Driving an cart down an asphalt path through green fields, amongst ponds and patches of beautiful white sand, Kesselustra silently mused:
"They ingnored "I"--for eight months hearing instead only an angry mob: duplicitous watchers who hail the sublime player while decrying the merely elite. Thus is the fan!
"The prime growing season is over, yet they continue to plow. A fickle crop they grow!
"For six nights, they shout 'Hooray!' and jump about; on the seventh night, they sit dejectedly with their heads in their hands. A greater pain than mine!
"They sought mastery of self by denying self: Warm beaches beckoned but they chose instead a frozen pond. For what the extra week?
"They worked more than me--and for that, 'They' said: You must work more!"
They did work more, but I was playing golf!
Thus spoke Kesselustra.
4 comments:
This is either the greatest piece of hockey philosophy of all time, or I'm seriously missing something. UF Mike
Thanks! Reading Zarathustra has done more to de-mystify this strange game of hockey than anyting else I've read. I'm still no closer to understanding the Kessel trade, however. Hey Mike!
Zarathustra is the shit! But who or what is this Kessel trade? Hê hê. Lovely mystical post Dave!
I read it again, and it is some mystical hoodoo. Long live Kesselustra!
UF Mike
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