This has been the most exciting regular season since the presidency of Calvin Coolidge (although even this season’s hyper-competitiveness and intriguing subplots can’t compare to the 1930-31 season, which culminated in a triumph for the Brooklyn Visitations over the Fort Wayne Hoosiers, but I digress). As the season progresses, we all begin to look to the playoffs with increasing interest, and all the while clips of glorious playoff moments from the past ignite our imaginations. We remember Money pushing off Byron Russell to sink The Shot. Or a young Deke on his back, clutching the ball after his lowly Nuggets produced that deafening upset against the Sonics. How about the image of Jax brushing off Baron Davis’s shoulders during last year’s smackdown of Dallas? But for every memorable moment like these, there are dozens of forgotten ones: flashes of stillborn triumph that have faded into oblivion. Let’s revisit those frozen points in time that could have gone so differently:

- The Audacity of Hope:

Ever since MJ pushed past the Pistons, he seemed to defeat his opponents with too much ease. True, there was that loss to Orlando, but that was Air 45. The counterfeit Jordan. Money never even came close to faltering. There was that one seven-game series against the Knicks in ‘92, but for the most part, adversaries humbly submitted to His Airness. The lasting memory I have of the ‘91 finals is of Magic on some NBA program drooling over that impossible MJ lay-up where he switched hands mid-flight. Clyde and the Blazers just made him shrug. Even the Team of Destiny, Bubba Chuck’s Suns, never really threatened. In fact, sometimes Jordan was a gracious monarch; even though the Bulls went up 3-0 against the Sonics, he was merciful. He spared them the indignity of a sweep, and the eventual 4-2 loss actually flattered Seattle.

There was, however, one moment that could have been. In 1998, the Bulls waltzed their way to the Eastern Conference Finals with customary nonchalance. There, a young, insolent Reggie Miller almost slew the first King. Do you remember Game 4? How Reggie pushed Jordan out of the way and sunk a three in his face? Did you forget that Indy was leading in the fourth quarter of Game 7? But the revolution never came. MJ wore his sixth crown, and Reg had to settle for winning over Tony Gervino and finally gracing the cover of SLAM. Then he went on to become arguably the most annoying broadcaster in the history of Western Civilization. And I use the word “arguably” loosely. Alas.

- Standing on the Shoulders of Giants:

You’ll notice that in my previous discussion of the Bulls’ dominance, I was guilty of saying “Jordan did this…” and “Jordan won that…” I would imagine that those types of statements are uttered often, and probably do not evoke delight in the soul of one Scottie Maurice Pippen. Don’t forget that the ‘94 Bulls won 55 games without the Man. Pip, with his (tragic?) Dickensian name, will always be a great player enveloped in the myth of an even greater player. Would he trade his six titles for one he could have won alone? Probably not, but it still would have been nice for him to get a seventh, Jordan-less ring.

And he almost did. Two images are burned in my memory: One of Pippen donning sunglasses during that post-game interview, almost shrieking at reporters in an exasperated tone of voice that “Phil Jackson is not my coach!” The other is of Scottie in the tunnel after Game 4 of the 2000 Western Conference Finals, kicking and cursing. His Blazers had gone down 3-1 to the Lakers, and they would now surely whimper off into oblivion. I remember thinking “Damn! The Zen Master has really gotten into Pippen’s head!” And I knew that the series was done.

I was wrong. Portland came storming back. They tied up the series and were ahead late in Game 7. By FIFTEEN points. But then they faded. And when Kobe threw that alley to Shaq, it was over. Alas. Shaq and Kobe went on to win three titles, with Shaq winning a fourth before consuming the cap space of the Phoenix Suns like Unicron or Galactus. Portland, in turn, mutated into the Jailblazers, a humorous diversion where players smoked weed and amused everyone except their own fans. More recently, Portland fans have suffered both injury and insult: Greg Oden was lost for the year, and then he got that horrific Mohawk.

- The Ironman Dichotomy:

And so it came to pass that in 1994 Michael Jordan was running around diamonds, while every other elite player rushed to fill the void. And it became evident that Hakeem Olajuwon was the second-best player of the nineties. But before the legend of Clutch City was established, there was another legacy that vanished before it ever materialized.

It may be cruelly ironic now, and I was only a teenager for most of the nineties, so my memory may be deceiving me, but I seem to remember that Knicks fans used to occasionally opine that “the Knicks suck.” Of course, that was because they ultimately failed to win a championship in the Ewing years. Nowadays, the Knicks have set the bar so low that any outing that doesn’t end with Jerome James defecating on the scorer’s table is considered a moral victory. But back to the ‘94 Finals: New York were up 3-2. John Starks was having a great game, going for 27 points—16 in the fourth. He had the rock in his hands for the last shot, the three that would bring a third title to Madison Square. But Starks didn’t even get the chance to miss; The Dream came out of nowhere and shattered Starks’s moment with his fourth block of the game. And like that, it was gone…

Since his days as a Hoya, Ewing was always going to be forever linked to Olajuwon. In that moment, his legacy became (unfairly) this:

“[Ewing] was just not as good as Hakeem Olajuwon, never has been.”
—NY Times; June 23, 1994.

And as for Starks, let’s just say that linguists pinpoint the twenty-second of June in the year nineteen-hundred-and-ninety-four as the exact moment that the phrase “sugar to sh*t” entered the lexicon. The fact that John Starks had a 2-for-18 shooting night in Game 7 of the NBA Finals on that date is entirely coincidental.

- The Half-Life:

In 2001, I thought I saw the future. I was finally coming to terms with living without the Jay-Z of basketball, the hero I loved to root against. And I witnessed what I thought was only the first in a long series of playoff duels: Iverson vs. Carter. The Raptors stole the first game in Philly. AI responded by dropping 54 in Game 2. But Vince was still vicious back then; he snarled and threw back 50. In Game 5, Allen scored 52 as he and his cast of misfits annihilated the Dinos. But Half-Man, Half-Amazing (with the help of countless double- and triple- teams on Iverson) came out on top in the penultimate game before he jetted off to collect his diploma.

The stage was set for Game 7. I remember that the satellite channel that was supposed to show the game went blank. Just static. I feverishly scanned obscure European channels in search of someone, ANYONE, that would be broadcasting the showdown. Sadly, my flipping could only produce a Czech variety show, a stand-up comedy special in Hungarian, An episode of MASH dubbed in German, and some weird Dutch porn/taxidermy channel that was apparently sponsored by NesQuik. No Vince-Iverson. And it was almost dawn, so I couldn’t watch it anywhere else. Alas.

