world cup | Literature and Libation

Only twenty eight minutes in, the game remains a 2-2 tie. My body came out strong from the starting whistle, showing natural talent and jeux de balle, dominating the first 15 minutes with little resistance from my brain’s defensive backs. My brain, despite glowing scouting reports and promising qualifying matches, failed to live up to expectations, and arrived to the game seemingly unmotivated. Taking advantage, my legs slipped one past the keeper (I warned my brain not to put the Parietal lobe in the net) around the 10th minute.

Relentless on the attack, my body scored another goal in the 16th minute; an outward curling rocket backed by energy and youth, launched perfectly from just outside the eighteen yard box. It looked, for a moment, given the weak play and lack of enthusiasm (and a .5 GPA one year in high school), that my brain would concede even more. At 2-0, my brain looked outclassed; defeated before the game had even really begun.

But life, like the beautiful game, remains ever unpredictable. My body’s lead striker and goal scorer (my right leg) went down with a career ending injury in only the 17th minute of play. His future had been all but determined – national tournaments and college scholarships – but a broken tibia saw him carried off on an orange gurney by worried medical staff, and gave my brain a fighting chance to turn the game around.

By the 20th minute my brain had regained composure, and stopped the constant pressure on their net. Without my right leg to support it, my left leg stood in the middle of the field awkwardly, unable to do much for the team. My arms and torso were nearly as ineffective, but did manage to defend without giving away too many reckless free kicks. It didn’t take long for my brain to ruin my body’s clean sheet; a sweeping cross from my Cerebellum to the awaiting head of some college applications set the crowd roaring. A silly mistake from my left elbow in the 24th minute left the net wide open for photography and beer, who with a quick give-and-go around a clearly fatigued left ankle, tied the game.

Now it’s a stalemate, neither side taking chances to commit and push players forward to score, concerned about the break-away counter attack, and being vulnerable on defense. My body hasn’t given up, but the loss of their best player clearly demoralized them, and their attacks have been less frequent and less intense over the past 5 minutes. My brain, conversely, has grown bolder and has done well to control the midfield, as the young attacking center mid, writing, has rallied his team with some inspiring dedication and hard work.

It’s unclear how this half will end, but all the momentum has shifted, with my brain boasting more than 65% possession of the ball. I can’t count my body out yet as he’s proven himself strong and resilient in the past, but if the brain keeps up this kind of clever, efficient gameplay, I worry that we’ll soon see the scoreboard much heavier on their side.

Stay tuned for more coverage of this riveting match up.

For match highlights, see:

In 2006, I crossed the ocean blue to watch France play South Korea in Liepzig, Germany. Play each other in a match of football, that is. Real football, where feet kick balls, none of this American hand+egg nonsense. During that big event that happens sometimes. It’s called the World Cup, I think.

My little adventure had me back on European tides for the first time in a long time. My family is British (my little, squishy baby self appeared unto this world in Manchester, England some 26 years ago) and I’ve spent a decent amount of time gallivanting in the countrysides of those neighboring members of the EU.

My earlier trips back to the motherland were during that tragic age where it wasn’t socially, mentally, or physically appropriate for me to be drinking beer. Thank the maker those days are behind me. I missed out on countless pints of traditional British Ale, slowly pulled Guinness in the pubs of Ireland, and myriad tastes of masterfully made German brews.

But in 2006, I was 21. The magical age when your body magically becomes able to process the magic inside of beer that makes it just so…magical. I was also able to legally buy it and not get thrown out of bars, which was a definite plus.

I drank all sorts of beer, most of which had names I couldn’t pronounce. Most of it was good. Some of it was very bad. But I distinctly remember that it was all of the highest quality, served at the perfect temperature, served in proper, made-of-glass glasses. It was like being in my own personal heaven for a week.

I remember thinking that some of the beer tasted funny. Not bad, not off, just different. The ales were a little more pale, somehow. Fewer hops, more yeast.

Harpoon Belgian Pale Ale is brewed in this tradition. It tastes as though it were brewed with aged hops, offering a much more understated hop flavor, which allows the traditional Belgian yeast to permeate the rest of the beer. The hop flavor is not completely absent; it offers just enough flowery citrus to truly put this in the pale ale category.

It maintains a solid, craggy head for a good few minutes after de-bottling. At 5.8% ABV, it’s a tad on the strong side, giving a bit of alcohol aftertaste. But hey, it’s beer; that’s to be expected.

As I finished my glass, my memory sparked. This is the kind of beer that makes you want to go back to Europe. Sit on a little table outside of a pub, watching the soccer hooligans flood the streets and set fire to anything flammable. It’s orange body reflects all of the adventures you had in the days of your misspent, drunken youth.

It washes back a lot of fond memories.

8 out of 10.

Bubbles from Brussels.

Next up: Brooklyn Brown Ale!

Browsing Tags world cup

Coverage of the 2014 Body vs. Brain Match

Review: Harpoon Belgian Pale Ale