It was unbelievable. Bayern had so many chances, but it seemed that the tension was too high for them that despite a high-possession game they were unable to deliver a goal until Thomas Muller’s narrow header at the 83rd minute. But even with this late goal it was still too early for Bayern to celebrate, Didier Drogba having smashed through the Bavarian ranks with a header off a goal kick five minutes later, tying the game to 1 and forcing the championship into extra time. By then the home team already had a 56% possession compared to the away team’s 44.
Another opportunity came to Bayern 3 minutes into extra time when Drogba fouled Franck Ribéry inside the penalty box, yet surprisingly Arjen Robben was unable to get the penalty kick past Petr Cech. Bayern’s pace noticeably slackened giving more and more possession to Chelsea and bringing less and less offense as the first half of the extra time waned out. They reclaimed the attacking end at the resumption of the last half of regulation, again giving away several chances at sight. At one point Bayern’s captain Philip Lahm found a teammate in the box, only to be disappointed by Chelsea’s Gary Cahill who cleared the ball away from the danger zone. Nonetheless Bayern was able to bring a more aggressive defense and reclaimed the ball back into their turf, still extra time ended with wonderful chances but no goals.
The penalty shootout was even more astonishing. With Bayern having a 4-0 record on penalty shootouts compared to Chelsea’s 0-2 I expected that Bayern was better prepared for this decider, and yet after a seemingly seamless start with Lahm, Mario Gomez and Manuel Neuer, it all broke down with Ivica Olić and Bastian Schweinsteiger, whereas Chelsea rallied after Juan Mata’s starting miss, culminating with Drogba’s finale that overturned the match and delivered the British underdogs the trophy they have been dreaming of for decades, and have been lost in a previous shootout to Manchester United four years ago.
The days have been so short for me. I feel like a prisoner shackled with an iron ball, shut inside the Alcatraz of nine-to-fives, having no other freedom but to think, and whose motivation is derived only from an existential belief that life can still be beautiful despite the engulfing feeling of being left like a log floating amongst a terrible flood.
I entered Saudi Arabia with the prospect of spending the rest of my days with her. For a long while I set aside my writing career, focusing instead on counting the butt-ends that gathered in the back office during the after-hours, learning to love the awkward sensation of having to tolerate each bullshit that comes your way, and trying to believe that - damn it - there is a way to live through this without having to bleed yourself to death. I welcomed all these knives just to be near her and hold her hand for good when the time comes.
The truth is I’ve been bleeding myself to death since the day I met her. My docility has cost me my ideals. I am transformed from a once-hopeful young monster to an eternally-forgiving patron saint of double-crossed gullibles.
But I loved her, and up until now, I still do. Despite all the deception and the masquerade, I am still devoted to her memories, a devotion which is filled with gratitude for all those years of making me feel like I wasn’t alone in my crusade against the mediocrity of love. A great part of what I am now owes to what we have been yesterday. A great part of what I believe in today comes from those experiences when she and I were together. No one can ever match the influence she has had on me. She is everything a writer needs.
And despite it all, the blame must not be laid upon her. I am the one who’s at fault. My flaws, my weaknesses, my austerity, my intolerance, my irresponsibility, my uncertainties, these things are indeed unbearable for someone who deserves the flowers and the clouds and the butterflies of God’s most wonderful gardens, things which I tried to conjure with my music, things which I attempted to pray for in my poetry, things which we tried to visualize in our dreams while holding on to each other under the pitch black shadow of the night. Despite it all she is more than an angel, but I am a dying Gaul, a fallen gladiator left to pine for all eternity, a personification of silence in the persistent clutches of agony.
Of course no one can understand. Whatever caused what happened between us no one in the world could ever understand. Except the both of us.
If the day I met her was a big mistake, it was a mistake that I never regret. It was a mistake that I will cherish until the evening of my breath.
A delivery of one of my poems, read by Kate Lynn-Devere for the new poetry mini-segment on her program Kate’s Sunshine Cast (Gashouse Radio.com), where she reads a poem from a little-known or unpublished poet every week. You can listen to the podcast of last Tuesday’s entire episode here.
On the morning of April 19, 1912, three public works officials were debating the unsinkability of the Titanic when one of them suggested that they can put the ocean liner to the test by driving it through an iceberg. This photo shows the officials on the moment they were nearing the fateful consensus.
Taken during the late 1930s when Hitler was at the height of power, two Philippine public works officials visited the dictator and were given the opportunity to ride with him on a grand parade in Nurnberg, which led to being included in one of the most definitive pictures of Adolf Hitler’s reign as the German fuehrer. Years later the two officials would defect from their Axis support as they realized that the Nazis had been using the railroad built by them to transport Jews about to be gassed in concentration camps.
The raising of the US flag on Iwo Jima, February 23, 1945. Three public works officials were contemplating on how they can repair the wreckage inflicted by the war on the island when one photographer, Joe Rosenthal, took the shot that became the most ringing symbol of the War in the Pacific.
While New Yorkers were celebrating Allied victory on August 14, 1945, photographer Alfred Eisenstaedt kept running after a sailor who was grabbing and kissing every girl in sight regardless of age and appearance when, after a myriad of non-satisfactory tries, he finally caught one excellent shot of the man with a nurse in his arms. The photo became so much more than just a cultural icon that up until now it is still easily recognizable. It is also famous for featuring three Philippine government officials who were then discussing what to do to Japan now that they have surrendered.
Held on February 4-11, 1945, the Yalta Conference called on the heads of the three major governments (Great Britain, US and USSR) for the purpose of planning for Europe’s post-war reorganization. It was here that the leaders agreed with the recommendation of three Philippine public works officials to build a wall separating Berlin into three sectors so that every country will be able to possess their respective occupation zones.
At the royal wedding of Prince William and Catherine Middleton on April 29, 2011, three public works officials were called to plan for the route to be taken by the royal couple to and from Westminster Abbey prior to the event.
Skhumbuzo Mhlongo, a 22-year old African man, set himself on fire and then committed suicide last week after a government official tore up the ID papers he needed to start his new job at a bird seed factory. He had been trying to get those legally required papers for years.
The 22 year old committed suicide after being refused the identity documents he needed to start a job on Monday.
In his suicide note, Mr Mhlongo explained how an official had torn up his ID application, calling him a foreigner.
The minister said she suspected an official had expected a bribe.
The BBC’s Pumza Fihlani in Johannesburg says the Department of Home Affairs has come under heavy criticism over the years for its inefficiency in issuing ID documents, birth certificates and passports, with some people claiming to have waited up to four years.
She points out it would be even more difficult to obtain the documents if you have no parents to vouch for your identity.
Mr Mhlongo, who was buried in Hillcrest near Durban in Kwa-Zulu Natal Province, had been due to start the new job at a factory which manufactures bird food on Monday.
Mr Mamoepa said the Department of Social Development assisted the family with the burial arrangements. Mr Mhlongo had been raised by his mother, who disappeared in 2000, leaving him to care for his younger siblings.
He had apparently been trying to get an ID card for some time without any luck and had been told to bring someone who could vouch for his nationality.But the official did not believe that the man he brought along was his father, tore up Mr Mhlongo’s papers and called him a “kwere-kwere” - a derogatory term used for foreign nationals.
He apparently left the suicide note before hanging himself.
Little, nagging, bureaucratic state regulations quietly erode opportunity and destroy lives. And the world’s poor bear the heaviest burden. It’s rare that the tragedy of this quiet tyranny is so vividly tangible. And we forget too often.
