1.) Cesc and Nasri stay.

The least likely of the three, but I wouldn’t mind if it happened.

2.) Arsene sells Cesc and Nasri, then takes that money and buys Mata, Mertesacker, Parker, Gotze, one of Jagielka/Cahill/Samba/Dann, and someone incredible that we’ve never heard of.

Basically pull a Dalglish after selling Torres. A little risky, and not necessarily in character for Arsene, but hey, what do desperate times call for?

3.) Arsene sells Cesc and Nasri, then buys 37 teenage French and English wingers from the lower divisions and Barcelona’s B team.

No. Shit. This is going to happen, isn’t it?

4.) Arsene sells Cesc and Nasri, and then nothing.

I’m genuinely scared of this. I think I’ll be waving the white flag if this happens.
I’m grateful for Arsene, and his commitment to his guys has always been amazing, but sometimes it borders on the delusional.

Hey, I realize that this about more than Arsenal.

Cesc has always been a Barcelona guy at heart and I can appreciate that.
The guy gave his best (and his best was, quite frankly, the best) for eight seasons.
He’s earned the right to leave if he wishes.

With Nasri, it’s a little harder to let slide, since it’s pretty much about money.
Arsenal spent a lot of money on him, waited three seasons for him to develop, and then watched him have one great half-season and then completely disappear when the team really needed him most.

Arsenal won’t pay him more than $150,000 a week (a week!), and so it’s off to City, the bumpkin flush with oil money. Arsene sticks with his guys when they slump a bit, but if Nasri disappears for half a season, Mancini’s going to strangle him with that scarf. Ask Adebayor, Bellamy, Given, Wright-Phillips, or Johnson how that’s working out.

It’s a bad economy.
I can understand the importance of getting everything you think you’re worth.
I still don’t have to like it.

What bothers me most, I think, is that I could never imagine Arsenal as a place where someone might actively want to leave. That these players have to go elsewhere to feel like they can contend; that Arsenal is just another club, or–worse yet–a selling club. And that weird, inescapable feeling that Arsene, the mighty Professor, is just fiddling away while everything around him burns.

It’s not that I ever really got away from reading.
I didn’t have a television in Miami, so I spent my time leaning against the streetlamps of the Internets or reading Odd Man Out by Matt McCarthy or The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz or The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers or The Book of Basketball by Bill Simmons or the New York Times or The Economist or whatever I could get my hands on.

But this time I’m reading aloud.
When my mother was bedridden and couldn’t hold a book, I used to read Shel Silverstein to her.
I used to read poetry to her, or the Bible, or anything she felt like hearing.
I hadn’t read aloud in years. Not since she passed, at least.

So I read to Corey.
It makes her sit still for awhile and listen.
Satisfies the old repressed ham buried under layers of calm restraint.
Lets me hear to how the words spill off the page.
And lets us spend conscious time together away from glowing screens.

To tell you the truth, I love it. I’d do it all day if I could.

See?

You didn’t burst into flames. Or grow hooves and a tail.

Yes, I know Barca plays ‘the beautiful game,’ ‘the way futbol is meant to be played,’ ‘the epitome of possession football.’
Fuck, I know that UNICEF is their shirt sponsor (though not after this season, so I can feel a little better about it now).
In spite of all that, I still can’t stand them.

And to hate Barca is not to love La Real, mind you.
Mourinho’s actually more amusing than irritating, and it’s always entertaining watching Real in their usual undignified pant (tm Michael Lewis) to overpay stars du jour in a desperate attempt to get back to the top of the league.
Not realizing, of course, that who Barca plays isn’t nearly as important as how they play.
That they’ve found (and grow) the perfect players for their style of football.

I hate Barca because of Henry.
And Hleb, whom they didn’t need but talked into signing anyway, just ’cause they’re Barca.
And because of Fabregas, whom they’re after for the exact same reasons.
(Hint: he’s not going to start. Anyone in their right mind knows that.)
And because of Henrik Larsson five years ago in the Champions League final.
And because of Bendtner’s final royal fuck-up in an Arsenal uniform (God willing)last season.
And because everyone there seems to think that the Arse should let Cesc go because Barca, like, totally wants him and keeping him is just so (huff, huff) unfair.

They’re Lea Thompson.
The rest of football is Mary Stuart Masterson.

Fuck you, Xavi and Pique and Iniesta. Life is suffering.

