June 2010

Bird Observation

In about a week here will post an entry about a very sad and boring, but important and worthwhile thing to acclimate more input light. Every four years, I am assailed by a feeling that is very similar to that of the night before the first day of school: tomorrow starts the World Cup! And what football has to do with biology, which is the subject of this blog? Well, recently, although from an ornithological point of view any links do the Chicken Street, the Pelican Banguero, Bird Juárez (now the Carpenter), the late Usurriaga Palomo, the Eaglet Quiñonez and the versatile Manimal Cortes, among others. And the owl Tyto alba Metropolitan flying a week ago, when the Junior de Barranquilla Colombia crowned tournament champion, will symbolize something. E

n fact, the best connection between football and ornithology I know (thanks to Andres Gomez ) is the observation of birds, the great Roberto Fontanarrosa . Enjoy it, and enjoy the world:

"One opens the door and goes out with a hell scrape out the insides. Outside, the Sunday nap goes silent and still, as if nothing had happened. And do not worry, brother, nothing happens. If, after all, is just one more game. A party among the thousands of games teams have played the classic Rosario. Or do you think or anyone remember how they came in the first game of the year 75? Or the second? Neither knows oneself. Not even remember. Momentary emotions are temporary. Intense but fleeting. Deep pain, a blinding joy but the next day goes, disappears without visible physical marks, such as chickenpox. Surely there is hardly anyone on the court. Park almost empty. Tomorrow will tell the newspaper that the party attracted little public. The campaign irregular of the perennial rivals, the promise of a bad game and the threat of a new tie away to the bias, of course. Does not matter the party. If you lose, there will be a stinging sizzle for a while, a belated laugh, a look conceited, but nothing more. Nothing more. But a tie. Just 45 minutes remaining, if already started the second half. 45 minutes. But how is it take so long to spend 45 minutes? How can they become an endless eternity? The thing is do not watch the clock. Do not watch it ever. Then suddenly, when one in a natural and understandable reflection of urban animal watch dial, and have spent 40 minutes or 43, there is nothing left. Two minutes just a sigh, a pittance of time, a haughty gesture miserable preamble of the referee raising his right hand and shows players, the grandstand and the world that adds two minutes only, which gives a fuck who has been eight crashes and mobs delay and are willing to cut a classic as soon as possible with the ease of having taken the game without major problems or unfair evictions. So. But the most fucked up are the first 20 of the second half, that's fucked up, one muses. Here again the teams want to take the two points and especially local, dammit, will launch the attack forced by his status as a homeowner. And our are such jerks that always deconcentrated within minutes! Fall asleep, do not find the marks, they put a rebound goal morons. Goals jerks ... What is that? What is that? A hoot! There is a goal! Someone celebrate! If you hear another speaker there is no doubt, be held ... But there is nothing. Silence again. You walk and sees a dull pounding a tom-tom oppressive from the inner side of the chest. Pasty mouth how can shit so long to spend 45 minutes? If you're going to eat for example, or a coffee and there, the fart, chatting, watching people, distracted and suddenly he looks at his watch, and he has spent more than an hour. How is possible that differences in density over time? Moreover, very recently, say yesterday without going further, one was in the backyard playing with toy soldiers and now all of a sudden, now has his age and he has fallen head hair . Practically for hours, met with high school classmates celebrating the end of the fifth year, cuddled Podesta hand, fucked with Carelli and suddenly, in a breath, is here, walking the streets of the neighborhood as a fugitive, as a tramp, like a fugitive, trying to pass a good time for all that fucking classic that is the result. Exactly. The result may be. Win, draw or defeat. Even defeat. Because the defeat, when accepted, when installed, it invades the body like a bitter medicine but relaxed, resigned. What one destroys it is anxiety. Two weeks, three weeks, four, waiting for the day foretold. Seventh date of revenge. And the final of the unfailing. That ball in the stomach that is formed in the previous comments during the match against Vélez, during the match with Ferro, during the match with Boca, about classical