Harry, Englandman

 Harry, Englandman 
Dateline: April 9, Emirates Stadium

I wonder if Uncle Albert is ill. “I’d almost as soon watch Southampton-Chelsea,” he said as I was helping him down the stairs.
     He naps — we both nap — through the first 25 minutes of Arsenal v. Brighton Hove Albion; yet he wakes up to see the Trossard goal from Mwepu slapped hard past Aaron Ramsdale. He groans deeply enough that I say, “What?” He gestures at the flatscreen, groans again, weakly, and recloses his eyes.
     At the other end, the header from Gabriel to Martinelli and his header into the goal goes to VAR, which allows Uncle Albert, awake again, to launch his usual plaint that games are meant to be played on the field of play, there! in real time, not somewhere else in freeze frame. He frets; then, when the call is finally made, he adds, “There’s four minutes out of my life but also, more to the point, out of a game whose brilliance is that the action is continuous, dagnabbit.”
     “Ideally,” I say. 
     “If you want out of time and you want ‘ideal,’ you can watch The damn Masters,” he says, “Isn’t that today?” He actually says “damn.”*

But back at the Emirates, Mwepu makes the run, picks the ball off the floor in a neat half-volley from the long, lovely Lewis Dunk pass, side-footing it into the corner. He is Enock, Mwepu is, named, Uncle Albert and I decide, not after the son of Cain but the son of Jared, the father of Methuselah.**
     Too late, Arsenal tries to come back: there are two off the crossbar, by Ødegaard and by Enketia; then, there’s the long, lucky strike by Ødegaard . But 1-2 is little better than 0-3 (the loss to Crystal Palace). Uncle Albert asks if he can have his lunch in the kitchen. Usually, I bring it to him in his chair.
     “Don’t you want to watch Aston Villa - Tottenham?” I ask.
     “And hear how the world revolves around Harry Kane’s anus?”
     “You’re assuming Arlo White has the call.”
     “Who else? It’s Tottenham. It’s the ‘The Englandman,’*** Harry Kane. And Roz said she’d read to me after lunch. Her French is quite good you know.”
     “She doesn’t understand half of what she is reading,” I say.
     “Few of us do,” Uncle Albert replied.

  

                                                                04.04.22      
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 * Because he reprehends The Masters almost as much as I do. My take on that event, see here. Add that no “major” should be played on the same course year after year. Golf is truly a game of horses for courses. Six of Jack Nicklaus’s 18 majors were Masters wins as have been five of Tiger's 15. Take those away, and Nicklaus is only one major ahead of Walter Hagen, who never played at Augusta, indeed played when there were only three majors; and Tiger is one behind. Four of Arnold Palmer’s seven majors are Masters as are three of Sam Snead’s and Gary Player’s and two of Ben Hogan’s. Take those away, and of those “greatest players,” only Hogan has won more, even as many, majors as Lee Trevino, who never won at Augusta.   
 ** Enock is a variation of Enoch. This kind of esoteric bullshit speculation is available only here, at The Ambiguities.    
 *** As White insists on calling him. 

Harry, the Englandman
with apologies to Hans Holbein

  

The Tottenham match begins as Uncle Albert suspected. Son scores, Kane assisting by banking a pass off an Aston Villa defender directly into the Korean’s path: How could he miss? (It looked like a shot, the Englandman’s pass, but this is Harry Kane, remember.) Kane had no direct part in either of Son’s other two goals, but the Korean could hot have scored them had the Englandman not been on the field. The same for Kulusevski’s score.