But then the screen flickered. Then it beamed those images to me. And I saw. I watched as Iverson passed. And then passed some more. Iverson don’t pass? He had sixteen dimes. And I was happy. But then Vince had the ball in his had for that last shot. One point down. I gasped. The shot wasn’t short… it was long. And that was Vince’s moment. It wasn’t when he jammed his elbow into the rim a year earlier. That was it. And it passed.

A lot of people have been asking me about my novel, and while it’s difficult to translate some aspects from Arabic to English, I’ll do my best. I’m afraid this post may be scattered and incoherent, but what the hey. The first language barrier comes with the title, which is “Ri’ayat al Shabab”. The phrase comes from the extended name of the Saudi FA, and it means something like “the cultivation of youth”. Of course, that would be a horrible title for a novel in its English mutation, so I’d have to change the whole name. I’m thinking “The Sport of Kings,” because there’s a futbol (soccer) motif running through the whole thing and also because it takes place in the “Kingdom” of Saudi Arabia.

I chose the futbol motif because I wanted to look at tribalism and racism, as well as “religion as an intellectual pursuit” vs. “religion as tradition”, and I feel that there is a mode of thinking that runs through all these strands: people tend to suspend rationality and simply become “fans” of whatever group they’re supposed to belong to. For example, I know people who are, in the literal sense, Muslims, but who have a severe distaste for religion. The fact that they don’t think highly of religion is not the point; the point is that when these same pseudo-Muslims come into contact with non-Muslims, they become, all of a sudden, very defensive of their religion. They identify with Islam in that context not because of the religion itself, but because of the dynamics of the “us-them” relationship. In other words, when in the company of non-Muslims, they become defined by what they are not. The only reason they are Muslims is because they are not non-Muslims. Double negative identity politics, or something. I apologize if I’m babbling incoherently.

That mode of thinking is decidedly “sports-fan”-like in my estimation. If you and I root for the same team, then we share a bond. And in Saudi Arabia, because of how strong tribalism is, this “sports-fan” mentality is even more pronounced. In America, I get the impression that fans don’t take their link to their team beyond a certain point. For example, let’s say John Doe is a Cavs fan, and really hates Kobe Bryant. If Team USA is playing, John Doe will probably applaud Kobe if he contributes to a Team USA victory. Similarly, English fans all gasped in horror on that May day in 2006 when Wayne Rooney was injured a few weeks before the World Cup. Fans of Chelsea, Liverpool, Arsenal and Tottenham didn’t care that Rooney played for Manchester United; he was an England player first and foremost (at least with the World Cup around the corner.)

So the novel starts with a group of Saudi guys hanging around smoking, playing cards, watching TV, and arguing about futbol. One guy, Yusif, defends Saeed Owairan, whom the others are attacking. Owairan is the creator of Saudi Arabia’s most glorious sporting moment: he scored a breathtaking goal in the 1994 World Cup that helped Saudi Arabia beat Belgium and qualify for the second round (YouTube it!). You would think that that would make him a national hero, but you’d be wrong. He played for a club called Shabab, which doesn’t have a large fan-base. Fans of other clubs continue (to this day) to trivialize Owairan’s goal, saying that it was pure luck. Yusif, one of my main characters, argues with his friends concerning this point.

Yusif, incidentally, feels superior to everyone around him. He speaks English fluently and is a voracious reader, and views his countrymen as some sort of tropical-fish-like curiousity. Although he has many friends, he is, in a way, isolated from them. That’s why he gets excited when he meets Hakim. Hakim has a Saudi mother, and his father is from Mauritania. He is Black, and he has lived almost all his life in the States. He therefore speaks broken Arabic, although his comprehension skills are better than his speaking skills. Yusif meets Hakim at the university where they both study English lit. Students at KSU must take some Arabic lit courses, so Yusif offers to help Hakim with that. Yusif wants to help Hakim, but he also feels that this (exotic?) Black man will open up doors to new worlds which are far removed from the dumb-Saudi-infested one he currently occupies.

They meet up at Hakim’s house a couple of times, where Yusif gives Hakim Arabic lessons. The syllabus is: Pre-Islamic Arabic Poetry, Modern Arabian Prose, and Literary Aspects of the Qur’an. (This is based on actual college courses, incidentally). When they aren’t talking about Arabic lit, they discuss basketball, movies…etc. Yusif is comfortable with the fact that HE is the teacher, but begins to feel uneasy when he realizes that Hakim is also a voracious reader. He’s used to being the undisputed intellectual ace among his friends, and he starts to view Hakim as a threat to his cereberal dominance.

There are, by the way, two main characters. Yusif is one. The other is Thnayyan. They never meet. Their stories run parallel to each other. I guess this has to do with another motif: mental illness/schizophrenia/OCD. The novel is divided into two parallel stories. There’s also a division between the first half of the novel, which has a more comic tone, and the second half, which grows heavier and heavier. These divisions even come up in the two main characters names: The best futbol player in Saudi history is named “Yusif al Thunnyan”. In addition, the name “Thunyyan” is derived from the root “thana” which means “dual”.

Thunyyan is religious, but I use stream-of-conciousness to try and show how his mind is liable to wander during prayer; he ends up thinking about breakfast, about girls…etc. He has a strained relationship with his father, which has only gotten worse since the death of Thunyyan’s mother in a traffic accident. Throughout the first half of the novel, Thunyyan barely has any interaction with his father, who is extremely funny when dealing with others but distant with his son. Thunyyan spends the first half of the novel repressing his rage at the inconsiderate behavior which random strangers subject him to. People are constantly cutting him off in traffic, double-parking behind his car…etc. At the mid-way point he finally loses it and beats up a guy in the street. I describe the scene using sexual undertones.

Both Yusif and Thunyyan express horror (well, at least Yusif expresses it. Thunyyan, naturally, represses it) when they hear racist and triablistic remarks uttered by people around them. Yusif is friends with Ra’ad, who is a playa. Ra’ad smokes a pipe and has a silver cell phone he uses to spend hours talking to girls. Yusif feels conflicted with regards to Ra’ad’s womanizing; he feels appalled, but also strangely admires Ra’ad and even envies him. But back to the racist remark: While eating at Fuddruckers, Ra’ad asks Yusif if he’s still teaching that “abd”. “Abd” is a far more common, slightly less offensive version of the word “nigger”. Yusif, shocked, admonishes Ra’ad for using such vocabulary. But as the novel progresses, Yusif’s thoughts (stream-of -conciousness) begin to contain more and more racist content towards Hakim, his intellectual nemesis. As for Thnyyan, whenever he begins to admire a teacher (professor, religious lecturer…etc) his relatives spew venom because those teachers come from families which do not have the desired tribal pedigree. But unlike Yusif, who confronts, Ra’ad, Thnyyan simply gets acid reflux and remains silent. However, I should point out that although Thnayyan objects to those tribalistic remarks, he himself believes that people should stick to tribal ideals when they marry (an idea I personally do NOT prescribe to, by the by).

