After consulting my book of occult domino readings, things got much clearer about FIFA.

The Two/Four means opportunities for growth. It obviously referred to the start of the Havelenge-era, when FIFA went from a First World & Western biased institution into a better reflection of the world’s population and game. There were lots of opportunity for growth, and FIFA certainly has done a great job of moving World Cups across continents and turning a dime.

The Three/Five means emotional outlet time. This also made sense. For years, FIFA has been playing cook-the-books and soccer fans are pissed. While we may not have ran off Blatter, he has banned some pretty notorious cronies. He has also promised not to run again for President. And, of course, we eagerly await for a certain ancient dossier to be revealed. Even if bribes weren’t technically illegal in Switzerland at the time (what a gigantic coincidence that FIFA is located there!)

This is where the future gets murky. And it gets murky because it looks ever so similar to the present. The Three/Five. I guess this means more baby steps to reform or half-ass compromises, depending on your baseline for success. Perhaps the dossier-revelation will shame some old cronies into also not running for re-election.

I tried to connect to Gchat to see if Pusky had anything to add, but his profile had a grey bubble. I even shot him an email, but no luck – he was not playing invisible. No response, so he obviously had decided to let the dominoes do the talking. And they talked some more.

The next question pulsating through my head was simple – would the most deserving player finally win the Ballon d’oro? In my opinion, it’s Leo Messi. I love Cristiano as a player of my resurgent Madrid, but a Copa del Rey doesn’t cut it. I held my breath, channeled Pusky, reached into the bag, and pulled out another three dominoes.

Once again, the Three/Five reared its ugly head to talk about the past. And it made sense to talk about past Ballon d’Oro winners and venting. How many times have they gotten it wrong? All they need is a six hour awards show, a not funny host, hundreds of crappy unimportant awards like “best non-Union sprinkler technician” and they’re the Oscars.

In terms of the present, I was optimistic. The One/Zero means both new opportunities and the importance of morality. If there is cosmic justice, then Leo Messi will win this year’s Ballon d’Oro, sign for Madrid in the summer, and don Luis Figo’s famous ten jersey. Lass has been keeping that number warm, just for Leo. I swear. Messi getting sold for a profit in a capitalist system is the definition of morality. Right?

In terms of the future, not so hot. The Two/Three means that a place of work lacks orderliness and thus cannot progress. How about those World Cup US TV rights re-bids and hospitality bids won by companies run by relatives? Never before has a domino said so much, and been so right, with so few numbers on the top and lower halves.

I tucked my dominoes away in my bag, said a last prayer to the Santa Muerte for a pretty cool abuelo I had that died from cancer, blew out the candles, and went to sleep. Pusky was a prick on his iPhone, but the Dead Hungarian-guided dominoes had given me all the answers I could possible ask for.

In fact, I’ve been avoiding Pusky for sometime. During the World Cup, I saw him haunting gchat, but immediately rendered myself invisible. Still, despite the awkwardness – how do you say “hola” after a year of silence to a dead Hungarian footballer that feasts on goat’s blood -  Grant Wahl’s self-nomination for FIFA president was a momentous occasion. I had to do something. FIFA has reached a crises point. And I needed otherworldly guidance.

But I wasn’t about to run to Pusky for help with my tail between my legs. Not at first. So, I bought a few tarot cards, some scented candles, and the Book of Thoth. My plan was to channel positive spiritual energy Mr. Wahl’s way and illuminate some lingering questions about his candidacy. Or so I thought.

A few nights ago, I sat cross legged in my living room and, at the stroke of midnight, lit a  few candles, opened the ancient text, placed it in front of me, pulled out my tarot cards, and began to read the cards. Or, rather, the cards read themselves to me.

Positive spiritual energy works in mysterious ways. The last time I contacted the spirits via Pusky, my weapon of choice was the Ouija board. Cloistered in a prairie mansion during the harsh winter, the slow and steady movement of the board reflected my heartbeat. However, now that I’ve relocated to a South Texas rancho and the warmth of spring beckons, seeping in through the windows, I decided on tarot cards.

Why tarot cards? Less suspense. Less build-up. You flip the card, you read the card, bam-bam-bam. Sorta. Maybe. Not really. The cards always give a superficial & immediate response, which I like. But they can still present a puzzle of interpretation, perplexing to the untrained eye. My questions about FIFA and Wahl pushed me in these paradoxical directions.

First and foremost, on a practical level, could one man make a difference on such a large structural problem? I have my own bias – as long as the World Cup gets free labor, like NCAA athletics, the bung culture will persist. Why drink responsibly when you’re driving another person’s expensive car? But the Olympics run the same show, and they have improved since Salt Lake.

