the world cup and my subconscious

The following are excerpts from my dream journal in the weeks leading up to the World Cup:

Apr 19. I am an old footballer's daughter. He's retired and moved us to Ipswich, where he manages the team. Two of his friends come to visit; one is Sir Trevor Brooking. Sir Trevor points out that we live in the middle of nowhere. He gives me a cigarette (I am about thirteen in this dream) and lights it with his own. It takes several draws, but eventually it catches.

May 21. I'm on a bus and several of the Portland Timbers disembark. The last is Harry Kewell, who shines with strength and vitality and is dressed like a college student, carrying a satchel. I think how lucky that he is a Timber and what a fine team we have this year.

May 24. U.S. v. Germany, a 1974 World Cup qualifier. Beckenbauer is furious, raging, because the U.S. folds so easily. He wants a worthy opponent, one he can dismantle methodically and without pity.

May 25. The Hindu community is in an uproar because Wayne Rooney has bought a hut on the Ganges where he raises chickens, a clear violation of Hindi codes and traditions.

May 30. I am watching the World Cup in a computer classroom with Milton Nascimiento and his family. The computers are running a perpetual program teaching Morse code.

May 31. Verona v. Liverpool. It is a long dream, like the match gets replayed and I watch it twice. All I remember, though, is that Ronaldo plays for Verona and I watch Luis Garcia get progressively tanner and more golden-skinned, as if the game stretches across a whole summer instead of an afternoon.

June 3. I am straightening magazines at the bookstore. An Englishwoman is leaving. I say something about World Cup, and she says, "Oh, are they still at it, all that cursing and dancing?" I say happily that they are and she smiles and says, "Well, it'll get worse before it gets better."