So anyway, that’s pretty much the first half of the novel. And although it may seem heavy, it’s actually laden with jokes and humorous situations, verbal games, and things like that. Like when the guys are sitting around in the opening scene, a hot Lebanese singer appears on TV, which causes one of them to scream and gesture wildly, proclaiming his undying lust for her. This sparks a conversation during which another guy poses a hypothetical: If you could spend a month-long vacation with this Lebanese singer (her name is Haifa), during which she would pleasure you in every way imaginable, including cooking you mini-pancakes and omelettes….but the price you have to pay is that you must agree to be raped by Andre the Giant, would you do it?

In the second half of the novel, the second semester is just starting. A scene with Yusif and Hakim ignites Yusif’s character arc. He is growing increasingly threatened by Hakim, especially now that he is no longer teaching him anything. They still remain outwardly very friendly, and in fact Hakim has no idea that Yusif is feeling threatened. When they start talking about books, Yusif is horrified to learn that Hakim has read and enjoyed James Joyce’s notoriously difficult Finnegans Wake. Then Yusif asks Hakim about religion. Previously there had been scenes that show that Hakim does have a spiritual side, and Yusif asks him about it. Hakim reveals that the basis of his faith is verse 82 of chapter 4 in the Qur’an entitled “Women”. The verse discusses the Qur’an itself, and its (and any book’s) claims to divinity:

“If it had been from any other than God they would have surely found therein much discrepancy”

Yusif becomes doubly intrigued. He considers the possibility that maybe Hakim is on to something. But mainly, he sees this as a perfect opportunity to re-establish his intellectual dominance. If he can find an unequivocal error in the Qur’an, he will not only shatter the basis of Hakim’s faith, but he will also prove, once and for all, that he is more intelligent. Yusif’s behavior grows more and more erratic as the novel progresses. His eyes are black and he grows increasingly hostile (in thought alone) towards Hakim. And his thoughts also become more and more racist, he can’t stomach the possibility that this “Black” man will triumph over him in this self-imposed battle, of which Hakim is, for the most part, oblivious. Also, there are numerous references to chess. Hakim is the “Black” king whom Yusif wants to kill.

Yusif’s begins to exhibit symptoms of OCD, because he is so fixated on finding an “error” in the Qur’an. For example, while sitting with his friends, at one point he stares into space for a few minutes and then suddenly blurts out: “I finally had a wet dream!” an unexpected exclamation which amuses his friends greatly. His parents are also concerned and try to get to the bottom of it. His mother is convinced that her son is the victim of the “evil eye”.

Thunyyan’s relationship with his father also comes into focus. At the beginning of the semester, Thunyyan’s class start discussing Nathaniel Hawthorne’s “The Scarlet Letter”. The class discuss how the scarlet A that Hester Prynne wears is a result of two things: her adultery, and her failure to reveal the name her child’s father. The prof asks what her sin was, and Thnayyan blurts out: “She did nothing wrong…” and then pauses before adding: “except adultery.” When he goes home, his father is reading a newspaper, and Thnayyan relives in slow motion the events of the accident that led to his mother’s death. Thnayyan was driving. He resents his father because he feels that he blames him. And maybe Thnayyan blames himself a little, as well. He tries to look his father in the eye, but, as is repeated many times prior, he always avoids looking at him. Thnayyan starts to speak in a defiant tone, saying: “I did nothing wrong,” but then he breaks down and starts crying. He feels that he has lost his manhood because he would have liked to sob in front of anyone else. Just not him.
Thnayyan’s father walks over and wipes his son’s hair. Through internal monologue, we see how difficult even this small gesture is for him. We also see that maybe he does blame his son. Also, Thnayyan’s father sees his wife’s death as a “castration” of sorts. He is now a eunuch.

I’m glossing over lots of stuff, but there is one event towards the end that makes Thnayyan begin to understand his father’s psychological make-up. They go to a wedding. The way weddings work in Saudi Arabia is you go into a large room full of men only (the women have a separate, much more enjoyable and festive function). Everyone shakes the groom’s hand. So Thnayyan’s father notices that the groom is extremely nervous. He gets a look in his eyes that Thanyyan has seen before: his father is about to say something funny, so he strains, trying to listen. Thnayyan’s father leans in close to the groom and says something which is untranslatable, but which literally means “May you tear her up in good health!”It is a crude reference to the groom’s wife-to-be. But the remark is also very funny. So the groom looks at Thnayyan’s father in shock for a second and then bursts out laughing. Thnayyan begins to see that this is how his father expresses himself: even when he wants to do something kind (relieve the groom’s nervousness), he does it in a way that could be construed as cruel (a crude, vulgar, albeit funny remark).

As for Yusif, I want to keep his end of the story open-ended.

I think I made a mistake in my first draft by having too many transitions between Yusif and Thunyyan. I guess it makes the two stories harder to follow and gives the whole an undesirable jerky quality. What do you think?

I know a lot of you read my blog and then fail to comment (you know who you are! That includes you, Mr. Enaya.) But I would appreciate any feedback. I’m in the re-writing stage at this point, so any suggestions would be helpful. I’m still open to making massive changes before sending it to the publisher. Please share your thoughts. I’m waiting.

What do Walt Whitman and James Joyce have in common? Well, they share the dubious distinction of being literary giants I hate. I was looking forward to Whitman’s “Leaves of Grass,” too. I couldn’t find it over here in Riyadh, so I bummed a copy off a professor. Unfortunately, Whitman wasted my time by insisting on glorifying shoulderblades and describing how he rolled around in a field of New Hampshire foliage, or something. Hey Walt, get a crackpipe. Some pop-tarts. Something. And as for that f*ckface Joyce, let me just say this: if you ever get to the point where you’re contemplating suicide, I advise that you keep at least 129.6 cubic yards between yourself and “Ulysses.” And yes, I realize that cubic yards are units of volume, not distance, so shut the hell up.

I apologize for that Ike Turner moment, dear reader. You know I love you, honest. It just irks me, nay, vexes me, to remember Whitman and Joyce. And don’t even get me started on Ezra Pound. Ezra Pound is a bitch. The good news is that reading isn’t always a pain in the sphincter. As per Fluxland’s request, I’ve compiled a list of Tariq’s Top Ten Books. They’re not necessarily in order. And let me give a nod to the works that just missed making the cut: Philip Roth’s “The Human Stain,” “Lord of the Flies” by William Golding, Oscar Wilde’s “The Importance of Being Earnest” and “Palace Walk” by Naguib Mahfouz. And remember, if the following books evoke in you the same venom I feel torwards Joyce and Whitman, it doesn’t mean you’re dumb. It just means I’m smarter than you. Now, without further ado:

1- “The Brothers Karamazov” by Fyodor Dostoevsky.

