So here I am, sitting down in my dorm room, gazing out upon the Grove of the Virginia Theological Seminary. I can almost picture Francis Scott Key strolling around and bequeathing part of his fortune to our seminary. Or there is the family of Robert E. Lee, donating the baptismal font for our chapel. If you imagine long enough, you can hear the anguished cries of wounded Union soldiers in the Aspinwall building that served as a hospital during the Civil War.
Now what shall my first blog be about? Shall it be the wandering musings of a wanna-be writer? The angry defiance of an out-numbered Southern liberal? A record of the ups and downs of my sports teams?
Yes, I’ll start there. In the cold misery of northern Virginia, it is to my beloved Blues, my awesome Astros, and the terrific Texas Longhorns that I look for solace and comfort.
The whole sage of the Chelsea game today actually started last night for me. After a few brews with the seminarians, I was escorting three females back to the Metro station. Then, as if a mobile beacon of hope, on some random bridge in our nation’s capital, walks past me a young man with a Chelsea jacket on. With my verbal filters washed away by the waters of the Sierra Nevada, I spurt out “Go Blues!” A shocked look, and then a smile of recognition flashes across his face. We both have determination in our eyes.
So there are the eleven heroic men in the Blues uniform, desperately battling to remain in the Premier League title race. The New York Yankees of soccer (Manchester United) are ten points ahead in the table. Then, a lightning bolt of a blast from captain John Terry sends the old Pensioners up 1-0. JT, our captain, now the all-time highest scoring defender for the team from Stamford Bridge.
The close match resumes. The Blues, desperately wanting the insurance policy of a second goal. Wigan Athletic laying siege to Stamford Bridge in hopes of snatching a point from the fixture. Then, with a cackle from the Manchester United fans of the world, Wigan sneaks one by Petr Cech in the 82nd minute. “The horror, the horror.” The walls of Stamford Bridge have been breached. The battle rages on.
When time is expiring and the situation is dire, when the title hopes are fading into the twilight over West London, who can the Chelsea faithful call upon? Didier Drogba, enigmatic but powerful? John Terry, captain and bulwark? A lesser known hero, perhaps Juliano Belletti or John Mikel Obi? No. None other answers the clarion call but Super Frank Lampard. A magical flick of the head in the 90th minute seals the win. Ah the agony, oh the joys.
Maybe in the future this blog will have more serious content. But truly, the teams I support offer solace and comfort in times of trouble. Sports have a magical way of binding people together and the curse of tearing them apart. But, it is the hope, the belief that we can win, that drives me on. This was no silly rant, but a glimpse into my inner-life.