ODE TO BATISTUTA

Your father had to be a butcher to have given you
Omar as a middle name. Omar, the butcher's kid, a
striker of unpardonable efficiency, a Terminator
cleaver made of volcano ore and Skytel metalurgy.
And then his mane made women dedicate themselves
to follicle cults and galloping kerotene chambers.
El Bati scored so many goals that they had to start
designating the prettier ones Batigols. Came up
with Bielsa, locked horns with Passarrella, so you
have definitely come through the Argentine Mythology
Combine. Tecnico Narcisas speaks marvels of your killer,
saying that you don't pardon lives. You can watch the
clips all day, the depots of clips, the terrabytes of
bests of and the duty reels. It's just that Bati can
lambaste the corner of that post with spitfire precision;
and, that's from well outside the box, the ball meteoring
past defensemen, whipping the toothpaste white netting.