Sweet fella.
A little thin up top right now, if you know what I mean, but still the man.
Dignified and kind. Wins arguments by Jedi mind trick.
Has a logic that says, “OK, I know you’re wrong, but tell you what–I won’t rub it in when you fuck up.”
Has a stent in a heart valve, so he has to be a little fragile. For the audience, you know.

Casting: Lock Tom Wilkinson and Alan Alda in a small room with three handles of Scotch and a chainsaw and let nature take its course. Winner gets the part.

Mom:

Strong, loving, and loyal.
But they still haven’t found the body of the last guy who crossed her.
Makes baby talk with the grandkids, but get out of line and see just what happens.
Smiles constantly, but carries a very real threat in the shadows.

Casting: Mary McDonnell. Someone who could bake you cookies in one breath, then mercilessly snap your fucking neck in the next.

Obama: Gets to play the responsible grown-up fed up with a typically dithering Congress, which–let’s face it–is probably his best role. Gets to raise the debt ceiling without having to cave and/or chop Social Security and Medicare. Puts the Tea Party in its place and makes the Republicans look like chumps for squandering what little leverage they had. Bulletproofs himself from potential impeachment by saying, “Somebody had to do something other than argue.”

Republicans: Paint Obama as a man who’s willing to circumvent the process, thus creating an even more partisan 2012 election. Show the far right that the president doesn’t really care about responsible government finances. Escape the crisis without having to raise taxes on wealthy corporations or multimillionaires.

Democrats: Get to be the party that saved the economy and can take credit for any recovery in the next year or so. Can (somewhat truthfully) paint the Republicans as obstructionists who were willing to steer the country into the ditch for a few more votes in Arizona. Can avoid cutting social insurance programs, which they’ve been defending…oh, about forever.

America: Doesn’t face a massive interest-rate hike and/or crazy economic fluctuation. Hopefully, finally, mercifully gets galvanized for a national third-party movement. Gets to vote a lot of House members out next November for taking us right to the fucking brink.

Having intelligent, well-informed conversations about the game, and about the tournament, and about the players, and about the sport in general.

Mike (60-something guy–thick, scraggly gray beard): You know why I like the women’s game more than the men’s game? Less diving and rolling around on the ground, you know? Less simulation.

Me (30-something guy–haven’t shaved in a couple of days): That’s true, I guess. The refs tend to wave play on a lot more.

Mike: And when they get tackled, they get right back up. Which leads me to one inescapable conclusion.

Me: Which is?

Mike: (Pause.)The women are tougher.

Talking about tactical substitutions, the difference between a yellow-card worthy and a red-card worthy offense.
No lesbian comments except from one of the counter guys, and that was in the 85th minute.
And finally, when Wambach nodded home with nearly no time to play, a whole shop full of guys (ranging from late teens to early-60′s) high-fived and cheered.

Feels like progress to me.

If

the sight of Band of Brothers on cable TV causes me to drop everything I’m doing and watch the entire marathon,

then

buying the series on DVD will allow me to actually stop watching, since I can watch whenever I want.

Right?

Right?

You have every right to tell me that I can have the job if I move to a certain area.

You do not have the right to tell me that I can maybe sorta have the job if I move to the area–which is five times more expensive than where I’m living–and then work my ass off for a month for an amount well below the legal minimum wage (or roughly one-fifteenth of my freelance rates), and THEN you’ll decide whether you want to hire me or not.

You may ask, “Well, how’s that different from an internship?”

In an internship, you sign an agreement.
I will work for three months for this particular wage, and the company I’m working for is under no obligation to hire me.
You go in there with no illusions, knowing exactly what your situation is and exactly what you’re getting into.

No one’s giving you this kinda sorta bullshit.
It’s quid pro quo: I give you ideas and work, you give me something for my book and a paycheck I can live on.

In the year I’ve been out of VCU, I’ve worked at four agencies.
One of the biggest names in the business.
A promising start-up.
An established regional agency.
A local design shop.

My partner and I went to San Francisco to work at the start-up.
They were in a scheduling pinch and needed somebody to come in for a couple of weeks.
They had every opportunity to lowball us, but they didn’t.
They paid us a fair rate. They put us up in a nice hotel for our time there.
Basically, they treated us like professionals.

When we came back from SF, we worked for the established regional agency, and it was the same story.
They needed someone to help them concept.
They paid us fairly for our time, and we gave them the best ideas we could.
We gave them ideas, they gave us money.
Fair enough.

