the normal Guinness

Longtime readers will surely recall my outrageous declaration just a couple of weeks into the COVID-19 pandemic where I announced, in no uncertain terms, that I was refusing recommendations of all pandemic-informed new releases. Specifically, my ban covered any new releases claiming some kind of basis in the "lessons learned" from the pandemic. I was thinking about this the other day but I couldn't remember if I posted it to TOA, so I went back and checked the archives. My investigation indeed discovered the evidence linked above, but upon rereading I also noted a long-forgotten clause - "This applies for the first year after I finish my next Guinness at a bar." Shit! There's a lot that hasn't returned to normal, but I should have known better about the Guinness. I guess if I need to say it, I'll say it - fire at will, folks. Books and articles, podcasts and videos, whatever you think I need to see, hear, or read about these alleged lessons can now be sent my way (but please reread the fine print if you want to send a TED Talk). Don't worry, I won't immediately mock your recommendation.

In fact, this battleship has been at the bottom of the sea for at least a month because I can point to the specific date of this poison-pill Guinness: April 10, 2021. This isn't because I have a supernatural recall, it's because I remember coming home from Fenway and watching a soccer game while lying down on my floor (on the advice of my liver, it having been over a year since I'd done any kind of notable day-drinking). The game ended a few minutes after I woke up from a Guinness-induced stupor, Trent Alexander-Arnold smacking in a stoppage time winner to offer some normality to the soccer universe. The goal snapped Liverpool's record six-match home losing streak, which of course coincided with the lockdown precautions that barred supporters from reinforcing Anfield. Anyway, with details like those at my fingertips it took about ten seconds to confirm the date when the bleak darkness of a long year broke, just briefly, to flash a hint of light.

The day also broke what was surely a personal record in terms of meeting a friend for a few beers, a nearly four hundred day spell which in 2019 would have seemed as improbable as Liverpool's losing streak. The strangest thing about walking down to Fenway for those beers then coming home to watch Liverpool win on tape delay was the unfamiliarity of it all. This kind of Saturday afternoon used to be normal, but the experience felt like eating solid food after a long bout of food poisoning. I could look back here and remark that the pandemic had me a stranger to my own life, or expand this essay into a wide-ranging meditation on the great disruption caused by these uncertain times. But I fear such directions would overlook a more important truth about life. The truth is that adjustment has always been the only normal. The Guinness itself was unplanned, something my friend wanted to try because chemo had changed his taste buds, each poison pill covertly taxing the tongue until the malty combination of chocolate and coffee started going down like molten rust, so I redirected my order because showing solidarity meant being there, and I wanted to be there when the flavor came back. So much else had changed, all of it before 2020 - plans were made days in advance rather than hours, meeting in the middle now meant the Green Monster, and brief meditations on death and illness interrupted the brilliant ignorance of our helmet football analysis. The buzz on that spring day was back to normal, but we should have known better about the Guinness.

the important thing

Given my recent return to two great traditions - watching the knockout rounds of the UEFA Champions League and running around the dirty river until my next injury - I thought I would check out this post from almost exactly three years ago. The post looks at a specific detail that applies to each of the above in its own way - the effect of starting in broad daylight, then finishing in the darkness of night. From a technical perspective, the post was far from my best work. The overall concept is fine, and I enjoyed rereading some of my own writing (that footnote!). However, I think the post should have been either half or twice its final length.

The point of the post, I suppose, was that winning is partly a function of confronting the darkness of a possible defeat, and that the path to victory means knowing how to carry the fear of failure throughout the journey. I could have explained that message in half the words. The undercurrent of the post is that in some ways this lesson is applicable to running, and possibly even life - to run well becomes possible only by embracing the reality of injury or decline, just as to live well is enabled in part by accepting the finite limits of a mortal life such that we can accept the suffering which eventually finds us all. The reason I raise doubling the length as an option is that in order to properly expose and explore that undercurrent, I would have needed to cover additional territory in the post.

Considering this notion that I should have either halved or doubled the original post, I suppose I must consider an all-too familiar question - what would have been the point? I guess at some level we should always keep in mind that the important thing is to make the best of it, whether it be in the context of a post or some other sense of the expression. But there is an issue in that making the best of the post likely wouldn't have accomplished much, for all I said was in some ways just restating the same old thing, this sentiment demonstrated by the endless clichés - life is short, embrace mindfulness, be bold, have a full heart, the circle of life, blah blah blah. So I guess the question is whether there was, or is, any value in adding to the bloated literature on the topic, even if framed within the relatively unusual combination of two mundane interests - soccer tournaments and jogging around like a pompous two-city slicker. Liverpool manager Jurgen Klopp once pointed out that soccer is "the most important, least important thing" and maybe I can reframe this for us runners - running is "the least important, most important thing".

But I've already said the important thing - maybe even "the most important, most important thing" - which is of course to make the best of it, to the fullest extent that anyone can do such a thing. You should always make the best of it, whether it be a post or a life. We don't need those clichés from above to know that this is an obvious point to almost everyone, but maybe those clichés suggest the necessity of regular reinforcement. After all, it does seem like most of our time is spent closer to the least important than the most important, and this observation suggests that we routinely fall somewhere short of making the best of it. I reveal the same problem when I talk or even write about my life, going on as I do about "the most important, least important things". There is truth in the matter - I look forward to soccer games involving players that have never heard of me, then I go out for a run after lunch so that I come home in time to miss dinner. If I write honestly then I don't dig too much into "the most important, most important things", for I've successfully distracted myself with so much other nonsense, which is another way of saying that I'm not much different from most people.