This is probably my favorite novel. It’s dark and distrubing, but funny as hell too. There’s a chapter titled “Delirium” which is, to use the proper academic term, awesome. People always think “Crime and Punishment” is Dostoevsky’s masterpiece. Well, I read “Crime and Punishment”, and it is a masterpiece. This, however, is THE masterpiece.

Note: Anyone who wants to read ANY Russian translations, whether it’s Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Chekhov, Turgenev, or anyone else, do yourself a favor and get the Richard Pevear/Larissa Volokhonsky translations. They’re head and shoulders above the rest. Don’t be fooled if someone recommends Constance Garnett.

2- “Breakfast of Champions” by Kurt Vonnegut.

This is not usually regarded as Vonnegut’s best work. That honor is traditionally reserved for “Slaughterhouse 5″. But this is my favorite. It’s just so damn funny. Evidently, Vonnegut breaks the cardinal rule for playas: He gets high on his own supply.

3- “The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman” by Laurence Sterne.

I have no evidence of this, but I’m convinced that there could have been no Vonnegut without Sterne. He wrote this in the 18th century, when people were writing boring epistolary novels. That would be like if the Wu-Tang Clan built a time machine, went back to 1629, bumrushed the Globe theater, pushed the wigged pansies reciting Beowulf off stage, and broke into a stirring rendition of “Protect Ya Neck”.

This is the literary equivalent of a wild goose chase. There is no point to the novel. Tristram is trying to write his life story, but keeps getting distracted by other stuff. It contains weird things, such as:

- The deed of some piece of land in French.

- The text of a baptism in Latin.

- Random drawings.

- A black page to commemorate the death of a character. The death and black page occur around page 30.

- Page 271 being followed by page 283, with Tristram apologizing for the poor quality of the missing pages. He says they were so bad he just had to tear them out.

In conclusion, if Vonnegut gets high on his own supply, then Sterne has a weed garden on the balcony.

4- Swann’s Way by Marcel Proust.

It only took the first page to leave me awestruck. Proust has this way of awakening nostalgia in the reader that is unprecedented. There’s a bittersweet quality to Proust, because his writing is beautiful, with its winding sentences and startling imagery, and yet you find yourself feeling a tinge of sadness because you’re longing for some memory or other. The funny thing is when you realize that those memories are not your own.

5- The Autobiography of Malcolm X as told to Alex Haley.

Malcolm is the only man on this list I actually love. I don’t love his writing, I love him. He’s my favorite person of the past century, bar none. If I ever get to heaven, I’d like to kiss his forehead. And the thing is, as monumental as his work as a civil rights leader was, that’s not why I love him. As you read his life, you’ll find that Malcolm always invests so much in an idea, and yet, when he discovers that it is flawed, he simply discards said idea. For Malcolm, his interests never matter. It’s always about doing what’s right, regardless of what he has to lose. And that concept alone is more than any athlete, entertainer or author has ever given me. At the end of the excellent Spike Lee film of his life, Ossie Davis says that Malcolm was “our living, breathing manhood.” That’s a nice sentiment, but I look at him in a different way: Malcolm is Integrity personified. So, even though I’m not Black, I claim my share of the man.

6- Anything by Noam Chomsky.

In this age where The Daily Show with Jon Stewart has become the most reliable source of news, reading Chomsky should be compulsory. I mean, CNN? Really? Chomsky shows you what’s what in the world today using a calm, measured approach. He relies not on inflamed rhetoric but on his tireless research and voracious reading. And in his spare time, Chomsky also revolutionalized the study of linguistics. But I generally read him for his political works.

7- The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran.

Gibran tells the story of a fictional Prophet who is about to leave Orphalese and go back home. The people of Orphalese, sad to see him go, beg him to give each of them one last lesson. The book is basically the “prophet’s” observations on topics such as love, friendship, work, marriage, children, pleasure, sickness…etc. To quote amazon.com: ” [Gibran's] words have a power and lucidity that in another era would surely have provoked the description “divinely inspired” . Plus, Holly has read it, so how difficult can it be to get through?

8- Cities of Salt by Abdelrahman Munif.

This guy is a literary giant who, like Rodney Dangerfield, doesn’t get enough respect. Munif examines the discovery of oil in Saudi Arabia (although the country remains unnamed) and subsequent American presence. But the topical relevance is not the reason I love this book. Rather, Munif has a unique gift for illustrating how people communicate through oblique dialogue, gestures and facial expressions. This is what Graham Greene had to say about Cities of Salt:

“An Arab novel–and an excellent one at that. It opens up new vistas to the imagination.”
True dat.

9- Catch 22 by Joseph Heller.

I initially forgot to include this on my list, which is absurd. Speaking of which, if you want to read a hilarious novel about the absurdities inherent in almost all human institutions, this is your book. A soldier drafted into the American army can go home if they are insane. However, there is a catch: if you want to go home, then that proves that you’re not insane. Nuff said.

10- Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad.

Francis Ford Coppola’s Apocalypse Now! is based on this book, although Conrad’s novella is set in the Congo and not Vietnam. The first time I read it, I HATED it. I was reading it wrong. I was flipping through it quickly (that’s how you should read Dostoevsky, incidentally) . I was looking for plot. I missed the point. You have to read at a leisurely pace, soaking up the language and the imagery. You could say this lies at the intersection between the novel and poetry, and it’s truly astounding how Conrad captures the dichotomy that drives the human heart. He effectively shows how racism manifests itself not only in a social setting, but on a psychological level.

As you can probably tell from my list, novels are my main interest. I’m not really a poetry guy, but I thought I’d include a bonus poetry section, just for sh*ts and giggles. Here are some poems I like:

- “To His Coy Mistress” by Andrew Marvell.

- “We Real Cool” by Gwendolyn Brooks is a very short poem with rapid-fire, almost rap-like verses. Of course, no rap verse is as good as these.

- “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” captures self-loathing in remarkable fashion.

- Langston Hughes always manages to dissect the complexties of race very well.

- “The Painter” by John Ashberry is a sestina. For those of you who don’t know what a sestina is, it’s the most difficult form of poetry to write in. There are no rhymes, only six end-words, and you have to…Instead of getting too immersed in the technical aspects of sestinas, let me just say this: Imagine if someone thrusted a protractor in your unsuspecting hands and demanded that you produce a delicious omelette using only that instrument and your scrotum. That seemingly impossible task pales in comparison to writing a sestina that doesn’t read like a J.A. Adande column. Which is why “The Painter” is so awesome.