Then I went to work for one of the best agencies in the business.
I’d said from the start that I’d take an internship from only two particular agencies, and this was one of those two.
I signed the papers.
I knew there was at least a one-in-two chance that they wouldn’t offer me a full-time slot, but still I went.
I have no regrets.
I had the opportunity to work with some amazing people and live in a beautiful city, and after three months, I came home with two pieces for my book.

But every now and again, I still come across these kinds of “offers.”

Now, I realize that some people would just tell me to get over it.
That it’s part of the business.
That it’s the sort of thing I have to do if I really want to be in advertising.

Fuck.
That.

I worked 60 hours a week for the two years before Brandcenter just so I could get my debts down to the point where I could go to grad school for advertising.

Then I worked the 85-hour weeks that most BC students put themselves through for two years, sacrificing two relationships, straining lots of friendships, and nearly ruining my health on a couple of occasions.

Then I took an internship at one of the best, busiest agencies in the business, busting my ass for peanuts for three months, including nights and weekends, on nearly every brand they had.

Don’t you fucking tell me that I don’t really want to be in advertising.

Look, I don’t have a problem with trying out.
All I ask is that you pay me my freelance rate for the duration of my tryout.

So that–on the off chance that it doesn’t work out–I haven’t moved to an absurdly expensive city and worked extremely hard with nothing to show for it.

I give you ideas, you give me enough to pay for groceries, bills, and next month’s rent. Simple as that.

I’m doing some contract work right now.
I’m in my hometown with my girlfriend, surrounded by friends and family, making good scratch, doing pretty well for myself.
I’m looking, but I’m not in a hurry.
I’m hoping the right kind of place will come along.

–Ezra Pound, “Salutation”

Usually, those stories have little or nothing to do with me.

Most of the time, I just happened to be present for something spectacular.
Like when someone told the funniest joke of all time or snagged the Holy Grail of phone numbers or broad-jumped a banquet table just to win a bet or almost died or dined with a head of state or had the Governor (now Senator) of my great state spill a martini all over him on Election Night.

But when I do tell stories of my life, they’re almost always from home.
Which, to me, will always be Richmond, Virginia.

One of my favorites is about these kids I grew up with from Cleveland.
Two families, crammed into the same house. Almost identical, really.
Two wiseass moms.
Two older sisters, two middle brothers, two younger brothers.
Crazy as hell, and just about always up for anything.

We lost track of each other over time, all of us.
Everyone went to the four winds, just like everyone in our neighborhood did.
But I never forgot.

And when I found them through the sometimes annoying magic of the interwebs, the first thing I should’ve said to all of them was, simply,
Thank you.

Thank you for the thousands of football games (including people running into Dad’s boat),
and baseball games in that broiling sun,
and soccer matches in the dusty front yard (I still remember you almost breaking my finger, Shayne),
and all-night Nintendo sessions,
and impromptu wrestling matches,
and basketball games all over the neighborhood,
and bike rides all over the known world.

Those meant (and still mean) so much to me.
I can’t even watch–let alone play–any sport without thinking of you.
I tell my nieces and nephews and godchildren and friends’ children about our times together, and they laugh in such a way that, just for a moment, I’m there again.

Thank you all–all you Visniches and Dresplings and Adens and Lius and Jetts and McNeers and Heilmans and Greenes and Johnsons and Harrises and Simmonses and Clarks and DuVons and Mortons and Hierholzers and Adamses and Bartlams and Dunns and Ciampas and Robinses and Blateckys and anyone else I might’ve left off (not by design, I promise)–for giving a kid with a dying mother and a father desperately trying to hold every damn thing together some sanctuary, and yes, a bigger family.

Not a day goes by that I don’t think of you in some way, shape, or form.
And when I think about you, the skies are blue.

Now, that’s what I should’ve said.

Instead, it was a cursory nod of the head, a firm handshake, pleasantly surprised “oh, fancy meeting you here,” and on with the routine of our lives, and why not?
Time had passed.

We lost another one today. One of those crazy, amazing kids from Cleveland.
That’s three gone from our street in the last decade or so.
And it’s one less chance to say what I should’ve said:
“Thank you. Thank you so much. I never would’ve made it this far without you.”

So I wanted to say it now, and to as many of you as I can.
Life’s too damn short.

Thank you so much for having been there.
For having been a part of my life, and my father’s life.
You may not believe it,
You may not know it,
But you made all the difference in the world.