Second, on a personal level, how can Grant Wahl cross the line from journalist to being a “player” in the field of his journalism? I experienced the same dilemma when I got haunted by Pusky and the handful of times that I exchanged emails with Jimmy Conrad. I tried to minimize and ignore both experiences, obviously not wanting to compromise my readers’ faith in my integrity and objectivity. But how can Mr. Wahl run a serious nomination campaign and keep writing for SI?

Second, have we seen this film before? Is this the making of another “Mr. Smith Goes to Washington”? Will Grant become the FIFA equivalent of a freshmen House Republican, passing bills that everybody knows will die in Senate subcommittees? On the other hand, a journalist would value the most important thing lacking in FIFA: transparency.

With these thoughts buzzing through my head, I sucked in the sweet scent of the candles. I inhaled, held my breath, and then slowly exhaled. In uncertain times, we must look beyond our modern values and biases in order to scour the past for clues to our future. I shuffled the deck, laid out three rows of seven cards, and pulled out the first card. And my hand trembled.

The Fool? Really? But was I a fool for doubting the power of Grant Wahl to get a nomination, win the election, and change FIFA’s ways? Or was Grant Wahl a fool for believing he could make a difference? The Fool is perhaps the most powerful and perplexing of the tarot cards, either a very good or a very bad sign. But which? Perhaps the next card would provide me with more guidance.

And the next card was….the Ace of Spades! Surely this was a good sign? Right? I read and re-read my little tarot guide book, but found no conclusive answer. However, several people had told me to trust my own heart and intuition in reading cards, not relying on the written word. I felt the Ace of Spaces was good, but did my poker playing biases blind me? Perhaps the Ace, singular, represented Mr. Wahl’s lonely fight for justice. Was the Spade his penetrating knife of transparency?

So, like, two cards, and no clear answer. I flipped over another card, but was similarly flabbergasted. The Two of Hearts? WTF? Frustrated, I flipped another card – The Seven of Clubs? Poker again infiltrated my thoughts – seven/two off suit sucks. It is statistically the worst hand. Perhaps FIFA had reached an all new low with Sepp Blatter’s lgbt remarks and the bribe-laden selection process last year? Or Grant Wahl would get dealt an impossible hand to win?

I picked up the tarot cards and placed them back into the deck. This backdoor spiritual stuff was simply not working. I had to resort to the next best thing – gchat. Gchat with Pusky. I would enter the haunted cyberbelly of the beast. I let the candles burn out, closed and put away the Book of Thoth, and set the card decj on a shelf and out of reach from little hands. I slept restlessly that night, anticipating the next day’s task.

All day, I checked and re-rechecked and re-checked my gchat. Generally, the same characters appear. I suspect most of them have gchat on their phones, but could the others really be gchatting all that time? Regardless, Thursday evening, my spiritual prey signed on.

I waited a few seconds, just to be sure. Sometimes people only sign into gchat to check their email, and then they immediately sign out. On a few occasions, I’ve sent them a nice hello, but end up with egg on my face as the dreaded-gray-outline-window appears. I waited a few minutes, my heart rattling my chest. Pusky was logged on. Pusky stayed logged on. With a click of a mouse and the typing of a keyboard, I sent a saludito. And waited.

A year is a long time. So much had changed since our last encounter – my residence, my job, the site re-design. I also had no clue about Pusky’s whereabouts – for all I know, he could be back in his native Hungary, haunting an old mansion converted into a bed-and-breakfast. I assumed he had gone to South Africa due to the soccer and abundance of goat’s blood. I typed in an awkward introductory greeting that shan’t be repeated on these pages, but Pusky responded! And I went straight to the point….

Oh that sardonic Pusky! I read a lighthearted feeling into the remark, imagining him on his blackberry or iphone, laughing while reading my question. However, I was blinded by my own optimism. I asked another pointed and direct question – did Pusky support Grant Wahl? And Pusky….

He dodged the questions. He kinda….kinda blew me off. And I understand – as an apparition that may be potentially burning off sins ala Hamlet’s father, he has stuff to do. He has goat’s blood to drink. But did you see the “…..” line? Pusky paused. Pusky thought. Most importantly, Pusky did not say no. Nor did he kiss the rump of Sepp Blatter.

And that is a form of support, albeit indirect. If Sepp Blatter can push FIFA to create a special award in honor of Pusky, and Pusky doesn’t support him, then it’s a sign of the times. The backscratching, the favors, the quid pro quo – even a dead Hungarian footballer apparition can see fact from fiction.