But my absolute favorite has to be e.e. cummings. Instead of talking about him, I’ll let “the boys i mean are not refined” speak for itself:

the boys i mean are not refined

they go with girls who buck and bite

they do not give a fuck for luck

they hump them thirteen times a night

one hangs a hat upon her tit

one carves a cross on her behind

they do not give a shit for wit

the boys i mean are not refined

they come with girls who bite and buck

who cannot read and cannot write

who laugh like they would fall apart

and masturbate with dynamite

the boys i mean are not refined

they cannot chat of that and this

they do not give a fart for art

they kill like you would take a piss

they speak whatever’s on their mind

they do whatever’s in their pants

the boys i mean are not refined

they shake the mountains when they dance

I am melancholy. I’m sure this declaration has made many hands clutch many chests. Perhaps beads of cold sweat have started to form on the brows of concerned readers. What has caused Tariq, that stoic beacon of stateliness, to feel sadness? Well, such emotions bridge the gap between Tariq the myth/legend/sexual champion and Tariq the man. But I digress. You can exhale, dear reader; there is no real reason for you to be afraid.

I am merely sad because Ronaldinho is no longer the player he once was. This is especially curious considering he’s only 27. Yet it seems that those glory years of 2005 and 2006 are so far away. Even if you didn’t enjoy futbol, when you watched Ronnie in those days you couldn’t help but marvel at a human being who plays a sport like a ninja. His movement was so elastic. The way he manipulated the ball, the way he passed with his back (!), the way he made up new tricks and flicks as he glided past defenders. It was just joyful. I was transfixed.

And yet, despite the fact that I loved watching him, and still harbor hopes of him returning to his former glory, I have never owned a Ronaldinho jersey. I feel uneasy putting the man’s name on my back. I can’t explain it, exactly.

Maybe it’s because I don’t really know him. I don’t look to Ronaldinho for moral or spiritual guidance. I don’t expect him to love me or teach me anything. I don’t love him. Never have. I only loved the way he played. And for a period of time, the Ronaldinhos of the world will have me rooting for them. I will stand up when I see Kevin Garnett pump his fist. I may scream ecstatically when Samuel Eto’o bamboozles a goalkeeper. I remember raising my arms in silent triumph when Allen Iverson beat the mighty Lakers back in 2001, even though I knew he could only win that one game, that he would  inevitably fall short of ultimate glory. But in the end, when the game is over, I’ll simply turn off the TV and do something else, knowing that all these heroes would never spare me a thought, even if they knew my name.

The NBA Slam Dunk Contest has been underwhelming for some time despite sporadic flashes of inspiration. It seems that the well of invention which nurtures the competition has, for the most part, dried up. Last night, a quartet of young dunkers took part in this year’s competition, with the Orlando Magic’s freakishly muscular Dwight Howard taking the crown. In my opinion, although Dwight had some nice dunks, there was nothing earth-shattering in his arsenal; nothing like Vince’s elbow nonsense or Jason Richardson’s twisting impossibility of a dunk. Yet, when his time came, Dwight pulled off his jersey and literally revealed a Superman emblem on his chest, while his teammate Jameer Nelson helped him put on a cape. The crowd, which had been ho-humming it up to that, went positively apesh*t. I feel that this had more to do with the need for light-hearted theatrics than an actual appreciation for the mechanics of dunking. Dwight pretty much had the title sown up as soon as he pulled out that cape.

Now, excuse the jarring segue, but this reminded me of a slew of “good” movies I’ve watched recently. I saw “There Will Be Blood” and “No Country for Old Men”, the two Oscar front-runners. Both films featured awe-inspiring performances from Daniel Day-Lewis and Javier Bardem, respectively. Both are well-written and well-directed. And I regretted seeing both, because they left me thoroughly depressed. The bleakness of these two films encapsulated the latest in a long list of unfortunate viewing choices I’ve made. In the past two weeks I’ve watched Charlie Wilson’s War, Rendition and the excellent documentary No End in Sight. All these are fine films. All these made me want to kill myself.

Upon reflection, I guess the first two films’ utter darkness, coupled with the latter triumvirate’s reminders of the stark realities of current events, were just too much for my tender, sensitive (albeit very manly) psyche. Why was I doing this to myself? Wasn’t I just supposed to be entertaining myself? Suddenly my uppity criticism of my dad’s TV and movie choices (Cybill anyone? For real…) seemed like nonsense. I needed some lightheartedness. SuperBad seemed like it was released in the mid-nineties…eons ago. I found myself eagerly awaiting Will Ferrell’s Semi-Pro (If you haven’t seen his Old Spice ads…)

In the midst of this glum state of mind I popped The Hoax into my DVD player. I was never a fan of Richard Gere, and I hesitated…I almost took out the DVD and went back to Cities of Salt (itself not exactly Will Ferrell territory)… But then I watched. And for the first time in a while, I was glad. This film is exactly what I was looking for. Richard Gere should have been nominated for an Oscar. It turned out to be a smart, funny, engrossing true story which involves a violence-free crime. And not a terrorist in sight.

“SHEEEEEEEIT…I’ll take any nigga’s money if he GIVIN’ it away!”

– Senator Clay Davis from season 4 of HBO’s The Wire

I’ve probably mentioned this before, but I’m standing on the border, the vertical equator dividing two very different cultures which don’t even share an alphabet. As such, I have a choice vantage point to observe what oftentimes seems to be the pungent fecality (yes, I just made up that word) of human thought. Allow me to elaborate. Pull up a chair and let me clear my throat.

I don’t know, but perhaps Arabs seem exotic to Western eyes? Edward Said’s Orientalism and all that? To Saudis, Americans are aliens. Not the E.T., Reese’s piecies, fuzzy kind…No, the anal probe, Independence Day type. At least to a certain type of Saudi…the Saudi that knows no English. The Saudi who views America through a haze of cultural and linguistic ambiguity…But I digress…

I have many friends like this. Well-read friends who nevertheless call me to ask me to translate simple sentences they encounter when accessing their e-mails or cell phones. Friends who do not have the linguistic ability to grasp the complexities of the word “crusade”…who only understand “Crusade”. There is a prevalent belief among these friends of mine that American politics, that the American government is explicitly and overtly evangelical. That American foriegn policy is governed by fanatical Christian doctrines.

Now, let me clarify something. I don’t pretend to neglect the importance of the evangelical variable within the American political equation. The flock form a coveted bloc of votes. The entire equation, however, is a capitalist, not a religious, formula.

