ODE TO TEÓFILO CUBILLAS

Five goals in subsequent World Cups, eight years apart.
That’s like a six minute moon-mile followed by Marathon Calculus.
That’s like Pele calling you heir apparent at F.I.F.A.’s Drosophilia lab.
That’s like Messi leading you to the Ephedrine Caucus.

I say, always be wary of boyish-men that can evade aging pathogens.
Men they call Boy or Kid are flagrant eternalists— fugitives from codices of nature,
refugees from the Kingdom, commuters in an Appalachian parking lot.
As the facts sheets display, you made name in Mexico ’70 despite
Peru’s initial poor showing. And who could blame Peru, the squad left
Lima as the Earthquake Mammon began grumbling for peasant blood?

In fact, Peru vs. Bulgaria stands out in World Cup Annals especially
because Cubillas and Co. were able to rally back and best the Bulgarians
3-2 (after Bulgarians scored two in first half).
The real spectacle was that Cubillas and Co. were able to play at all
for the graphic yellow projectionists had descended on Mexico City
with news about the ghastly toll the earthquake gulched.

You see, the thing about Cubillas is that he proved he could not be stirred
or pressured into mistakes. Regardless of who he was megging, he moved
at a pace of his predeliction.

With that balón control he was saying, the onus is on you to route from me
control of this leather finesse. He was saying, perhaps your vocabulary
is a tiny bit insufficient for this largesse.