Pusky did kinda hurt my feelings – you’d think five minutes of his time wouldn’t kill the guy. But what he revealed helped to illuminate the tarot cards a little bit. In summation, I’m hoping the jokes on Blatter, and Wahl’s Ace of Spades cuts through the FIFA 7-2 offsuit like a hot knife through butter….

Yes, that’s right, you finally get an exclusive, no punches-held-glimpse at the inner workings of the brain behind this site. Prepare to be mortifiedly terrified. Or terrifiedly mortified.

FUTFANATICO: Elliott, this is your first exclusive interview and I have to say, it’s an honor to have it here on the site.

ELLIOTT: It’s my pleasure, really.

FUTFANATICO: So Elliott, like a lot of bloggers, you started off spamming both BigSoccer and SoccerbyIves pretty heavily. You also coded the site-by-hand and wrote very sarcastic game recaps at a soul-crushing pace. Do any of those facts embarrass you?

ELLIOTT: the admins at BigSoccer were really kind, actually. I admire them for that. The coding by hand taught me important life lessons about outsourcing and India. I even learned a little ZHTML, although my Ajavascript sucks.

FUTFANATICO: you’re not embarrassed about spamming SoccerbyIves? Not in the slightest? So would you care to make public the abrasive email exchange between you and the lead writer?

ELLIOTT: No.

FUTFANATICO: moving on…regardless of the humble beginnings, your site has started to gain some traction in the blogosphere. Recently, you were nominated for an award that was not created by your own site to be won by your own site. What was that like?

ELLIOTT: awkward, but rewarding. I am humbled to be considered a low traffic blog by Unprofessional Foul and the memories will last a lifetime. Sadly, my low traffic did not result in very many votes for the award. I did not anticipate that occurring.

FUTFANATICO: tracking back a bit, before all the awards and fame, what inspired you to begin blogging about soccer?

ELLIOTT: a few years back, I was living in Houston, Texas, when Hurricane Ike descended upon my humble apartment. I slept through the hurricane on a comforter in a windowless bathroom. When I woke up the next day, everything seemed fine. However, after half a day, the City decided to turn off my electricity for whatever reason. I immediately fled to my Uncle’s house in Waco for a week. He had Fox Soccer Channel. I had 168 hours to kill. Sale vi.

FUTFANATICO: So Elliott, questions abound. Some readers embrace your detached sardonic tone, but we all want to know a bit more about you as a person. Why write about soccer? And personally, confusion reigns as to your last name. Is it Turner or Tucker?

ELLIOTT: well, that’s a funny story about the last name. But I don’t care to tell it. I believe that my work stands alone as a testament of all that is absurd about soccer & life in general. Soccer is my muse and inspiration because I did not play it as a youth – rather, I gave up a successful spell of high school and collegiate hockey to have her. Now that I’ve cashed in all my chips, there’s no looking back. I would only feel the tinge of regret.

FUTFANATICO: well, now that the site has gotten a foothold and some semblance of a following, do you have any regrets? Concerns?

ELLIOTT: I am a bit peeved by this whole “fake celebrity” twitter account business. I can’t decide if the proper analogy is a fly following a rhino and waiting for it to poop, but something smells. Where do these people get off stealing the images of celebrities and then slapping on a “fake” to make the sting go away. As if…

FUTFANATICO: well speaking of images, why don’t you have a pic of yourself on the site?

ELLIOTT: as I stated earlier, my work speaks for itself. I don’t want my dark mop-top hair, milk white skin, and baby blue eyes distracting readers from the reading. That’s why I put a picture of George Best as my twitter icon. Keep the focus on non-ridiculously handsome men. That’s my secret to success.

FUTFANATICO: Um. Okay. So, backtracking, again, you must be incensed that this “fakefutfanatico” character has recently appeared. What’s the deal with that?

ELLIOTT: well, he has like, two followers, so I’m not worried. Plus, his website is parked at godaddy, so he knows nothing of the web. I heard a rumor that he was about to publish a “behind the Futfanatico website disaster” post, but I think the fact that my website looks like a first grader drawing in Internet Explorer adds to the charm of the place. On an emotional level, yes, I’m profoundly disturbed. But professionally, no worries.

FUTFANATICO: so, awards, fake fan accounts, despite all the glamour and ritz of today, where do you see your website heading in the future? Is there any direction whatsoever, or is this more of a Harrison Ford-film-protagonist part?

ELLIOTT: well, first off, the Junito series will soon kick into overdrive – he’s joined a league, I’ve got a sweet digital camera, and am in the process of getting some video editing software. I’ve used the Adobe creative suite in the past, but am open to any suggestions. Second, while some people have dumped on the “subscription model” and pay walls, I think the success of IPads and Kindles show people will pay a nominal monthly fee for quality writing. Is DTP the future of Futfanatico? Maybe. Would people fork over $0.25 per month to read my stuff on their IPad or Kindle? Perchance.