For example, my friends view the invasion of Iraq in Biblical terms. They believe that Bush and them captured Babylon so that Christ can come home. They think Cheney and Rummy are catchin up on their Psalms and Chapters, payin their tithes, bein good Catholics. Come on, now.

A cursory glance at American foreign policy throughout the twentieth century reveals how deeply reductive these claims are. What about America’s involvement in Central and South America? Towards the end of the nineteenth century, the U.S. commited atrocities in the Phillipines not to fulfill the prophecies foretold in Exodus or some such nonsense…they were simply serving the interests of United Fruit. How dya like them apples?

But, like De Niro said, there’s a flip side to that coin. Gray fecal matter sprays in both directions. Brain farts know no nationality.

I was having an e-convo yesterday with someone on slamonline.com who informed me that Islamic “shia law” dictates, according to some interpretations, that “infidels” should be killed regardless of anything else.

Now, my interlocutor has mixed up “Shar’ia” law (the word “shar’ia” simply means “law” in Arabic, so “Shar’ia law” is kinda redundant, but whatever) and the word “shia”, which is a sect of Islam (a sect I don’t belong to, incidentally. I’m a Sunni). But the point is that a lot of people tend to believe that terrorism is a product of some misguided Muslims misinterpreting religious texts to mean that they should “kill all infidels”, meaning “kill all non-Muslims”. There is a clear flaw in this perception, however. Put yourself in the place of this hypothetical terrorist. Let’s say you are convinced that you must “kill all infidels”. Wouldn’t you target Italians, Frenchmen, Ukrainians, Romanians, Bulgarians, Filipinos and South Africans? All these countries could be termed “infidels” (which is not an Islamic term, by the way). But why do terrorists always seem to target America?

It has nothing to do with “infidels”. It has everything to do with American foriegn policy, which even I, an Americo-phile, find repugnant. Here is a list of qualms people in the Middle East have with American foriegn policy:

1- America supports Israel unconditionally. Israel occupied Palestine in 1948. That’s just a fact. And Israel has since displaced millions of Palestinian refugees, while giving any Jewish person in the world the right to migrate to Israel. So this means that if you’re a Palestinian who was forced to flee your home to a neighboring country like Jordan or Syria, you stay there, because you’re “all Arabs”. Meanwhile, if you’re Jewish and you’re born and bred in Miami or Iceland or Paraguay, then you have the right to become a full-fledged Israeli citizen, no questions asked. This irks a lot of people in these parts. Not to mention the fact that Muslims are barred by Israel from visiting the Temple Mount, one of the three Islamic holy sites. So a Muslim like me cannot visit Jerusalem. But an American or a European can.

Now where does America figure in here? If you go back and look at the literature, you’ll find countless transgressions committed by Israel which caused the United Nations to unanimously condemn Israel. America always vetoes such unanimous condemnations. It also supplies Israel with weapons. The official line is that this is because Israel is the only “democracy” in the region. The real reason is that Israel has one of the most powerful lobbies in the American political structure. So if you want to get elected, you best be supporting Israel.

2- America has military camps in the Middle East, in countries like my native Saudi Arabia. Now, American civilians have always worked in Saudi Arabia in large numbers, and nobody has ever had a problem with that. But people don’t like the idea of a foreign military presence which is here indefinitely. Ironically, this has decreased the number of Americans who come over here to work, something which benefitted everyone. Americans got paid extremely well and in turn Saudi Arabia benefitted from their expertise. But now Americans are scared to come here.

3- The obvious one: Iraq.

So people like Osama bin Laden take these issues and turn them into recruiting tools. He paints himself in the role of someone who is resisting American oppression, and takes verses from the Qur’an out of context to support his position. The fact is, though, that his actions are indefensible from an Islamic viewpoint. Combat in Islam is very explicitly limited to self-defense. Salman al Oadah, one of my favorite scholars, wrote an open letter to Osama bin Laden in which he challenged him to justify his militant actions in Islamic terms. Because al Oadah is familiar with the Qur’an, bin Laden declined the challenge. People who become smitten with bin Laden are usually young men who get caught up with the romanticized version of reality that bin Laden serves up and have limited knowledge of actual texts. It is appealing to play the role of martyr, especially when there seems to be no other way to resist American dominance.

So, I guess I’m trying to say that perception is two-fifths of the law. Wait, isn’t that “possession”, not “perception”? Well, screw you…I perceive it to be “perception”.SHEEEEEEEEEEEEEIT.

I haven’t yet had the chance to watch the 4th season of The Wire (DVD comes out on December 4th. I’ve had that date circled in my calender with lavender-colored magic markers since August). But I’m already looking forward to the 5th season, because it’s supposed to be about the media. If you don’t have a healthy distrust of the media, dear reader, you should. The media fascinates me. I don’t claim to fully understand exactly WHY it’s so screwed up, although Noam Chomsky does a good job of breaking it down in “Manufacturing Consent”.

Whenever I discuss this topic, I generally make a distinction between two types of media f*ck-ups. First, you have the scary kind; the type of TV channel (Fox News, CNN, to a lesser extent BBC…etc.) or newspaper (USA Today) that enforces the status quo.

Then you have the amusing kind. Like this:

http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/columns/story?columnist=wojciechowski_gene&id=3094881&sportCat=nfl

Since they cover sports, ESPN.com doesn’t really affect people’s lives, so their skewed reporting evokes merriment instead of heartache. In this column, Gene Wojciechowski announces that, following New England’s 24-20 victory over the Indianapolis Colts, which improved their record to 9-0, the rest of the season (and post-season) is a foregone conclusion. He laughs at the mere notion that anyone can beat the Pats.

Understand this: I am firmly situated in a choice spot on the Patriots bandwagon. I love watching them. I enjoy Randy Moss so much that the fact that he’s 30 makes me sad, because it means he’ll have to retire in a few years, if that makes any sense. Anyway, so, yeah, I like the Patriots.

Also, I’m fully aware that if anyone can go undefeated, New England can. And they have a decent shot of doing that, even though I don’t think they will. But what amazes me is that Wojciechowski doesn’t even entertain the thought of the Pats losing a game. Ignoring the fact that ANYONE can lose on a given night, what about injuries? If Brady or Moss has to sit out a game (against the Ravens or Steelers, perhaps?) does that perfect record remain intact?

And, even more amazingly, Wojciechowski is unwaveringly convinced that no one has the slightest chance of beating the Patriots in the playoffs. Not even the Colts, who outplayed New England for most of Sunday night’s game without their first and third receivers.