approaches. The celebration of the city ... Exactly! They go to the motherfucker with the feast of the city. Happy is that dog across the street. Footsteps are heard even padded paws on the pavement, this is the silence nap. He knows nothing of football, knows nothing of the classic, do not give a turd the result. Why? Someone shouted. Yes Someone screamed. In a nearby house was raised a cry. Man or woman? If a woman may not have happened. A reproach to his son maybe. If a man can be a goal. Although there are many women fans terribly well. Indeed. They are the worst things to yell at the players on the court. The house is humble. Central goal may be, then. The neighborhood is a stronghold scoundrel. But now everything is very mixed. Before greengrocers were lepers Central and oligarchs. But now you see Concheta they are scoundrels and some impressive grones are lepers. Children are even with the red and black many times. There is no security so that the cry of joy comes from a centralist. Anyway, is not repeated. You look like an Indian environment. He sniffs the air, ears, turns his head looking for signs in the air. Can not suffer so much. Maybe it's better to go to court. One is there in situ, in the proper place of facts. Nestled amidst the popularity, looking at what happens, no need to guess anything or to tell you. But you have to go very early, when the reservation begins. And standing and sitting and standing and sitting and standing and sitting every time there is a situation of goal until he finally stopped for good and all that story ends. Must be more trained than the players, dammit. Squeezed further by the sweaty crowd under the blazing sun of summer. And see the unbearable spectacle of the giant flags covered lepers, jumping and screaming like hell in the front tray. Because you can not go to the stalls and run the risk of being seated next to the enemy. And then the other, the truth: on the road, either at the Bombonera, in the gasometer or in the Monumental, is very, very likely to break your ass. Historically it has been. And the return is hard. But the worst is radio. It is much worse than going to court. It's like fighting a guy in a dark room. The rapporteurs assume responsibility to its listeners, and most of all against their advertisers, provide drama to the show, that real football feast Rosario. Therefore, the shots always go skimming the trees, the saves always take the condition of miraculous and in-depth attacks invariably dismiss a definite aroma of goal. Should be guided then by the outbreak of the rostrum there in the background. The rumored of India as a backdrop for the transmitted type. You hear the "Uhhh," which becomes "Ahhh" when the reporter still has not reached the ball screaming that comes as a shot of fart or that we lost a unique opportunity. You hear the explosion when the guy is still far is advertising that reaches the heart and you know that big of them jumped and I sent it to save. On the field at least, one sees where the wing, where he was and how far that ball real arch develops the play. Although there is the appeal of listening to another game and wait for the connection with Rosario. River-San Lorenzo, for example, to connect to each moment and emotion that exists in the Independence Park in another edition of one of the oldest classic of football. But there the thing is often worse. The heart is helpless before the fatal saber news. Before at least, with Fioravanti, a knight of the sports-radio someone announced: "Atento Fioravanti." "Atento Fioravanti!" Called a type. Then grab one of the pillows, for example, if I lay on the catrera-gave a somersault on the bed, biting the sheets and looked like an asshole, like a lamb to the final skill of the butcher, the cunning coup. Could be to call from somewhere else, say, from Platense in Manuela Pedraza and Cramer, after all. Or, from the flirtatious Atlanta Stadium, to announce a goal from an unknown left pointer. Sometimes one, before a second before he perceived behind a cowardly anonymous call short and unusual public outburst in some age, more like screaming sound of local visitors to off and then sensed, tracked, he feared, that the call was from Rosario. And to top it off, commenting Fioravanti delayed connection, precise and dapper, that at that time, the brave boys Catalans were arming the barrier, the fence, the bulwark, the retaining wall ... But that announcement, "Fioravanti Atento!", Warned the spirit, psyche and had prevented the field to receive the highest pain or joy blinding. But now not. Now, all of a sudden shameless, crude, wildly, gets into a wild screaming transmission "Gol de Boca!" And shit. One is