FUTFANATICO: so, in summation, you started this website because of a hurricane, you refuse to reveal any personal images or confirm your last name, you only started paying soccer late in life (and ergo know nothing), and soon expect people may pay $3 a year to read or see videos about your four year old.

ELLIOTT: exactly.

So, despite my dedication, commitment, and mad social skillz, I can’t help but think of the Dead Hungarian Footballing apparition that got away. I know, I know – I sound like a middle aged fisherman. Hemingway wrote a short story on the folly of free will by focusing on an old man’s valiant efforts vs. the forces of nature. I don’t plan on flailing broken oars at sharks anytime soon, but is it too much to ask an email every few months of a Dead Hungarian Footballing apparition? Every six months?

My relocation to the humid and cartel plagued land of Southern Texas has surely played a part. Kansas, with its moderate climate and ample grassland, is an idle breeding ground for goats, the sustenance of choice for a Dead Hungarian Footballer apparition. Cows can’t even survive a moderate South Texas summer, so I can’t get mad at Pusky for not setting up his residence here. But I can get angry when he logs into Gchat and ignores my friendly messages? Yes.

I could understand this behavior if Pusky had some pimped out smartphone which did stuff on its own. But deep down in our hearts, we know that Pusky has some prepaid Pocket phone that charges 20 cents per minute on top of a preposterous monthly fee. What bothers me is that Ferenc obviously is logging into Gchat at cybercafes to chat with somebody. And that somebody is not me.

This time of the year brings out the worst in me. I wouldn’t snatch the crutches from Tiny Tim, but if he fell and got a face full of snow in front of me, I wouldn’t help him up. This time of year, while carolers sing songs of Christmas and farmers lock their barns to keep lunatics out of mangers, Sepp Blatter uses Pusky’s name in vain. Some executive committee chooses to adorn a goal with the blessing of Pusky without his express prior written permission. Blasphemy!

Not even an email.

So what are we to do, the chosen few? Pusky has touched but a handful with his blessed spirit, selecting us to protect his good name and derange wikipedia long before Artur Borac yelled about corn. As political prosecutions threaten the Australian founder of a website dedicated to transparency, we find inspiration in a kernel of dissent. Eric Cantona’s call to arms fell on deaf ears, yet the cries and coordinated d-n-s attacks of the “anonymous” hackers bring fortune five hundred companies to their knees.

Pusky predicted all of this, of course. Only as a transient apparition that hopped continents to feast on goat’s blood could he understand & embrace the 21st century. Despite resource wars and netflix streaming slowing down server times for entire continents, the open source expression of ideas sends shivers down the dictator’s spine. You want control? You want denial? Smoke a j and go to a feisty showing of the Rocky Horror Picture show, ’cause you won’t find any of that in this neck of the woods. You can take Pusky’s name and slap it on a goal for the greater good of Castrol’s oil ad campaign, but we can smell the tar balls on the Gulft Coast a mile away.

So, when Pusky’s twitter account fell silent, I felt afraid but not alone. Until I found the twitter account of the man who would threaten to destroy me.

To be continued…

I hadn’t heard from Puskas (or been shaken awake) in about a month. Granted, in that time I had only received the occasional tweet, but certainly you would expect the apparition of an iconic footballer to send a postcard or something. Is that too much to ask?

Pusky and I have a bit of an uneasy relationship. I always see him logged into gmail chat, but if that little bubble were a stoplight, green would not mean go but rather sustained period of social awkwardness. We were never that close and I kinda feel like he just used me for some goat’s blood. But hey, he wishes all of you a Merry Christmas. All of you.

I know, I know. The last line is not very PC, but hey, by the time the multicultural alliance gathered serious steam, Pusky was in the later years of his life. Still, from me personally, I wish a happy holidays to everyone. Especially the heathens. My one wish is that Pusky stay on the old continent (or wherever he is)  and never ever return to haunt the prairie mansion or my future Texas ranchito.

Oh, and Puskas apparently is now on Facebook. Hope he doesn’t upload any sensitive information in the false expectation of privacy.

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.

EPILOGUE/CRUDE PRELUDE?….

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…

And I’m kinda worried about my dogs, Ralph and Bella. That’s the likely next target/victim if sangre de chivo is not made available asap.

Still, I’m a little too practical. A bit too rational. I believe in the good of humanity and our natural inclination towards common sense and middle ground. Even a damned and wandering spirit has some grasp of reason. I invited “Pusky” to chat, and oddly enough, a few of the loose-ends tied up nicely.

