The crosswalk ...

Thursday 16, February, 2011. Norwich, England.

No class and all afternoon at my leisure, having taken to jogging abroad, I thought, “Right, how about a run? Yes ... a cheeky jog.” I change into some shorts, slip on my Nike’s, grab my iPod and head out the door, looking for a brisk jog to satiate my exercise palate. I got outside and jogged along the sidewalks, winding my way out of my apartment complex, crossed Wilberforce road, turned the corner and arrived just yards from the crosswalk on Earlham Road when I came across a pack of three first school boys.

I trot passed the three children, when I hear a muffled shout mixed in with “Oh Yoko” coming through my headphones: “Enjoy your run!” (or some smartass shit like that). I stopped instantly. Not because I was upset, or was going to confront whichever one of the young punks shouted at me as I passed them, but rather I stopped abruptly because I had reached the crosswalk at Earlham Road and needed to wait for the light change before I could cross it. I turned my head to the right and took off my earbuds to see if indeed it was true that one of these boys were talking to me.

At this reaction, the guilty boy’s face (I could easily tell which one it was) filled quickly with a look of fear and he instantly scurried along the sidewalk of Earlham Road away from my direction (did I mention that I'm a stud?). Figuring that this was the end to a humorous misunderstanding, I smiled and turned my head back towards the other side of Earlham Road and put the buds back in my ears. I laughed, thinking to myself, “Funny little story. I bet he thought I was coming after him.”

But this story does not stop there. After my abrupt stop at the crosswalk which caused the boy’s cowardly flee, the shouting boy has lost a tremendous amount of hardness within his posse. Once hailed for his toughness when he shouted at me earlier, the boy’s coolness factor plummeted greatly when he ran away. In an effort to save face in the presence of his mates, the boy then resorted to more shouting and taunting in my direction, getting angrier and more aggressive, and threatening to fight me.

All of this information I pieced together from looking across the other side of the road. As I had been standing, waiting for the light to change for about thirty seconds (really an uncomfortable amount of time when you are oblivious to a ten year old boy shouting insults at you from ten yards away), there were now four other people standing at the other side. One girl in particular, I noticed, glanced at me and then to my right, and back and forth, her face containing a mixed look of bemusement and nervousness.

For the second time, I turn my head to my right and take the buds out of my ears. There I see the boy, once again shouting at me, but this time he was filled with rage rather than mischief. Screaming at me, all I could hear after I removed my buds was “I’ll fucking do it! Do you want me to?!” I was grateful I did not hear anything else. The boy had gotten so angry at my thirty seconds of ignoring/not being aware of his taunting that he was, according to him, ready to kick my ass.

What had I done to this poor boy? Why had I gotten him so angry? In a mixed feeling of confusion and guilt, the light changed, I crossed Earlham Road and carried on with my run, leaving this angry boy behind. Should I not have ignored him? Was I not giving him any respect?

But hold on ...

I’m going to call this kid out on his bullshit. There is no way this kid actually wanted to fight me, my size and age notwithstanding. I had done nothing to him, but inadvertently make him look cowardly in front of his friends. The boy knew I could not hear whatever it was that he was saying, and used it as an aide for saving face. The boy is an opportunistic little git that capitalized on a situation where I had no knowledge of his audacious mockery, with the goal of looking hard in front of his friends ... talking shit to someone wearing headphones, real fucking cool.

Looking back at the event, I am not angry at the youth, for it was not too traumatizing an event. Rather, what I have really taken from the ordeal is the extremely awkward feeling to be standing at a crosswalk and finding out that there is a 10 year-old shouting obscenities and threatening to fight you. If I could go back and say something to the youth, it would most definitely be a childish comeback, hopefully more immature than the original shout itself. Maybe I turn to the child and say, “Santa isn’t real” and then cross the street and carry on with my jog.

But, alas, I did no such thing ... damned maturity ... LW

Days of York ...

The city of York is located approximately 150 miles north east of Norwich. An alarm set for 5:00, a four hour train ride, and I’m there. Sleepy, I slog along the river and check in at my hostel. My room is not yet available, so the inevitable nap that will be taken is delayed. Instead, I grab a quick tea and a scone and stroll into the city centre for a walking tour of York.

The two hour walk throughout York soon perked my interests and woke me up a bit as I traversed the city streets, steeped in history. York’s ties to both the Romans as well as Vikings colour the city in an odd shade of historical controllers. Being a northern city, all street names were in “gate” form (Bishopsgate, Bakergate, Candlestickmakergate), but also exhibited a healthy number of the Scandinavian Viking influenced road names. As a stroll on the diligently preserved city wall brought the tour to a close, the next stop was York Minster.

