“Fuck my luck.” Did I just say that out loud? I look around me. No one seems to have noticed. Anyway, yes, fuck my luck. It’s the match of the season, and of course now my phone fails me.
We’re about midway through the first half. Somewhat uneasily I raise my eyes from the jet black surface of my phone to the pitch. All I see there are dots, ants crawling around. The first few seconds, as my eyes get used to the distance, I can’t even locate the ball. It’s a completely alien spectacle to me, watching this with naked eyes, from my second ring seat. An orchestrated 2D simulation of the real thing, a vintage top-down video game. Flashbacks to simpler times knock on the door to my brain. I shake them off and start scanning the spectators. My eyes follow them doing an imaginary wave across the stands, from the man seated directly to my left all the way around to my other neighbor. Everyone is seated as if bowing reverently, head down, hypnotized.
All of a sudden, an ooh rings through the crowd. I quickly tend to the green pastures but nothing seems to happen there that warrants the commotion. I look to my neighbors left and right. They are staring ever so focused at the mirrory screens in their palms or on their laps. I am dying to sneak a peek but I feel restrained by the heavy breach of etiquette this entails.
A buzzing sound, specks on the horizon, rays of sun reflected in my eyes, then another ooh. It dawns on me now. So obvious, in retrospect. It’s the match of the season, of course there’s going to be plenty of famous people to spot. I try to follow the robot bees by sound. The Doppler-effect I experience tells me they are now behind me. Upon turning around, I bless my luck for the first time since the crash. Diagonally seated above me, quite nearby, a blonde woman sits surrounded by this swarm of metal. I do not recognize her. Here I sorely miss the captions and biographical information the phone usually provides. She does the classic little celeb wave, subtle yet not arrogant. This kind of stuff is like honey to the bees, who capture it minutely for about thirty seconds, before moving back to follow the course of the game. This 30-second celeb-harassing time span is also considered standard etiquette.
Half-time: the hundred-thousand legged slumbering giant wakes, yawns, stretches, looks around with a profound sense of ennui, yawns again for emphasis, then turns its hundred thousand heads back down to vocalize a chorus of tweeting.
I feel cut off, lost, adrift. I feel like I haven’t felt in years now, a loneliness of a different kind than the one abundant these days. Looking around, it’s clear that everyone is thoroughly amusing themselves.
Ironically, while I am probably the only one staring at the field, staring as to watch the grass grow, I am the only one who misses the start of the second half. I still haven’t gotten used to the microscopic view, and I need absolute focus to follow the ball around.
In order to escape the sense of solitude dragging me down, I do just that: focus. A modest feat of magic happens. As I watch, I slowly zoom in, ants turn to cats turn to apes turn to men, I discern colors, one team from the other, referee, linesmen, goalkeepers, and finally I get a good grip on that most evasive and fleeting element of all: the ball.
I have never seen football like this, and I become ecstatic. My eyes glide from player to player, sometimes following the action, then focusing on just one of the actors, then everything at the same time, analyzing tactics and patterns. I feel emotionally involved.
Within this dreamlike reverie of mine, a fantastic attack evolves. From the defenders up to the striker, almost everyone contributes with precise passing, intuitive runs, one-twos, a dummy shot and finally a smooth, sober finish. 1-0! I jump out of my chair, I throw my hands up, I scream my lungs out, completely beside myself, feeling fantastic. My neighbors look up. First slightly surprised, then mostly nonplussed.
I realize with a shock no one else is celebrating. The players too seem upset by the lack of response. I figure there must have been another distraction in the crowd just before the goal, which means everyone missed the magic, had its assisting eyes off the pitch.
Again the buzzing sound, strong and getting stronger, again the specks, again the sunrays. No Doppler this time. A cacophony of noise. The bees stick to me. Faint echoes of laughter. With a chuckle I realize I am still on my feet, arms lifted. I yell again. Not saying anything specifically, just sheer noise for noise’s sake. My soul pours out, and everyone can watch it happen. It feels liberating.
The bees leave, my limelight moment is gone. The little machines will go and look for a bee that did capture the goal, to download the data from him and relive the magic moment. There are always a few people in the audience who have their flying cameras on Manual instead of Auto mode, daredevils who hover around the field according to their own whims. These are their grand moments. They concede many things due to their idiosyncrasy, and now they finally have something worth bragging about, something no one else has. As great a day this must be for them, mine trumps theirs. I am certain of that, as sure as I’m still standing, arms aloft, yelling.
Full-time: the hundred-thousand legged slumbering giant wakes, yawns, stretches, looks around with a profound sense of ennui, yawns again for emphasis, then turns its hundred thousand heads back down to vocalize a chorus of tweeting, mechanically gets up to leave.
I feel cut off, lost, adrift. I feel like I haven’t felt in years now, a loneliness of a different kind than the one abundant these days. More than anything, though, I feel vibrant and alive.
