ODE TO JAVIER MASCHERANO

After Maradona calls you a monster, what do you do?
Do you: a.) careen feetfirst into the feet of an Inter striker?
b.) sideswipe opponents like a squirrel sumo? c.) chest bump
the referee and push off your coach who has to eyefuck you
so that you shut your mudhole and cool your fool. So you lost
some time at West Ham and blamed London on the your soul cirrhosis.
At least you got to play with Tevez which must have made the team
like a River Plate two-seater. But now, now, you have come into
it thick at Liverpool. The ghost of your own Nike botin follows you
around the training grounds; the gravy train was delayed for a bit
bit it is coming ladden with sports drink endorsements and power
gels, aerobic rocket powders. Your moon is up, son, and remember
that endorsement from Maradona. Him calling you a monster is like
the ball crying that the foot is a brutal counterpart.