or my pain ...
All Etienne, he likes football or not, or is completely indifferent to the activity described as sporty, has a sort of third eye for the scores of the weekend. He knows. It smells. But what?
Long ago, in a country of anthrax and fat land of mountains and dark woods acids, where the sun even dared to venture, there lived a race of moles. Here, after a day or a night of exhausting work in the bowels of the world, all looked alike: They emerged black, exhausted and happy with their crop cock. Poor and isolated, they had little distraction in their little valley bristling with wells and covered with dust. He had only two things: hope and football. This gave the ASSE (that green, and it's a football team). Each year, from August, the return of paid vacation, spent in the country just above the city, they said in a Loire Haute, beetles ( their name with another mole) brought back potatoes and moult predictions for the new season ahead. Not fall, as would the cyclical time, but the other cyclical time, the only one that went on in this remote corner of the world, the season's first division (yes at one time not so remote, the Ligue 1 s' called first division is for children requires make them a little history).
potato field, "said Colorado Field, renamed Stade Geoffroy Guichard in 1932
The prognosis was always the same: this year we will be champions. By 11 times already, they had managed the feat, which animated the hearts and warmed the body (with the help of a few drinks and a few songs though). And 6 times, they had the Cup, that of the revenge of the small and non-degrees on the great of this world (football that is).
Years passed, and like all older worlds, the valley of moles changed. The chimneys were silent, the streets were empty, people terrèrent in their homes and in their misfortune. They had closed the wells, and nobody had to work. Nobody was working, and idleness invited himself. Idleness invited himself, and shame settled.
Except Saturday evening, where hope and pride reborn as a phoenix from the woods, er of this city, ever green, ever more spikes, and the songs and cries, and victory!
Everyone struggled to once a week, the deep valley again, moles flocked from all the galleries, and even other, mountains or countryside, were added to whoop, they thought. Yet it was the swan song, that of Tchaikovsky, who died at the end of the day in a long heart-rending wail.
discord and defeat came by a simple object, stupid, an ordinary object that nobody could have suspected: a slush fund. The fall began to never end, and like an animal in agony Valley was taking twists and turns, the worm in the fruit, it began to rot.
Since then, no one dares to throw into the compost, and all the months of August, the return of paid vacation, spent in the sea near a king is said Grau, ducks bring their palms and moult forecasts for the start of the Ligue 1 ahead.
Predictions are always the same: we will continue this year. For 5 years now, they manage the feat, after several hypothermic cardiac arrest and shock. And waiting for better days, they to tell a story, always the same story, their history, that of a cup with square posts, that of a legendary man-panther came from foreign lands, that of an angel that was green. To find, perhaps, one day, hope and pride of a forgotten valley.
Elements archaeological evidence of the historical reality of some of the characters Conte Valley of moles , better known as the Green Legend.
That's the story, we arranged to put a lot of pathos, because the reality is even more cruel. So each Etienne, at the time the game will start, hope this time it will be less worse.
This year, it is certain that it is better not to have the radio, should be avoided whenever possible Vandroux Jacques, the Stage 2 and other Téléfoot are persona non grata (but they still exist emissions ), and that Saturday evening or Sunday afternoon, it is necessary even mandatory to have something very important to do.
Unfortunately, when Monday morning comes, and we're going on his hotmail box, it always falls on the news, and always at the forefront, before the wars, the Depression, the purchasing power of the blunders and the wanderings of Ministers of Our Beloved Sovereign, insolvency social, environmental, it was the result of the Ligue 1. Wholesale. Very very big. In too too big. Beaten 3-0 by PSG. The PSG! This team has the team name! That is what football is Alzheimer aging humans: the promise of perpetual boredom which we have absolutely conscience and not until death ensued, by shitting all over the world.
And then we remember that the last time the ASSE has won something, it was the League Cup 2, and PSG or anyone else, there is no What do the devil. Then Saturday, December 19, when the bells ring 21 strokes of midnight, while St Etienne, he likes football or not, or is completely indifferent to the activity described sports knows it is time. He thinks the epics of old warriors, think of it vaguely as Cinderella are always in rags with a pumpkin that she can always make au gratin, it is always to win, and curse the OM, because they have too much money, they are too Southern, they are the fart too and that's what these leaders there, strip Mafia!
And on Sunday or Monday, because changing the coach and the athletic trainer is not enough to make a non-team a team, we will be fine internet.
I bet for a draw: 1-1.
