Being Put On To the French National Soccer (Football) Team -- A Dream
Approximately 345 AM, night of January 6, 2007, an unbelievably warm night in the Boston area (temperature 65 degrees), after drinking a glass of tangerine juice mixed with wheat germ oil, I had a dream about the international (players who represent nations) soccer world. In the dream...
It was night-time, the temperature was perfect, cool but not cold. A few hundred international-level type male and female soccer players from all over the world had to run a mile fast, get to the end point in a certain amount of time, to make it on to their respective national soccer teams.
We ran an outdoor course, some of it was up little hills, there were winding turns. There was a steeply uphill section that was about 20 yards long in which we ran through loose dark brown dirt, at this point I had trouble getting accelerated, these black players using short choppy steps leaning forward like sprinters at the start of a sprint, got through this section alot faster than I did.
Near this point with the loose dark brown dirt, for about fifteen yard we had to run up an inclined surface that was composed of bars of dark brown polished shiny wood that were linked together with some kind of rope, that was like the bars of wood the mattress is placed on in a futon. I slowed down compared to other players at this point, but then got myself going again by using my arms to pull myself upwards; I would grab the wood bars and hoist my legs up and repeat the process till I got through this section.
At another point there was some confusion amongst the players regarding which direction to go at a fork in the road--some went the wrong way, a female player with straight brown hair in a pony tail, wearing gray clothes, who was stocky and about five feet eight inches tall went the wrong way. Seems going to the left was the wrong way and going to the right was the correct way, also seems in the end it did not make much difference in time or distance whether you went to the left or to the right at this fork in the road. I went to the right, because I saw a bunch of players running to the right at this fork in the road and guessed that they must know what they are doing. The right turn led up a hill, the left turn out on to flat land on a road.
There was a straight-away section running on the side of a long wide highway in very flat land--on this straightaway flat section I did really well, zooming along using very long strides. A female player of close to average height with dark brown straight hair in a pony tail was running near me at this point until I got ahead of her.
I surprised myself by how fast I was able to run the mile. I ran using very long strides. I ran the mile faster than the average time for these players.
I liked the atmosphere at the end-line, the international soccer world seemed to me to be intelligent, cheerful and good in spirit.
When we got to the end-line, those of us who got to the end line fast enough, got put on to various national soccer teams.
At the end-line, there were things like long escalators as you find in department stores transporting people and players up and down, but the lighting continued to be dim, so that light-wise it was similar to night in the outdoors but somewhat brighter, illuminated by dim yellow light. Seems the areas where people were walking around or moving on escalators at the end-line were partly outdoors and partly indoors.
I got on a long escalator going down, it must have been at least 40 yards from the top of the escalator to the bottom, and as I traveled downwards, this white man who seemed to be in between 25 and 45 in age, who was traveling upwards on the same escalator started talking to me in a loud tone of voice as he was about 12 yards away from me. He was about six feet two inches tall, thick in body without being fat or extremely muscular. He had normal length dark brown straight hair, a normal length but thick brown mustache, no beard; he wore a tight short sleeved shirt, that was grayish in color with thick brownish horizontal stripes on the torso area. I could not tell for sure the colors in his shirt because of the dim light. He told me that I was going to be put on the French national soccer team. He said something about how good Irish players are. Somehow I could read some of his thoughts--he was thinking that I had about ten years left in me as an international-level player. He said that I was being given a new name that I would use on the French team. The new name was..."Ronald Rapriere".
When I awoke I was thinking of how it seemed that much of the world is stupid, unethical, and gloomy compared to the international soccer world; it seemed to me that much of the world, is obsessed with treating everyone the same, and at the same time paradoxically obsessed with discriminating on the basis of various criteria.
It was night-time, the temperature was perfect, cool but not cold. A few hundred international-level type male and female soccer players from all over the world had to run a mile fast, get to the end point in a certain amount of time, to make it on to their respective national soccer teams.
We ran an outdoor course, some of it was up little hills, there were winding turns. There was a steeply uphill section that was about 20 yards long in which we ran through loose dark brown dirt, at this point I had trouble getting accelerated, these black players using short choppy steps leaning forward like sprinters at the start of a sprint, got through this section alot faster than I did.
Near this point with the loose dark brown dirt, for about fifteen yard we had to run up an inclined surface that was composed of bars of dark brown polished shiny wood that were linked together with some kind of rope, that was like the bars of wood the mattress is placed on in a futon. I slowed down compared to other players at this point, but then got myself going again by using my arms to pull myself upwards; I would grab the wood bars and hoist my legs up and repeat the process till I got through this section.
At another point there was some confusion amongst the players regarding which direction to go at a fork in the road--some went the wrong way, a female player with straight brown hair in a pony tail, wearing gray clothes, who was stocky and about five feet eight inches tall went the wrong way. Seems going to the left was the wrong way and going to the right was the correct way, also seems in the end it did not make much difference in time or distance whether you went to the left or to the right at this fork in the road. I went to the right, because I saw a bunch of players running to the right at this fork in the road and guessed that they must know what they are doing. The right turn led up a hill, the left turn out on to flat land on a road.
There was a straight-away section running on the side of a long wide highway in very flat land--on this straightaway flat section I did really well, zooming along using very long strides. A female player of close to average height with dark brown straight hair in a pony tail was running near me at this point until I got ahead of her.
I surprised myself by how fast I was able to run the mile. I ran using very long strides. I ran the mile faster than the average time for these players.
I liked the atmosphere at the end-line, the international soccer world seemed to me to be intelligent, cheerful and good in spirit.
When we got to the end-line, those of us who got to the end line fast enough, got put on to various national soccer teams.
At the end-line, there were things like long escalators as you find in department stores transporting people and players up and down, but the lighting continued to be dim, so that light-wise it was similar to night in the outdoors but somewhat brighter, illuminated by dim yellow light. Seems the areas where people were walking around or moving on escalators at the end-line were partly outdoors and partly indoors.
I got on a long escalator going down, it must have been at least 40 yards from the top of the escalator to the bottom, and as I traveled downwards, this white man who seemed to be in between 25 and 45 in age, who was traveling upwards on the same escalator started talking to me in a loud tone of voice as he was about 12 yards away from me. He was about six feet two inches tall, thick in body without being fat or extremely muscular. He had normal length dark brown straight hair, a normal length but thick brown mustache, no beard; he wore a tight short sleeved shirt, that was grayish in color with thick brownish horizontal stripes on the torso area. I could not tell for sure the colors in his shirt because of the dim light. He told me that I was going to be put on the French national soccer team. He said something about how good Irish players are. Somehow I could read some of his thoughts--he was thinking that I had about ten years left in me as an international-level player. He said that I was being given a new name that I would use on the French team. The new name was..."Ronald Rapriere".
When I awoke I was thinking of how it seemed that much of the world is stupid, unethical, and gloomy compared to the international soccer world; it seemed to me that much of the world, is obsessed with treating everyone the same, and at the same time paradoxically obsessed with discriminating on the basis of various criteria.
posted by David Virgil at 4:54 AM
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