2026-08-16, 07:29 AM - Word count:
Summer Closing (And a Minor Mea Culpa)
I have a confession to make.
I haven’t written a single word in a few weeks now.
People might assume footballers have oceans of spare time in the summer. That we lounge by a pool with a baco and some hot girls, gently squinting at an e-reader, pondering the philosophical deeper meaning of Johan Cruijff. Absolute nonsense, of course. When you’re dragging yourself onto the pitch every three days in thirty-degree heat, you’re capable of exactly two things after a shower: shoveling down a plate of pasta and staring blankly at the ceiling until it’s socially acceptable to go to sleep. The book on my nightstand spent an entire month stuck on page 42.
Still, the whistle has blown. We made it across the line and credit where it's due. What a strange, beautiful grind of a season it was.
Everyone is talking about AS Paris. Naturally. Forty points, a goal difference of plus 44… they played the entire summer as if they were the only ones handed the game’s instruction manual. They looked down on the rest of the division the way a grown man looks at toddlers tripping over their own velcro sneakers.
And yet. Matchday 13 rolls around. They come to town. Everyone is tuning in expecting a clinical execution. What happens? We grind out a 1-0 win. One chance, one goal. No grand tactical thesis, just pure, stubborn refusal to lose. We handed them their only defeat of the entire campaign. I won't lie, because that makes me seem uncouth, but I took immense pleasure in that.
When the dust settled, Krung Thep casually finished second! Twenty-three points. Was it pretty every week? Not a chance. We managed to get thumped 2-5 by Rapid Magyar on the final day, defending like eleven guys who had just met in the hotel lobby five minutes before kickoff. But when you look at the final table, who actually cares? Two points separated second place from fourth. We got the job done.
The best news of the summer, though, landed well after the final whistle: the expansion draft.
The league is expanding, new franchises are popping up, and players are nervously milling around like kids waiting to see who gets picked last on the playground. Then the message pings on my phone: “You have been protected.”
Brilliant. No drama, no packing bags for some experimental new project, and definitely no moving to Paris. C.D. Tenochtitlan is keeping me right where I am. It turns out having an old warhorse who puts in the running and keeps the dressing room sane is still worth something.
The books are staying shut for a little while. The boots are aired out in the hallway. Next season the league gets bigger, Paris gets a giant target painted on their back, and we’ll see if we can finally knock them off their perch.
See you after the summer break.
Blaise out.
I have a confession to make.
I haven’t written a single word in a few weeks now.
People might assume footballers have oceans of spare time in the summer. That we lounge by a pool with a baco and some hot girls, gently squinting at an e-reader, pondering the philosophical deeper meaning of Johan Cruijff. Absolute nonsense, of course. When you’re dragging yourself onto the pitch every three days in thirty-degree heat, you’re capable of exactly two things after a shower: shoveling down a plate of pasta and staring blankly at the ceiling until it’s socially acceptable to go to sleep. The book on my nightstand spent an entire month stuck on page 42.
Still, the whistle has blown. We made it across the line and credit where it's due. What a strange, beautiful grind of a season it was.
Everyone is talking about AS Paris. Naturally. Forty points, a goal difference of plus 44… they played the entire summer as if they were the only ones handed the game’s instruction manual. They looked down on the rest of the division the way a grown man looks at toddlers tripping over their own velcro sneakers.
And yet. Matchday 13 rolls around. They come to town. Everyone is tuning in expecting a clinical execution. What happens? We grind out a 1-0 win. One chance, one goal. No grand tactical thesis, just pure, stubborn refusal to lose. We handed them their only defeat of the entire campaign. I won't lie, because that makes me seem uncouth, but I took immense pleasure in that.
When the dust settled, Krung Thep casually finished second! Twenty-three points. Was it pretty every week? Not a chance. We managed to get thumped 2-5 by Rapid Magyar on the final day, defending like eleven guys who had just met in the hotel lobby five minutes before kickoff. But when you look at the final table, who actually cares? Two points separated second place from fourth. We got the job done.
The best news of the summer, though, landed well after the final whistle: the expansion draft.
The league is expanding, new franchises are popping up, and players are nervously milling around like kids waiting to see who gets picked last on the playground. Then the message pings on my phone: “You have been protected.”
Brilliant. No drama, no packing bags for some experimental new project, and definitely no moving to Paris. C.D. Tenochtitlan is keeping me right where I am. It turns out having an old warhorse who puts in the running and keeps the dressing room sane is still worth something.
The books are staying shut for a little while. The boots are aired out in the hallway. Next season the league gets bigger, Paris gets a giant target painted on their back, and we’ll see if we can finally knock them off their perch.
See you after the summer break.
Blaise out.
In the sunset of dissolution, everything is illuminated by the aura of nostalgia, even the guillotine.
