Home and Away

One of the more eerie aspects of this global pandemic (an ultimately unimportant aspect in the scheme of things), is the absence of live sports on TV. Just a few weeks ago, baseball's spring training was well underway and Opening Day was fast approaching. I already knew 2020 would be another downer for my belovèd Seattle Mariners; now it might be a wash for everybody.

Meanwhile, in fútbol, Liverpool (YNWA!) were on the cusp of winning the English league title for the first time in thirty years. Last time they lifted the trophy, the Cold War was still underway, Driving Miss Daisy was Best Picture, and none of us had access to the Internet. Now the conclusion of the Premier League season has been thrown into question as well.

So, to ease the withdrawal, I'm reading Home and Away: Writing the Beautiful Game, which consists of an exchange of letters between the Norwegian writer Karl Ove Knausgård and his Swedish buddy Fredrik Ekelund. One of them is dour, watching games from his couch in Scandinavia, often falling asleep mid-game. The other, writing from the World Cup in Brazil, is prone to exuberance, soaking up every ounce of the energy around him. Of course their letters stray into all kinds of weird existential territory, which is just as interesting as the soccer talk, if you ask me.