Two Imports Later

"Oi, oi, oi," I wanted to say after the first Smithwicks.
How cool would I have been?
I held my tongue even though it threatened to loll about in my head.
The bar was full of fans
and a blackened cat fish sandwich and fries never tasted so good.
I don't follow futbol, but I do follow a friend.
"OOHHH!" The Netherlands score and Italy looks dejected.
I missed the whole thing, I was taking a drink.
I'll be sure to shout for the next goal.
My friend hunches over his plate and turns up his Carlsburg.
This is the life. Or the lunch. This is what it's like to be young.
Oscar Wilde would have something witty about compadres
sharing beers and watching organized sports.
Or he would have stolen something witty.
After a London Porter
all of the men on the Dutch side
look fine as hell, even that goalie
with the misshaped ears. I love the Italians.
"OOHHH!" Again?
"Did you see that?" asked my friend.
I catch the instant replay which is just as good.
It doesn't matter. I 'm too far gone to care about who is scoring.
Not far enough, however, to see the beauty and the amazing feats
performed on a field by shin guarded warriors.
This is what it means to be young, I think.
Young and drunk and together with compadres.