For my cousin, Mike Magno, who is an amazing Dad, Coach, and Goalie...
O Lord! they tell me there is a new tradition
of American goal keepers. They say Tim is the Vanguard
deflecting penalties at Everton, pimp-slapping
forwards who feel the new Yank is a 'kant or poof.
O Lord! they tell me Tim suffers from an inexcusable
disease of the brain which allows him not to sieve
the analog torrent, but he interviews like a paladin
manufacturer of formula One brake pads. His cucumber
cool is the dismal truth concerning disabilities.
But, does that mean that he did not have to overhaul
the wiring in his brain once the palisades of New Jersey
were being transferred for Liverpool's more toxic, greener pastures?
O Lord! how could you make the weak more like your image
of the fire-breathing, unequivocal pillar? So much magnamity?
O Lord! how could you overcompensate so egregiously
on Howard's splicing, giving him the sentience of X-Men
and Psy-Opps Dolemites?
O Lord! why even mention syndromes?
O Lord! Tim Howard can intuit where the ball may
roam, zip codes of vector trajectory, the span
of balon's bounce, conditional happenstance
statistician.
O Lord! Berbatov's boudoir love-penalty
so as not to gun down ex-mate after Cahill's
mustang banger.
O Lord! after he stopped Ferdinand's penalty,
I thought Wembly was going to splinter into tinder.
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