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Gledao nesto na drugom forumu i naletim na grb ''Varvari-Podgorica''.

 

Spoiler

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I u tom trenutku se setim kada sam uiniju odgovorio u jednoj temi sa slikom gde redar u jednoj PO tekmi Detroit Red Wingsa drzi mrtvu hobotnicu, tacnije iznosi je sa klizalista zato sto je neko od navijaca ubacio, na sta on kaze nesto u fazonu ''Ju, kakvi varvari''. Nakon toga se setim slike koju sam video dan pre crnogorskih izbora Norveska Sparta. I dok citam tekst kazem sebi da mogu da se identifikujem sa slikom, posto imam crnogorske korene sa obe strane familije a i tako se osecam poslednjih par meseci. Jos jedna zanimljiva stvar u vezi slike, nick mi je na drugom mestu nekada bio Spartacus zbog serije.

 

Spoiler

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Klupko krece da se odmotava, zatim da mi je ovo prva jesen/zima koja mi prija prvi put nakon sezone 2015/16. Secam se koliko sam bio naprzen na prve tri sezone Vikinga i to se bas poklopilo sa tim periodom. Ja sam u poslednje vreme malo pao pod uticajem svedske i norveske kulture, a naravno tu je i uticaj americke. Zatim naletim na jedan duzi post Crnog Bombardera u nekoj od filmskih tema gde spominje da je Norveska na taj i taj dan 1905. postala nezavisne od Svedske. Tada mi klikne u glavi i kazem ''Heh, Svedska i Norveska ko Srbija i Crna Gora''. I u tom trenutku su mi stvari su mi postale mnogo jasnije i sama veza je postala jaca.

 

Naravno, Svedjani u Detroitu nisu anomalija. Stavise, dosta je Svedjana proslo kroz Red Wingse, dok u Pistonsima znam da je bio samo Jonas Jerebko. Volvo se koliko znam isto nekada vozio u ne tako malom broju u Detroitu. Tako da mi sada sve ima mnogo vise smisla cela ova kompleksna veza. Nisam znao ljudima u proslosti da objasnim konkretno zasto to i to, sada mogu da im ispricam roman. Nista mene nije vise zajebalo od klime.

 

Da ne davim previse, otvorice ko hoce.

 

Spoiler

 

I tako kada sam aktivnije krenuo da pratim sportove, nisam se vezao ni za jedan evropski klub u fudbalu nego mi je vise sluzilo kao zabava, dok sam NBA pratio i zgotivio sam par fransiza. Posto sam imao NBA Live 2004 i NHL 2004 na CDu, tako sam ja povezao dve fransize iz istog grada. Pistonse sam zgotivio zbog ovog grba kojeg drzim na avataru. Znak da sam dobro izabrao sto sam izabrao Detroit je bilo draftovanje Darkelje od strane Detroita.😄 Iz nekog razloga sam pomislio da sam izabrao Red Vingse pre Darkelje, a ispada da je bilo obrnuto.

 

Cim sam upalio NHL, u exhibition games sam mogao da biram izmedju Anaheim Mighty Ducks i New Jersey Devils, mozda sam prvih par puta izabrao da biram Anahajm i kasnije rekoh ''aj daj zbog Darkelje tu fransizu iz Detroita'' i moram reci da sam se bas naigrao sa njima. Nisam imao pojma ni ko su ni sta su, posto sam imao dial-up nisam ni gledao njihovu istoriju nego samo vozi. I prva stvar koju sam odmah primetio je da ima za moje tadasnje standarde gomila cudnih prezimena i primecujem kako nema puno Amera: Kronwall, Holmstrom, Lidstrom, Zetterberg, Yzerman, Datsyuk etc. Lebtijebem, kako se lomi jezik oko ovih prezimena. Prvog igraca van Detroita kog sam zapamtio bio je Joe Sakic iz Kolorada. Posle sam osvajao i nemacko prvenstvo sa Manhajnom i osvajao sa Ceskom Ice Hockey World Championships, ali sam toliko vremena proveo uz tu igru a nisam pogledao ni sekundu hokeja dok nije dosao na Sport Klub i to sam uglavnom hvatao reprize. I svaki put kada je moja ekipa podizala trofej isla je pesma Deftones-Minerva.

 

Bio sam svestan da je Milicic irelevantan u Detroitu, ali nisam se nesto potreso zbog toga. Bilo mi je drago sto je dosao do prstena.

 

 

P.S. Nakon sto smo pobedili Norvezane u fudbalu, tako sam ja krenuo da slusam vise njihovu mizku.