shivering, trembling, slapped, thinking that those three words could have changed the meaning of life, the axis of movement of the world and the meaning of our existence on Earth. So, for preservation perhaps one can choose not to know anything about the game. Do not want to see or hear, or even know the outcome until the exact moment the final whistle. Why? Because you know that all suffering is limited, your tired heart can not endure the process, the radio broadcast harrowing will add to the tension inherent to reach intolerable trim you prefer, in short, know the score and put a quick shot, a hard smack, blow cold. But locked in a closet, the girl little room terrace can be idle. The radio sound is finite, sharp, liquid seeps through the walls. You know that his neighbor often explode in a terrifying roar to the goals. and are also distant roars. And the horns ... The cinema can be. The film is an option. But there will always be in the audience almost deserted on Sunday at siesta rows back, another coward with a portable radio embedded in the ear. One, sensitive as a raw animal, despite the darkness has seen it and assumed from that moment that Sharon Stone may be into balls a thousand times, that Michael Douglas will hold the eggs against a door repeatedly, but that one only the minimum will be on tenterhooks this fast oscillating hum more than listen, guess and that comes from radio son of a thousand whores in the back row that might have to choose another film for shelter. So now you're on the street. He tried to watch television and was the same. Had coffee, circled through the kitchen but the time had stopped at home and the time to design Bioy Casares in The Invention of Morel. Suddenly there was an explosion, clear, unequivocal. Pump noise. That was a goal, no doubt! Rose chair and turned several times around the table, caught the infernal restlessness. In the kitchen radio, dull, dumb, as expected. It could be a central goal and one was there like an idiot, suffering the fart! And if ol Newells was bad luck. The resignation, he knew, would invade suchas restorative molasses. We had to run to the radio and on. The dial capturing a musical program, insensitive to the core problems of society. One sought madly to dial. Came a loud and furious propaganda. It was there! "We go to the mouth of the tunnel," said a guy. Ago, the rumored. There was excitement in the commentary, there was no excitement or clamor. "A draw is fine, so far," sentenced another. It was nil-nil halftime. Some brainless asshole that bomb had blown disturbing people's rest and preying on the innocent neighborhood. You turned off the radio, almost angrily to the attack of weakness. Forty-five minutes just for the end of execution. Avocados could not be in there. Adrenaline ran the cuepo as one of those carts up and down colorful, possessed, and coasters. We had to go. Walking. Do something. And should go as 20 of the second. Insurance and equipment comply with the tie. Better not to risk staying in the mold, look back. A point is business for the two, neither victors nor vanquished, the city quiet. Everybody's happy. Passes, fast, a car. Your driver has the grim expression may be another fan of Central you are hearing dreaded result! Yes, one would seem to have seen the pendulum of a blue and yellow slipper hanging from the mirror ... It sounds a horn several times! You can be the start of a celebration or, hopefully, the auncia fatal accident ... A dog barks! Perhaps alarmed by the jump joyfully from his master, leprosy famous ... Thunders the open exhaust of a motorcycle! Or are firecrackers? Is there one goal? Is it joy or fire outside its own? One recovers, suddenly, that primary and animal instinct who unsuccessfully try to legarnos our aboriginal ancestors. Begins to track signals in the treetops, to guess the attitude behavior of animals, diving responses in the evidence of nature, as interpreted by the flight of birds. From a closed blind reaches a fleeting whiff of radio reporter. One hastens the pace but the voice follows him like a smart missile head. What unknown inflection in his voice? "The enthusiastic and successful reporter with the vibration of a victory? Does the monotonous cadence and disillusioned with the mediocrity of a new tie? One is a radar antenna, is the fragile fawn raising the wet nose the thickness, the oracle who reads the destination on the subtle reading of the pebbles. Certainly remember the last evening that was lost "catastrophically" a classic. That morning, after the fact wild dogs barking, the birds were silent and cats had an erratic and misleading rolling, cumbersome, on their own feces. To go, you figure, 30 minutes, half