The camera looks as though it is purposely cast upon Italy’s #3, Fabio Grosso, as he abandons his defensive duties to enter the German penalty area to meet Alessandro Del Piero’s corner kick delivery in the 119th minute. The golden printed characters on his shirt glisten under the stadium lights on a hot July night in Dortmund. The score is still deadlocked at zeroes. There are two minutes left in the period of extra time added to the fiercely contested semi-final match. The excitement mounts in the most cliché of ways, with Italy having struck the goalpost twice leading up to this moment. The stadium shrinks around the players as each of the 65,000 spectators lean forward eagerly. Italy’s corner kick is taken but cleared by a German header out to a waiting Italian midfielder, Andrea Pirlo, who takes the most elegant of touches to control it just outside of the 18-yard penalty box. The excitement in the commentator’s voice lifts, repeating the name ‘Pirlo’ multiple times as he dribbles the ball laterally, nervously confronted by four German defenders. Just beyond them lurks the aforementioned Grosso, a name directly translated from Italian to mean “big’ in English, and a role that he unwittingly accepts within the next moment. Pirlo threads the ball through a gap in the approaching defenders with a clever little pass to Grosso, who strikes a brilliant left-footed shot toward the goal with perfect form on his first touch. The ball curls just out of the extended German goalkeeper’s reach and just centimetres short of the far post. The spinning ball caresses the mesh majestically, suspended just long enough to prove to the audience that Italy was now up by a score of 1-0 with only one minute left to play. Grosso immediately tears away from the shocked and incredulous group of players lingering inside the penalty area, prolonging his own sense of doubt for eight more seconds as he sprints at full speed toward his team’s bench, shaking his head like he has gone mad, wagging his finger back and forth to signify an emphatic “no,” and screaming perhaps loudest of all in the stadium, “Non ci credo! Non ci credo! – I don’t believe it! I don’t believe it!”

I have something to say about many things that happen to me on a daily basis. Unfortunately whatever it is that I want to say gets lost or squandered by the negating comments people make when they don't know what to make of a really big thing and are too lazy to carry the burden of the thought any longer than they need to. For example: "Wow, technology has really come a long way in the last few years. It really is amazing huh?" - "Yeah it's crazy!"


...


Conversation is concluded. What is the sense in this? So then I think to myself, I'm just going to go home and blog about this. And then I don't. And I have no good reason for slacking in this way, it's just the way of things. Have brilliantly inspirational thoughts and allow them to slip through your fingers as though they are just as insignificant as the blades of grass you tear out of your front lawn when you are anxious about absolutely nothing as you lie there on a typical summer day.

In the future I need to try a bit harder to hold on to these moments of inspiration. To explore them, to expand them, to create. This is what will allow me to excel. The people who are insipired and DO something with it are those who become great. The others just waste away, telling stories of how they could have, or should have been great BUT.

No buts.

No excuses.

I hate to revisit my blog for such a terrible tragedy, but I found this in the news today and couldn't help remember a poem I wrote a few months ago. I've pasted the link to the news story and my poem below.

http://www.thestar.com/news/world/article/948777--high-school-star-dies-after-hitting-game-winning-basket


What Good Was the Win?
Monday, March 1, 2010 by Riccardo Lo Monaco

He dribbled feverishly, intensely;
looked niether left, nor right;
heard calling up ahead...
with a swift motion he released.
His teammate received it and returned it;
a perfect give-and-go.
Four adversaries left in his tracks
to wonder where he had gone;
he was much too quick,
much too swift,
much too smart.
More opponents came to stop him,
but he was too much, much too much.
He avoided them too;
dropped his left shoulder, moved to the right.
The goalie showed fear
for less than a second.
But he didn't even need to look up
to know what he had to do.
He took a shot,
he hit it well,
much too well,
the mesh filled with the joy of a million cheering fans;
a nation celebrates.
His heart explodes.
His teammates pile up on top of him;
the goalie falls face first into the ground,
his tears become the playing field,
encourage life with his pain.
The coach clenches his fists; his face.
The fans erupt...
the players scream - they won, they lost.
But when they get up
there he lies.
motionless.
lifeless.
What good was the win?

- Riccardo Lo Monaco

The texture of the fruit was surprising. It was soft; delicate to the touch. It weighed more heavily than I expected as I shifted it from one finger to the next, examining its contours. The summer sunlight had made the fig soothingly warm. It had also tanned the exposed side of the already deep purple encasing. Now one side was a more vibrant shade of violet than the other. I felt the urge to raise it up closer to my face, to take a better look, to smell it, to taste it. The fig was not a showpiece; it had too many imperfections. I could relate to it in this way. I remember hardly noticing a trickle of its juice flowing down my middle finger. The heat of the Italian summer dried the liquid quickly and left a sticky, sweet residue on my hand which I refused to rub away. I quite appreciated it there. It made me feel more connected to the fruit which I so proudly cradled.

I was so mezmerized by the beauty of the fig that I had forgotten to look up for more than a few heartbeats as I walked along the cobblestone pathway . Venice is more beautiful at night, but the daytime reveals its character. Aside from the odd paddle rippling through the fluid streets and the buzzing of anxious and excited tourists, only an abnoxious boat motor threatened my paradise intermittently. More often than not, however, it was peaceful, calm, and comfortable. I felt like I was taking a walk through my state of mind when I am just waking up in the morning after the most satisfying sleep.

The colour. The colour was what captivated me most. Set on a backdrop of golden rays of sun, which played happily with the dancing currents of salty Venetian streetwater, the blueness of the sky was inpenetrable until I ripped open the simple skin of the fig in front of it. A red.. no... a deep and powerful golden-speckled magenta exploded out of the fruit. My eyes had a private disagreement with my tastebuds over which sensation was more pleasing: the appearance or the taste of this fantastic fig. I calculated how many bites I had left before the fig would fully become a part of me.

My attention was now split between the fig and the serenity of my surroundings. I had not fully considered the effect of the fruit on my feelings until after I had so carelessly taken the first bite. More sweet, warm, juice splattered down the back of my hand; down my chin. I felt a slight bit of regret, having torn open the helpless fruit... but it passed when I reaped the rewards of my conquest. The fragrant smell intensified; the taste was so sublime that I now consciously avoid describing it, for fear of failing.

As I walked and I marvelled at the magnificence of this fig and the beauty of my surroundings, I listened for the first time in a long time. I listened to the silence of my thoughts, which could just as easily have been described as euphoric or ecstatic noise. Perhaps this very same fruit would not have tasted quite as good if I had not been walking through the peaceful streets of an engineless city. The pigeons around me pecked about indifferently.