York Minster, or “the single largest gothic building (of any kind) west of the Alps,” offered a stunning view of the city from the top of the tower.

As the day drew to a close, and hostel beds were made available, a cheeky nap was in order. A short walk back to the hostel and 40 minutes of sleep, a superb Indian and I feel like a new man. It is time to hit the pubs.

The first: The Red Lion. A typical northern pub. Pool room, ales on tap. I was accompanied by my fellow Dickinson program mate, Mikey. (Who I mention and picture at his repeated insistence as well as narrative functionality). I get the first round, “Two pints of Wainwright, please” I ask the bar staff. This particular ale, a dark, lively ale, is named after Alfred Wainwright, the creator of the 200 mile coast-to-coast hike of England. Only sold in northern cities, Wainwright (the ale) was a beer that I remembered drinking quite frequently two summers ago while hiking in Yorkshire on Wainwright's trail. Its unique blend of hops and barley take me back to 20 mile days of hiking, followed by a quick shower and a lengthy pub session. Two refreshing ales drowned in nostalgia, Mikey and I push on the next pub.

The next one was Evil Eye, a blatant, unapologetic hipster bar. Norwich readers: imagine ‘Knowhere’ but more posh, with even more expensive drinks and a longer wait to get in. With this in mind, Mikey and I take advantage of England’s lenient open container laws and polish off bottles of Budweiser Budvar, a delicious dark Czech lager. Inside the Evil Eye, the drinks, two White Russians, were served for the bargain price of £5.00 a piece. Chatting to locals at the bar, Mikey experienced for the first time a noticeably thick northern accent. He later remarked, “What was she even saying? I couldn't understand her, I was just nodding the whole time." "Yeah, a Northern accent that thick can be a bit confusing at times" I laugh.

At the third pub, the night shifts in momentum a little bit. The Gull and the Swan, another standard pub, mutually agreed by Mikey and I after enduring the stiff prices at Evil Eye. Match of the day comes on the tele. A foreboding look comes on Mikey’s face, as he knows full well what lies ahead. It starts. I talk his head off about football, the Premier League, and each of the matches of that day. Liverpool’s highlights come on. More football conversation, Mikey’s head sinks lower. Then, from across the bar, a local football fan and I exchange banter, and instantly are locked in conversation. Mikey’s fate is sealed. For the remainder of our time in the Gull and the Swan (until it closed), nothing besides football was discussed. It was a two-way conversation between me and the local lad (I don’t hold being a Tottenham supporter against him), even his girlfriend was becoming upset with all the nonstop football talk. I apologize to Mikey on the walk back to the hostel.

Next morning, a long schlep to the Jorvik Center and a forty-five minute tour of York during Viking times and I am officially wiped, hungover and looking at train times with Mikey in a Pret A Manger. Mikey and I skip the York’s castle museum (a museum describing the York Castle, which has not been in existence for centuries). Two trains and I am back at Norwich, tired and hungry. I shower, shave and eat. A good trip to York, but I feel damn good to be home ... LW

We built this city ...

This past weekend, yours truly got a visit from a friend. Ellen had been studying abroad in Ireland since early January. With her recent travels bringing her to England, London specifically, Ellen then made the additional train ride to Norwich. It had been six months and 3500 miles since I had last seen her.

It was an odd, unusual, but eagerly welcomed feeling. In the many times that I had been introduced to new people in England, given tours, been explained various customs in Norwich, it was a first to be on the other end as I gave Ellen a city tour of my second home.

I am my own harshest critic, but I felt my tour of Norwich was pretty damn good. Consisting of a mix of pertinent historical details about famous sites like the Norwich Castle, Cathedral and riverwalk, as well as including “Shit, we all went to that club last Thursday night and got hammered ...” the tour had many points of interest with corresponding stories to tell.

Afterwards, Ellen and I met up with some friends at the Adam and Eve, Norwich’s oldest existing pub and, as it bills itself, “probably the oldest pub in England” (Love the use of “probably” here). With the Adam and Eve being an historical pub, with great food and not one to get shitfaced at, there was only historical information to tell.

The Adam and Eve was built during the construction of the Norwich Cathedral, one of the first cathedrals built in England, completed in the early 12^th century. Located very close to the Norwich Cathedral, the pub was perhaps one of the leading facilitators of the Cathedral’s construction. This is so, because the workers of the cathedral were not paid in cash; rather, they were paid in beer, distributed after the day’s work, every night at the Adam and Eve.