an hour. That all goes well, in dead calm, that does not change again an explosion, another roar! The court with that, assholes! Already made her run once and that was a lie. -Throw shooting. To do this shit to one in the legs, nothing else. Although he knows that if a goal is confirmed Central is going to scream. Alone and in the street, as a Pavot, sure jumps up and screams it. Yes sir. It's all an avalanche of pressure on it here at the mouth of the gorge, Epera out, choking. Slowly bends a car, the driver looks at him and goes to one. Black is the Mario. What does this idiot? Why slows down, why they look? Mario head half out the window, shakes and smiles a sad grimace. "That dick you are, brother!" He says. A stylus of a let-down ice from the chest to the groin. "What? Do we lose? "Question. "One to zero." "What's going to do," says one philosophical assumptions, half as if he cared, as if he had gone for a walk because he wants to quietly reflect on human evolution in the next millennium. Mario accelerates and leaves. One is destroyed, pulverized. A party hack has fierce in the middle. "What will you do" is repeated a shit "are you gonna do!" And tomorrow and all week watching on television that fucking goal! And the celebration, and the jump ending of leprosy, and red and black pile of players celebrating. And that if a single goal, after all. Because Central is going out there desperately looking for a draw and eat four. He said that it is almost ... And support the load of Marini. Face Vega peeling of conceited. The thousand bad jokes that spring up like mushrooms after every defeat. The "Do you know how to tell Central?". Must get into the bed and stay for 20 days. That must be done, the bitch mother that Repari What the fuck you put that shirt dirty, white with a picture of the panda, which accompany him in three victories? What puts a shit? From now on, it does not help anymore, so of course. Not more helpful. After all, what one has to do with them, with the team? Do you play anything? "You walk out there and play, perhaps? Eleven boys are fairly well known and shit. Nothing more. Just that. There are more important things in life. If you are a mother was dying at this point, very little would give the ball classic. A classic that will go down in history, no question. One of many. How much will it? Should now be about to end, almost certainly. Now, something happens. Another explosion, some other information from which to cling to a momentary illusion least. Although after Nuls be another goal, look l tell you. A two-nil is not a landslide, a two-nil ... Another explosion, another bomb rumble! And now another, and another one! Done. No doubt. No more classic and we won. The mother who reputísima Repari. Well, it's over. There are worse things. Follow up, however, in the statistics. Evening darkened, cloudy. I wish it would rain and ruin everything. That no one walks down the street. Get a boy from a house and then another. The first naked shouting "Let Central, yet!". A lightning flash illuminates the one inside. He pulls out his throat. Stuttering reaches to ask, "Finished?". "One by one," says the guy, "Central equalized on the hour." You walk, shivering now, through inertia, instrumental. Central to the time, dammit! Central on the hour! No screams. No nods. Not lift hand. The cry will explode like a bomb in deep We scoundrels, yet! It seems unbelievable. One would have thought I was going to jump, disjointed, jumping over a fence, climb a tree like a monkey, climbing up a balcony terrace. But no. No big deal. It was not so terrible after all. Maybe not so important. But a sense of lassitude, of warmth, infinite inner peace it encroaches cordially. And is one block from home. He's hungry, he wants to see his mother, being with friends, to caress the head of the children playing on the sidewalk, the future of the country. The evening is clear, full of sunshine and even cooler. You stop for a moment before enter the door and crosses a couple of sentences with their neighbor. Asked about the flowers being watered by the unusual dimension that has reached the love of the wall. Includes suddenly that old hinchapelota and mismanaged, it is not so bad. On the contrary, is very nice. Finally enters and goes to the bathroom, before turning on the radio to hear, from end to end, the concluding comments. Urine. You wash your hands, look in the mirror. He has over a thousand new gray at the temples. There are two new and deep wrinkles on the forehead. The rings have become darker. One has been aged five years again, as usual. All for a classic, barely. A football game, just . "

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