I guess I'm left to wonder if I'm missing something. If this approach is so commonplace then maybe it's actually the best way, or at least the most appropriate way, for people to approach the important things. Maybe this is what I tried to write about three years ago. When I watch Liverpool fall behind in a match, I know they must confront the grim reality of elimination, but what happens next might have more to say about my life than it does about a soccer game. When it comes to the topic of falling short, it's easier for most people to talk about it through a filter like a soccer tournament or a favorite movie or some pop song or whatever, anything but specifics from their own life - the time they lost that job, or were rejected by that program, or realized that the doctors had tried everything. Perhaps the drawback of using those specifics is that we are simply too close to the situation and therefore cannot step back to see the full picture. The advantage of seeing it through a filter is that we see why the way we carry ourselves matters even if it doesn't work out in the end. I know as a soccer fan that nothing is worse than watching a team give up before the end of the game, and who makes movies about a protagonist who won't try? I think there is always an option, however trivial it may seem in the moment, for how to carry ourselves in the face of terrible luck or in the aftermath of an unspeakable loss - in the reality of the most difficult moment, if we resolve to embrace the situation, then there is a new chance to make the best of it.

When the streetlights begin flickering along Mass Ave, I often recognize the first signs of fatigue in my mind and body. I remember certain evenings when I had run so far off the path that I could feel the panic start simmering, deep down in my gut, as the familiar ceded territory to the endless darkness. There is no such nonsense as a "runner's high" in these moments, just fear and tension and the fact that tripping at the wrong time could mean the end in so many senses of the word. I have to remind myself that making it home in these moments always comes down focus - if I can sharpen my senses so that each step moves me in the right direction, I give myself a chance to meet the challenge. I think the experience of these late, long runs has informed much of my approach to the other challenges of living that full life. It isn't so much about confronting or even accepting the reality of inevitable misfortunes, but more so about understanding the stakes when the reality is making itself comfortable on your couch. Do you hide in the closet or offer it a drink? There might not be a good answer, but I think the most important thing about life is to make the best of it, each situation ultimately demanding the same focus of putting one foot in front of the other, because I don't know any other way to make it home.

curtis jones, always with the ball

The emergence of Curtis Jones has been one of Liverpool's bright spots during a trying post-lockdown period. The nineteen-year old midfielder, a product of the club's youth academy, has acclimated so quickly to the first team that some (lunatics) have suggested manager Jurgen Klopp will have a selection headache when Thiago returns from injury - the details are wrong, but the gist of the idea is correct, and speaks to Jones's recent progress. Some will say that his rise came out of nowhere, though of course his record at youth level always suggested eventual success.

But I did realize just the other day that I missed a subtle but significant clue in a video which I highlighted on TOA just a few months ago (albeit for a different reason). In this clip from the Liverpool FC YouTube channel, Curtis joins the chat ninety and Klopp remarks "Curtis, always with the ball"; the manager actually sounds a little bored with his own observation. I wonder why? I think Curtis Jones showing up with the ball for a Zoom call wasn't an uncommon occurrence, and I bet it speaks to his determination as a player; outside observers have been surprised by his recent performances, but those used to seeing him - always with the ball - likely expected nothing less.

a minute's silence

I don't really have an answer for why I became a Liverpool fan, but I usually say it's because of their supporters. I have a vague memory of a game from early in 2006, I think it was away to West Ham, when I was flabbergasted that the deafening noise from the television was coming from the travelling fans who were outnumbered ten to one. I supplemented those first few months of watching soccer with hours of research, where I learned more about the club's fanbase - I discovered not just that it could make Anfield the most intimidating home ground in all of the sport, but that it could also organize for goals outside the game - for example, the citywide boycott of The S*n. My support for Liverpool came at a perfect time, just as college was diluting my ability to connect through a shared interest in Boston's various teams, and by fall break of my freshman year I was fully invested in the club.

I'm never asked why I'm still a Liverpool fan, and I think that's just fine - I don't have an answer. I'm in my thirties and I watch soccer games - it's one of those things that's hard to explain to someone who doesn't already understand. I'm not sure what my fellow supporters would say either, mostly because I don't count any other Liverpool fans among my close friends. The only place I've interacted with them at all is at The Phoenix Landing, a bar in Cambridge, where I've seen a few matches over the years. I remember a cold November morning when I walked in, barely awake, but fully alert to the vague possibility of community that clings to the air around anyone who walks alone into a bar. The screens showed the players lined up at midfield, with Anfield waiting around them for a minute's silence before kickoff. The whistle blew and everything went quiet - not just in the ground, but in the bar, too. I remained silent mostly out of stunned surprise. The quietest sixty seconds I'd ever heard soon came to an end, and this time the whistle brought the crowd back to life. The unity in the noise was the same as in the silence, and maybe somewhere in there I should have found my answer.