I have my doubts about New England going 16-0, but I think that, ok, there’s a chance that maybe, just maybe, they could do it. They’re also my Super Bowl pick. What irks me about Wojciechowski’s column is not the fact that he thinks that they’ll accomplish those goals. I just feel that his writing smacks of sensationalism. It’s almost as if Sunday’s game afforded him the opportunity to run with a pre-determined story. He doesn’t seem to value actual analysis.
And what if the inevitable Pats-Colts rematch results in a New England loss?

Even better. A chance to run with a different kind of headline: “Shock of the Century!!!!”

I wish reporters would just try, for once, to take the sober, measured, thoughtful approach. Especially when dealing with matters that are not as trivial as pigskin.

Towards the end of last season, it appeared no one wanted to win the Spanish league. Sevilla, who were admittedly impressive, were punching above their weight, and didn’t have the consistency to take hold of La Liga. Real Madrid were coasting through what seemed like another lost season, losing embarrassingly to teams like Recreativo at home. The airy, drunken bliss of double glory in Europe and at home was still enveloping Barca, who appeared to lack motivation and were just getting Samuel Eto’o and Lionel Messi back from long layoffs. Valencia had settled for Champions League qualification after their squad was decimated by injuries.

But then Real Madrid narrowly failed to beat Barca at the Nou Camp, thanks in part to the individual brilliance of Messi, and the Merengues suddenly looked like a typical Capello squad. This remained true until the end of campaign. They managed to squeeze out tough victories with gritty displays which saw them eventually overhaul Barca and Sevilla and claim the title on the last day. Looking back, Real certainly did not resemble champions for most of the season, but Capello’s touch was unmistakable. The squad finally had something they had lacked for four years: character. In one especially difficult match, they were losing 3-1 to Espanyol at home at halftime, and I just can’t imagine any previous Real Madrid team (after Del Bosque) coming backing from that, but Capello’s men did just that. As Gonzalo Higuain ripped off his jersey after scoring the fourth goal in injury time, giving Real a deserved 4-3 win, I had the sneaking suspicion that the championship was on its way to Madrid.

So what do Real do in the off-season? Yes, you guessed it: they fire Capello. After four years in the wilderness, they’re back right where they started. In 2003, they discarded Vincente Del Bosque after he delivered the Liga title, and proceeded to sign David Beckham, the current host of E! Entertainment News. Now they have replaced Capello with Bernd Schuster. I like Schuster as a coach; he did well with little Getafe, and little Levante before that. And he has an array of new talent at his disposal: Dudek, Pepe, Metzelder, Heinze, Drenthe, Wesley Sneijder, Robben and Saviola. The heart of the team that won last year’s title, namely Iker Casillas, one of the top three keepers in the world, Sergio Ramos and Ruud van Nistelrooy are still around, although Emerson, an over-the-hill Roberto Carlos and David Beckham, who was one of the main contributors to last season’s triumph, are now gone. All in all, Real have a strong, deep squad (although they could use another striker) and a good coach, but I feel that they lack the stability necessary to retain their title. Schuster will need to produce results fast, or the pressure will be intense. Atletico pose a tough opening fixture.

Which brings me to Barca, who I believe will take that title. They suffered from a malaise last year brought on by too much playing and too much winning. They were like a beautiful woman suffering from gastritis: it’s difficult to focus on her stunning physical attributes in the midst of all the flatulence. Eto’o was injured, the defense was disorganized, and Ronaldinho, well… despite his 21 league goals, which included a breathtaking bicycle-kick against Villarreal, Dinho, to stay with the simile, just stunk up the joint. By his own high standards, he seemed lethargic and disinterested. But Barca have responded well in the off-season. The arrivals of Gabriel Milito, Eric Abidal and Yaya Toure (Toure Yaya?) should solve their defensive problems, while Thierry Henry will provide yet another world-class option for Frank Rijkaard in what is undoubtedly the most lethal strikeforce in the world on paper.

There are still some potential problems for Barcelona: Victor Valdes is prone to idiotic gaffes. Frank Rijkaard missed the tactical nous of former assistant coach Henk Ten Cate last season; for all his masterful manipulation of the media and man-management skills, Rijkaard was never a tactical genius. In fact, some of his mistakes over the years have been downright elementary (witness how Jose Mourinho baited him in the CL two years ago). Oleguer, possibly the worst athlete in the history of athletes, is still with the team. Oleguer’s inability to bend his knees is reminiscent of Glenn “Big Dog” Robinson’s failure to ever bend at the waist. In addition, Oleguer’s face looks like a very hairy thumb. Still, if Rijkaard can mold the pieces he has at his disposal into a cohesive unit, they should win La Liga with relative ease. Also, this would help:

http://www.goal.com/en/Articolo.aspx?ContenutoId=392882

In theory, one player should never completely affect the fortunes of a club, but I hesitate to predict how Sevilla’s season will go until Daniel Alves’s situation becomes clear. The marauding right-back was very close to a move to Chelsea, but the two clubs could not agree on a price, and Chelsea subsequently signed the useless Juliano Belletti from Barcelona. I hardly think Belletti is the answer to Mourinho’s right-back problem, so Alves could still move to Stamford Bridge, or, alternatively to Real Madrid, although I see him staying put for one more season at this point. It’s strange to see a team built around a right-back, but that’s what Sevilla were last season, and they produced some devastating football at times. Alves and left-back Adriano provided excellent service from the flanks for Frederic Kanoute, who nearly nabbed the Pichichi award. This season marks Sevilla’s debut in the Champions League, but the back-to-back UEFA Cup champions are used to handling a busy schedule, so if Alves stays, they should threaten the top two and at least secure another top-four finish.

Valencia have been a very dangerous team for almost a decade. David Villa, David Silva, Joaquin and Morientes provide quite a punch, and the arrival of lanky striker Nikola Zigic, who almost single-handedly guided lowly Racing Santander to a best-ever tenth place finish last year, adds to their impressive attack. Steel in midfield is provided by David Albelda, Ruben Baraja and Edu, and the defense has always been strong. But Valencia have not replaced the great Roberto Ayala, the heart of the defense. Helguera, Alexis and Raul Albiol are capable, but Ayala will be sorely missed.

Three clubs look able to capitalize on Valencia’s vulnerability: Zaragoza, Villarreal and Atletico Madrid. Zaragoza have added the defected Ayala to fill the gap left by the Barca-bound Gabriel Milito, so Zaragoza have addressed the loss of one of their best players. Rumors have been circulating about the imminent departure of Diego Milito, Gabriel’s brother, but if Zaragoza manage to keep him, they will be difficult to beat, especially if Pablo Aimar and Andres D’Alessandro continue to impress. Villarreal have a good squad, especially now that Robert Pires and Nihat are healthy, but Diego Forlan will be missed. Forlan has gone to a revamped Atletico side, who have spent the bloated fee they received for Fernando Torres wisely, having recruited Forlan as a direct replacement, as well as Simao Sabrosa, Luis Garcia and Jose Antonio Reyes. Sergio Aguero should develop into a major star, and I think Atletico just might finally qualify for the Champions League.