Sitting in a comfy booth with a group of friends, sipping a black pint of Old Peculiar, I drew from the pub an enhanced sense of Norwich’s history. It is located in the city's pubs. If I were to study, really look closely into to Norwich’s history, the Cathedral for example, where would I start? By visiting the cathedral? Reading a book? Maybe I am simply an experiential learner, but sitting in the Adam and Eve, drinking beer, looking around and thinking back; I can envision the sweaty labourers of 900 years ago, trudging into the pub for a beer after a long day's work.

This was how the Cathedral was built after all. Not by generous donations from noblemen, nor government sanction; but, truly, the cathedral was built on strong men who were willing to work hard all day in order to go on the lash at night. Norwich’s tourist tagline: “A church for every week of the year, and a pub for every day,” seems to be very fitting now that we have solved this puzzle piece of Norwich’s history. There are so many pubs, because they were needed by workers building the churches. Thus, the history/mystery of Norwich is solved, and now it is undoubtedly clear how the city came to be as it is. A city built on beer. “History lesson over kids,” drop the mic, leave the classroom.

Perhaps Norwich should change its tagline and take a page out of Starship’s playbook, or maybe it is good as it is. Either way, Norwich proved to be lovely time for Ellen and myself. Although, I find it odd that this introspection of mine came from presenting the city to an outsider, rather than by my own local observations. Hmmm ... LW

The cheeky nap ...

The English love words; which is good, because they are damn good at using them. Whether the topic of conversation is the weather or football, the English are renowned for their way with words. This can also been seen in English literature. Dicken’s great verbosity is quintessentially English: “It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.” However, in particular I have noticed this gift used for excellent descriptions of the subtlest details, an innate ability of the English to describe the smallest of things fully, efficiently and beautifully. An example:

Yesterday my flatmate Alex and I were in the corridor of our flat passing the rugby ball around after returning from watching our mate Stephen play for the university team. After a good, solid session of spin and pop passes back and forth, Alex looks a bit winded, drowsy: “I think I’ll have a nap” he says. “Sounds good” I reply. But wait, Alex’s face in still locked in deep thought. Alex is very much still debating the pros and cons of whether or not taking a nap is indeed a fortuitous decision. When he said “I think I’ll have a nap” it meant he estimated that he would have a nap after thorough consultation. And after due diligence, it is decided. He states, nodding: “Yes ... I’ll have a cheeky nap.”

Alex's (extremely English) statement is brilliant for several reasons:

First off, Alex starts with a moral dilemma. In the initial statement of “I think I’ll have a nap,” Alex’s usage of “think” demonstrates that it is not fully decided whether mentioned nap will or will not occur. Furthermore, Alex’s pause in speech indicates a pause for thought, a moment for weighing values. Perhaps Alex is not sure he wants to take the nap. Suppose there is some reason that Alex should not take the nap. All these factors must be and are considered, with the resulting verdict in the affirmative; Alex will take the nap. However, the mere affirmation of “Yes” is insufficient. It aptly relates the final outcome, but does not account for Alex’s dilemma and the moral ambiguity attached to said nap. In many ways, Alex’s internal struggle of conflict and anguish over to nap, or not to nap overshadows the eventual conclusion and obvious reality of whether or not he naps. The theatricality surrounding the nap is lost with stark, unadorned confirmation. The listener demands/needs more information.

Second, the length of the nap mentioned is left ambiguous. Alex’s opening statement consisted of no indication of proposed nap’s duration. However, it could be argued, and most would agree, that the hotly debated nap is likely to be of relatively quick character. It is unlikely that Alex would be unsure of, debate about, a nap that is three hours in length. Most probable, Alex is unsure of whether or not he will take a nap that is 10-25 minutes. A short, quick nap. But those two words will not do. “Short” places too much emphasis on the length of the nap. The main goal of the nap is not to sleep for a specific amount of time, but rather to receive a set amount of rest. Additionally, describing the nap as “short,” suggests an unsatisfactory nap, a nap would have been longer under different circumstances. And “quick” proves equally unsatisfactory in that it gives the listener the impression that the nap is rushed. A household chore such as making the bed can be done “quickly,” but how can one sleep quickly? If I were to have a “quick” nap, it sounds like I would never fall asleep.