So “Pusky” did not get a taste of goat’s blood last night and the freezer was empty because of my mom’s cleaning. Improbable, but possible. And as for my younger brother losing at beer pong, in any variety, this is well within the realm of possibility. I also inferred that Pusky attended this party (of which I was not invited) and that would explain his prior social engagement.

But the next few lines, inappropriate for minors, may send shivers down your spine. I slept like a baby last night at Ricardo’s, but tonight I kinda-sorta-fear for my life. I had planned on watching the MLS Cup final with my stepdad, bro, and Ricardo. But…

Ominous? Bone-chilling? I think the use of “All Caps” in Hungarian is not a good thing, but I’m really not super culturally sensitive. Perhaps it’s a nod and wink? I also cannot shake that maybe, just maybe, this is an actual apparition, the first online apparition. But what if Pusky leads the way for others? Grandpa I’m sorry I didn’t spread your ashes in the Caribbean I had to use my work vacation to help a friend move! Please stop direct messaging me on twitter you are eating up all my monthly texting!

But this could also be a hoax. I like to trust my readers, hold them dear and close, but…if this is a joke please stop shaking me in my sleep and covering my couch in blood. Of course, when questioned about his existence, Pusky got testy…

If this gets any creepier then I have one recourse. I must KILL the spirit of Pusky…but how?

…the half hour early email makes me wonder…I think this is some polite UK guy. First off, blowing me off with notice is just a bit too proper and polite for my bro. It is definitely not Santi. Santi would be all “yeah dude that idea for a post sounds great…I’ll get it to you later.” And then I’d be, what do you mean by later.” And Santi would be all “Did you read that hysterical article on Run of Play?”

Definitely not Santi. I also was a bit thrown off by the content of the email. Especially how he ended it.

Pusky? PUSKY? I have no Hungarian friends, have never visited the country, but am pretty sure that creating a nickname by shortening the last name and adding a “y” is an Americanism. This dude is 1) Sick, 2) Clever, and 3) As American as apple pie. And here’s the most disturbing part…

I get off twitter for five minutes, my new record, and head down to the creepy, dark basement of my haunted prairie mansion. The wind stops howling for a bit, the clouds cover the moon, and the “back part” of the basement has no natural lighting. But the lights work fine, so I walk without focusing on the wooden Christmas elves’ wandering eyes. The shadows…they’re odd. But I get to the freezer, feel a tingling sensation, reach to open the door, my arm goes numb, and I swear somebody taps me on the back.

But nobody is there. And Puskas has already canceled our arrangement/shakedown. I turn back to the freezer, open the door, expecting to see some really old and nasty KFC buckets, maybe some rocky road ice cream (maybe not), and of course, from the “trying to fit in with the cool D & D crowd” sangre de chivo. Don’t judge – santeria was big at my high school. It’s like wearing a letter jacket or going to a crappy low scoring Friday night (American) football game. You just do it and don’t enjoy it but do it.

And get this. The freezer is empty. EMPTY. EMPTY. No KFC. No nothing. I’m creeped out, and my mind turns to every horror film I have ever seen – and the unspoken rules of victims. First off, leave the creepy Prairie mansion. Second, LEAVE the creepy prairie mansion. So tonight I am crashing on my amigo Ricardo’s couch tonight. Pusky can go to town on the couch pillows and smear stuff or whatever. I hope he enjoys his “prior engagement.”

Oh, and I invited him to gmail chat…

But for those of you too cool for twitter, you missed a rare livetweet seance event involving a spooky old prairy mansion and a dead Hungarian footballer. But the story just got a bit weirder…

I got back from painting my family’s rentals, checked my specially designated-uber professional futfanatico gmail account, and I had a little gift waiting. A gift from Ferenc Purczeld Biró. A hop to wikipedia showed this was the birth name of one Ference Puskas, the Real Madrid legend with a cannon of a shot.

A hoax? Highly probable. Right now the prime suspect is missing writer Santi Ramos who is buried in a library doing doctoral research. I suspect that Fredo is too emotionally drained to pull such a stunt although that Russell character seems rebellious enough and has the futfanatico email address. It could also be my younger brother. But something else bothers me….

What if, just what if, this actually is the spirit of Puskas? I mean, apparitions have been spooking hotels, graveyards, and abandoned churches for millenia. Why not a gmail account? Or even twitter? Tonight, at the stroke of midnight US central time, I will be soundly asleep and tucked into my bed. I will not have any goats blood whatsoever on the premises. Let’s see what happens. And please say a prayer…