Predictions:

Best Goalkeeper (Zamora): Roberto Abbondanzieri (Getafe)

Relegated: Almeria, Murcia, Levante

Top Scorer (Pichichi): David Villa (Valencia)

Champions: Barcelona

Champions League Qualifiers: Barcelona, Real Madrid, Sevilla, Atletico Madrid

UEFA Cup: Valencia, Villarreal, Zaragoza

The chairs where I live are booby-trapped. Anyone who has lived in Clydesdale Rise will not remember the wooden contraptions students are supposed to recline in with any fondness. Plus, the seat is constructed of flimsy strings which have a quicksand-like effect, causing your posterior to collapse.

This is why I was happy to see that my chair was free at Starbucks this morning. My chair is a little green beauty, a comfy armchair with no wooden parts in sight. So I grabbed my grande vanilla latte and settled in with Philip Roth. But I couldn’t quite concentrate on Mr. Roth’s sunny expositions. The soundtrack Starbucks had chosen to play was seasonal: “Boys of Summer” and “The Summer of ‘69″ were two prominent joints. Nathan Zuckerman gradually faded into temporary oblivion, and I found myself feeling oddly nostalgic for the summer of 1969, which was ten years before my birth.

You know how nostalgia feels: you perceive the faint scent of some delectable confection that remains perpetually out of reach. There is a light sadness to the sensation, mixed with giddy recognition. Marcel Proust got me thinking about it a while ago, and, I must confess, I only read about a hundred pages of “Swann’s Way”, but that did the trick. The guy had me pining like crazy for 19th-century Combray as if I had experienced something there way back when. And this is what confuses me. I can understand nostalgia when it’s related to something that actually happened to me; I remember getting excited about Transformers when I first heard about it last summer because I used to watch the old cartoon as a kid. But 1969?

And then I realized that this happens in sports too. Images of Zico, Socrates, Cerezo and Falcao gliding through 1982, before crashing spectacularly, take me back to that sweltering Spain. The vision of Spud Webb, triumphant in improbable flight, reminds me of something I only saw much later. The Drive. I was crushed when that beautiful Total-football Dutch squad succumbed to Gerd Muller’s ruthless Germany, and recalling that sad day in 1974 makes me smile.

Perhaps that’s why I feel old at 28. I actually remember when Tim Thomas was a promising young buck. It wasn’t too long ago that Slam magazine mocked Eddie Jones for pretending to reminisce at some All-Star game some years ago, because Eddie himself was young then. And Penny was young once. And someday I won’t be. No, not someday…some day. And that day is fast approaching.

If you haven’t read “Breakfast of Champions” yet, you’re dumb, dear reader. Don’t worry, according to the previous conditional clause, I was dumb too until very recently. Then again, I’ve always had clarity of mind and superior intellect, which would have counter-balanced any resulting dumbness. OK, let’s not get too hung up on who’s dumb (perhaps you, dear reader?) and who’s not (me).

Kurt Vonnegut’s playful novel contains very immature illustrations by the author himself, such as this one:

*

That little star is Vonnegut’s rendering of, yes, you guessed it, an a$$hole. He also enlightens us with crudely-drawn beavers and flamingos, among other things. The fact that Vonnegut is considered a master of contemporary American literature may explain why English, and not computer science, which I failed miserably at, is the field for me. How cool is it that reading this stuff counts as work?

As I read more and more of “Breakfast Of Champions”, an activity which usually led to the nasal expulsion of Starbucks coffee and other beverages on my part, I realized that the book reminded me of another novel: “The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman” by Laurence Sterne. I read that book for one of my MA classes, and when the professor asked me what I thought of it, this exchange transpired:

“It made me think of a very pertinent thesis question, Dr. Ashley.”

“Very interesting. And what is that, Tariq?”

“Did they have crack in the eighteenth century?”

If they did, it would explain Sterne’s utter, masterful craziness. Up until “Tristram Shandy”, that eighteenth-century-novel course was not very exciting. I mean, “Clarissa”? Seriously? But Laurence Sterne was on some other wavelength.

So, naturally, I had to pit “Breakfast of Champions” and “Tristram Shandy” against each other in a death-match where, to paraphrase Optimus Prime, one don’t-get-high-on-your-own-supply masterpiece would stand, and one would fall. If I could erase one from my memory and read it for the first time all over again, it would probably be “Breakfast of Champions”, simply because Vonnegut is more accessible. But I have to declare Sterne the victor, because without him, I don’t think Vonnegut’s intelligent buffoonery would be possible.

Which brings me to Pele.

A lot of Saudis my age like to describe the player regarded by many experts as the greatest ever as “A one-eyed man in the land of the blind”. Admittedly, I don’t much care for Pele. Maradona is the shiznit, my friend. And while the Argentine frequently, and justifiably, pops up in comparisons with the great Brazilian, there is no denying that Pele is indeed great. Just like all those ancient Celtics probably were. But while I don’t know much about the 60s Celtics outside of Bill Russell and Bob Cousy, I am positive that Pele revolutionized the game.

See, in 1958, the way people played football was a lot like how Samuel Richardson wrote novels: in 1,500-page, epistolary form. Now that, dear reader, is excruciating. So for Pele to come along and play like he did, which wouldn’t look out of place in 2007, is not to be sneezed at. If you want to understand how he changed the game, you only need to look at one clip:

It was against Uruguay, and Pele was running to receive a long pass. The goalkeeper comes out to stop him. The ball is coming from Pele’s left, at a 45-degree angle to the approaching goalie. Pele continues his run, going to the keeper’s right, and the latter dives at Pele’s feet, but there’s only one problem: the ball isn’t there. Pele had continued his run without bothering to take the ball with him, so the keeper was left stranded, having dived at thin air, and Pele was thus free to run AROUND the keeper and meet the ball, which had continued in its path untouched, with only an empty net in front of him. Unfortunately, Pele’s shot was from an acute angle and narrowly missed the target. Still, to beat a keeper like that requires not only cojones the size of summer honeydews, it calls for unparalleled imagination.

So now, whenever I see Ronaldinho do something that makes me go “%#1$$)@!!!” or Messi nonchalantly glide by 17 defenders, I try to imagine what it must have been like to live in a black-and-white world and have someone do something truly youtube -worthy. I’ve finally come around; I confess that Pele is better than Cruyff, Zidane, Beckenbauer, Zico, van Basten, Platini and Ronaldo.

But don’t get me wrong…he’s still not as good as Maradona!