The Oxford English Dictionary defines “cheeky” as: “Characterized by ‘cheek’; insolent or audacious; coolly impudent or presuming.” After my own analysis, I find Alex’s diction to be excellent description of subtle detail and a quintessential example of the gift that the English have in these situations. The moral ambiguity surrounding the question of to nap is captured fully by “cheeky.” Cheeky implies a cloud of sly naughtiness or mild forbiddance within the nap. There is something innocently seductive yet frowned upon the prospect of a nap to Alex. Alex could easily go through with the nap with a clear conscience, but does that necessarily mean he should nap? Could Alex be saved from remonstration in the event of not napping? Alex must answer all of these questions before making the bold, final decision regarding the nap is reached.

Second, perhaps a result of popular connotation as opposed to etymology, the term “cheeky” seems to encapsulate the length of time of Alex’s planned nap. Four hours is not a “cheeky” nap. And, if cheeky describes the nap as “impudent,” then it does not prove to be of great impudence. Rather, Alex’s nap is a mere faux pas, a slight breach in form. If for some bizarre hypothetical reason I would take issue with Alex’ nap on account of it being “insolent,” the amount of “insolence” felt by such a “cheeky” nap would not likely rouse much disdain or affray in my emotions. I would most likely not confront him, maybe if the nap really offended me; but, most likely I would say “cheeky little git” at most.

I heard Alex’s impeccable diction as our rugby tossing session broke and as I sat in my room, I started laughing. “Cheeky nap” I said to myself, chuckling. Instantly, I related with the ambiguously short nap, and indeed the quandary of whether or not such a cheeky nap was worth taking. “Well played, Hatchin’” I thought.

After Alex's brilliant choice of adjective and my thorough/excessive/obsessive analysis, I would guess that it may not surprise the reader to learn that Alex did not in fact take that nap, but was thwarted by the summoning for tea at the last minute. The final piece of the puzzle locks in place, and our drama is complete. Alex is our protagonist and is unsure of many things napping. We have our conflict. Alex believes, “thinks” that he wants to nap. Alex is James Dean, a rebel without a cause. Equipped with a leather jacket and a motorcycle, Alex is a man who says what is on his mind and naps the way he fucking likes to.

But our rising action is drawn from Alex’s internal struggle: Alex is torn between good and evil, heaven and hell, “to nap or not to nap, that is the question.” Eventually, our hero make his decision, he will take this most “cheeky” of naps. Alex’s fate and the fate of our play are sealed, and a climax reached. As Alex's fortunes twist a final time by the mysterious way the world works and he does not nap, he becomes our tragic hero. Alex made the ultimate decision, gave the ultimate sacrifice, but for nothing. Fade to black, roll credits.

As I think about it more, the idea of a “cheeky nap" seems appealing. To me, a “cheeky nap" seems like a lovely nap. A nap of maybe 18 minutes in length where I dream about building a racecar or I have a date with a celebrity. Also, “The Cheeky Nap” seems like a great name for a pub. As in, a man tells his wife he’s going to “have a nap,” only to climb out of his bedroom window and stroll down the street to the pub to have a pint with the lads. That sounds a bit "cheeky" indeed. The possibilities are endless. But, enough about cheeky naps for one day ... LW

State of the union ...

All the last-minute deals have been hashed out. The dust has settled. And, as a result, the English Premier League looks drastically different. In what may go down as the most frantic deadline day of a January (or any) transfer window, deals worth tens of millions of pounds were finalised with minutes to spare on January 31, star players were bought and sold, and, even more shocking, club “legends” finally walked away. Club record transfer fees were broken, and rebroken. An exciting day to end what has been a January transfer window on steroids. Here’s the view from the Kop:

Liverpool's first signing of the day was somewhat of a given, having agreed a fee a few days prior, that of Luis Suarez, a prolific Uruguayan striker and back-up goalkeeper. Suarez is a tricky, devious forward, with pace, skill and a cunning eye to finish. The perfect complement for almost any striker, Suarez’s exploits have been most widely viewed in his fruitful partnership with fellow countryman Diego Forlan in this summer’s World Cup, scoring three goals and almost single-handedly guiding Uruguay to the semi-finals. Furthermore, Suarez’s track record for his former club Ajax in the Dutch League is equally impressive. Over the past two-and-a-half seasons at Ajax, Suarez has viciously bit into Dutch defences scoring an astounding 49 goals in last season alone. Suarez looked fit to establish a devastating duo with Liverpool’s Fernando Torres; but, shortly after his transfer fee was agreed, other news came about ...

Chelsea had put in a bid for Fernando Torres. “Pssh! Rubbish!” was my initial reaction; but, within hours, Torres had made his wishes clear and handed in a transfer request. At first it was denial, fear, bargaining then acceptance, and when serious negotiations began this morning, it was all but inevitable, Torres was leaving. But, all was not lost. In fact, far from it. Liverpool had no wishes to dispose of Torres, so, if they were going to do so, it would not come cheaply. £50 million was the price agreed for Torres, and now he belongs to Chelsea.

