Forgive me. It’s the guy in the Porsche’s fault

I’ve been a little remiss in posting this week. Right now I should be writing on training camp, or the new MLS schedule (All Beckham! All the Time!), or Landon’s wife’s new TV show, or the intriguing and totally unsubstantiated rumor I read that Beckham was convinced to come to MLS with the promise that he could buy a team when he retires.

But I’m not. Blame my first true love, the France National Team.

You see, the Galaxy is like the guy next door. Decent. Earnest. Fun to kick back with. Doesn’t have bad breath or smelly feet. Makes and keeps regular dates. And after awhile you start thinking, “This isn’t so bad. I wonder if I could do this long term?”

And then that other guy drives up. Again. The guy in the Porsche. The one with the accent. And your palms get sweaty and your heart starts to pound, and your feet head toward the car without bothering to consult your brain.

And he gives you a thrilling couple of hours. (Sometimes even headbutt thrilling.) But then he drops you at the curb, and you know you won’t be seeing him again for at least a month. Sometimes two or three.

So…um…yeah. My beloved Bleus play today. So I won’t be writing much here. I’ll be back soon.

Blame the guy in the Porsche.

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