sai que é sua, Vlado
"Of the games I played at Cambridge, soccer has remained a wind-swept clearing in the middle of a rather muddled period. I was crazy about goal keeping. In Russia and the Latin contries, that gallant art had been always surrounded with a halo of singular glamour. Aloof, solitary, impassive, the crack goalie is followed in the streets by entranced small boys. He vies with the matador and the flying ace as an object of thrilled adulation. His sweater, his peaked cap, his kneeguards, the gloves protruding from the hip pocket of his shorts, set him apart from the rest of the team. He is the lone eagle, the man of mistery, the last defender. Photographers, reverently bending one knee, snap him in the act of making a spetacular dive across the goal mouth to deflect with his fingertips a low, lightning-like shot, and the stadium roars in approval as he remains for a moment or two lying full length where he fell, his goal still intact."
(Nabokov, in "Speak, Memory")
Os narradores esportivos deviam ter esse senso estético para usar em suas apresentações. Não se vê o futebol arte assim desde os tempos de Garrincha.
Comment by Felippe — September 13, 2006 @ 6:57 pm