“It’s all ladders across bridges.”

It’s all Polaroids on the wall. I’m running through my notes and I find one liners like crumbs out of a nature valley bar. You can find them in every notebook I’ve ever written in. In the margins, between the lines, scribbled over older passages.

waiting before a concert in the basement pub. Two active pool games, boys tossing darts, a lively LA derby game on TV. There’s a dark Czech lager sitting before me on the table. I wearing the yellow leather banded pearl bracelet I got back in Tsushima. There’s a fifty year old red Italian leather coat slung over my chair.

I’m sitting and waiting— it’s something that’s par for the course with a split schedule. Sitting in random places writing about things that won’t connect to me later. Or if they do, it’s not in the way I think it would be.

I sat in an office room today and watched the Stuttgart x Bayern game with other soccer coaches from my old club. The divide in this game is small. Especially if you aren’t a complete cockwaffle.

I’ve been reading a serial about a writer who’s gotten sucked into a Football Manager save. It may be the most relatable thing I’ve ever read. Outside of writing, soccer is a huge part of my life. So much so that getting into the Football Manager games led to me getting my first coaching license.

I haven’t laughed that hard at something I’ve read in ages. It felt like a tailor made piece. The style of observation, commentary on players and game situations (and the insults). Glorious to come across someone giving a digital shellacking to a player that’s earned generational wealth for playing a game.