Edited by Ta'veren
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1. Almost No Visible Chain Saws

 

God had knee surgery on July 24, and He was still limping six weeks later, on September 8, when He walked out of the giant inflatable wolf’s head onto the soccer pitch at the Estadio Juan Carmelo Zerillo, in the Argentine city of La Plata. God wore a navy Le Coq Sportif hoodie with His initials (D.M.) on the chest, a white snapback cap, two glittering earrings, and track pants. God had not shaved, though He was not exactly sporting a full beard, either—it was more of a divine scruff situation—and He looked tiny, plush, and fragile. At 58, God was technically only three years older than Brad Pitt, but he did not call to mind Brad Pitt’s older brother so much as a small gnome in Brad Pitt’s older brother’s garden. With His billowing neck, heavy features, and dramatic mouth, God looked like a toad that was about to make a scene in a nice restaurant.

 

God was being unveiled as the new manager of El Lobo, the Club de Gimnasia y Esgrima La Plata, also known as Gimnasia, or GELP. Many thousands of people had come to see Him unveiled. The people sang and shrieked His name. God gazed up at the people, in the manner foretold in 2 Chronicles: “For the eyes of the LORD run to and fro throughout the whole earth, to shew himself strong in the behalf of them whose heart is perfect toward him.” The people shrieked even louder. For their hearts were perfect toward Him, and they wished dearly to shew Him this, and they shewed him using all the means at their disposal, mostly by shaking blue balloons, and by jumping.

 

The frenzy of their greeting brought a tear to God’s eye. He blew kisses to the people. Then some men came out and put Him in a golf cart.

“Diego!” the crowd thundered. “Maradoooo!”

 

Diego Maradona—for such was God’s name—rode out toward the middle of the pitch. His body language was uncharacteristically restrained, even timid. He seemed overwhelmed by the magnitude of the moment. Maradona’s arrival at Gimnasia marked his return to working in his home country. As a player, of course, Maradona had been, well, God—winner of the ’86 World Cup, scorer of legendary goals, on any short list of the biggest stars ever. As a coach—well, he had been a really incredible player. When he managed Argentina’s national team during the 2010 World Cup, he was perhaps most famous for telling a journalist to “suck it and go on sucking it” after the team narrowly squeaked into the tournament. Since then, he had stints coaching in the United Arab Emirates. Most recently, he had been the manager of the Mexican club Dorados de Sinaloa, a fact that many people on the internet had remarked upon with mischief, for verily is Sinaloa a stronghold of drug cartels, and well had Maradona been known to sample the odd cartel product every now and then, in moderation. He left that job in June, however, before the knee surgery. Now he was here.

 

He got out of the golf cart. Smoke from several fiery explosions that had coincided with his arrival drifted over the flags that were waving and the banners that were being held aloft. His managerial record might have been mediocre—he’d never spent longer with a club than his 22-game stretch with the Cheetahs of Al-Wasl in 2011 and 2012—but the Gimnasia fans saw him as their savior. El Lobo had taken only one point from five matches and were flirting with relegation, but it was all right. Diego was here. In the stands, a man with freshly shaved hair was showing photographers the new Maradona tattoo he had gotten on his scalp. Outside the stadium, where fans were celebrating in the streets, a man commemorated God’s arrival by waving a chain saw over his head. This was not apparent from inside the stadium, where there were few to no visible chain saws.

 

He began to address the crowd, still moving timidly. As he spoke, people kept leaping onto the pitch to try to get close to him. One man sprinted toward him with a giant umbrella that had Maradona’s face on it, seemingly wanting nothing more—from the moment, possibly from life—than to stand near Maradona and hold the Maradona’s-head umbrella over Maradona’s head.

 

Watching the pitch invaders, listening to the roar of the singing, Maradona finally seemed to thaw. He started dancing a little. He got sassy with the crowd. It was as if a certain threshold of chaos had to be reached, and then the City of Misrule that builds itself around him everywhere he goes could begin flying together, brick by haphazard brick. When the City of Misrule appears, normal rules are suspended. Jesters become kings. The order of things turns on its head. In the City of Misrule, he knows how to carry himself.

 

He shouted. He sobbed. He marched around the pitch with members of his new team in a formation that was partly “impromptu military phalanx” and partly “floor-level camera panning backward in a smoky ’90s music video while a boy band struts forward to get you back, girl.” He led the crowd in the classic Argentine soccer chant, “If you don’t jump, you’re an Englishman.” He was the smallest living creature in the stadium—in his tousled younger days, perhaps the uppermost curl of his pouf brushed 5 feet, 5—yet his aura towered. He seemed healed, renewed by mayhem. Every so often he’d look up with his eyes brimming, soaking it all in, as if the past and the future were catching up to him at the same time.

 

https://www.theringer.com/2019/10/1/20891805/diego-maradona-hand-of-god-argentina-world-cup

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