Even if the pitch in Manaus is not up to scratch (becor dey pullin stones oui), this is indubitably the time of balls. Not little ones either; there are some heavy rollers down there in Brazil. We've even got a few balls knocking around in our own Brazil, in central.
The further north you go, you'll stumble over balls, hard stones and balls-ups that would make those wizards of dribbling, Messrs Ronaldo and Messi, take the long histrionic dive, with much rolling of eyeballs, amplified expressions of agony, and a gesture perfected by so many public figures in T&T, from teacher to calypsonian, to officer of the law and cabinet minister: the pointing of the accusatory finger, in the wrong direction.
But if I might make so bold as to borrow a byte from the dinosaurs of Punk, Los Pistoles Muy Sexy: "Never mind the bollox"–because we're having a ball. Life, as we all know, is really nothing more than a never-ending ball park. For some of us, who have our balls swinging in tune to the referee's whistle, the pitch we play on is near-perfect. Rolled, watered, and manicured, it spreads out before us, awaiting the imprint of our brand-name booties. We can pose on our tippy toes, while balancing the ball on our patrician noses.
We can even remove our clothes, or at least our shirt, a replica of which is available for the price of a week's groceries for those stupid enough to be too poor–money and contact wise–to be on official ministry business, wining dong Rio.
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