It is hard for me to know exactly how to feel about this situation; for, though I hate to see a player of his quality leave the club, I can understand why. Torres has played through three and a half years of trophy-less football, and now he has been stripped of his beloved Champions League competition, the reason that he left Atletico for Liverpool in the first place. This time last year, Torres called on then-owners Hicks and Gillett to fund the transfer of either David Silva or David Villa. Neither of which happened; and, as a result, Torres is left to scrap for service off of the bones of through balls left by players like Lucas ... I mean really, I might be better than him. Torres may have both endeared himself to and then betrayed the Kop; but, to remove all emotions from this move, I look at it like this: We have a quality player who is not playing his best and wants to leave. Ok, how much can we get for him? £50 million. Agreed. After all, football is still a business.

And speaking of business, this brings me to the massive story of the day: Andy Carroll signs for Liverpool. Carroll, a 6’5” strong athletic forward, similar to former-Red Peter Crouch, only better in every department. This season, with Newcastle’s promotion to the Premier League, Carroll has shown his quality, got rowdy and slapped in 11 goals thus far (2 more than Torres in 5 fewer starts ... just saying). Carroll can utilize his height to lethal ability or use his feet (as shown against Liverpool earlier in the season). Entering Anfield with a hefty £35 million pricetag, the 22 year-old Carroll faces enormous expectations and big boots to fill in his time to come, but as he has already adapted to the Premier League and made his England debut, perhaps this is his first step to a gilded career.

And here’s my verdict:

Suarez was an intelligent signing. At £22.7 million, he was not cheap, but Suarez has dominated the Dutch League and proven he can score at the highest level of football during the World Cup. His style suits himself for a fortuitous partnership with any forward in the game, but he can put the ball in the back of the net as well. Doubters of whether Suarez’s Ajax prowess can translate to the Premier League, I guarantee you this: by the end of the season, Luis Suarez will have scored more Premier League goals than the likes of Manchester City’s prized £27 million January signing, Edin Dzeko. You heard it here first.

Second: It was the right thing to do to sell Torres. Torres was unhappy, wanted to leave, and, to be brutally honest, had not nearly played his best for Liverpool this season. Torres’ current slump in form, as well as during the World Cup, was due to injury. Torres’ was rushed back far too early this summer to play for Spain in the World Cup, struggled for form and got injured again in the final. Though the striker has started to take significant steps back toward his highest ability (braces against Chelsea, Wolves), a constant flow of goals nor his fitness is guaranteed to be available for the season’s remainder, and I just have this awful feeling that one more serious injury will severely dampen his overall long term quality. Lastly, I have long ago accepted that Torres would not be ending his career at Anfield; therefore, with all the aforementioned factors in mind, £50 million would most likely not come by again.

Third: Andy Carroll can be, and I sincerely believe will be, a revelation for Liverpool. Yes, £35 million is clearly overpriced for a player that has only played half a season in the Premier League, and yes he is unlikely to be sold for that amount again. But the crucial element to the signing is that Liverpool do not hope to resell him. Kenny Dalglish’s plans for Carroll do not include making him into a name like Torres, but rather one like Rush, Keegan, or, dare I say it, Dalglish. Andy Carroll’s future at Liverpool is long term and, though I hate to draw parallels with this club, seems to mirror Manchester United’s signing of Wayne Rooney for £30 million when he was young and unproven. Doubters of Andy Carroll, here’s call number two: by the end of the season, Andy Carroll will have scored more Premier League goals than Fernando Torres.

Fourth: The deadline day signings demonstrate good vision for the club. Since the takeover and arrival of NESV, it was largely unknown as to how Liverpool’s new owners would do their business. In the day of bargaining that went down on January 31, I felt that John W. Henry and Tom Werner showed ambition and a ‘big-club’ mentality, both characteristics that were invariably absent from the Hicks & Gillett regime. NESV put the investment in the squad that has been direly needed and duly called for by the likes of Pepe Reina, Roy Hodgson and (you guessed it) Fernando Torres through the signing of Luis Suarez. A good, quality signing. Then, when it was clear Torres was gone, and that there was £50 million to spend, I felt that Liverpool acted like a big club again, and greatly admired the approach of “pick your player, not your price” that Henry greenlit to Dalglish. Carroll may be overpriced, but Liverpool showed its weight as a club by not budging from its first choice player. I felt it odd to watch Tottenham constantly bidding outrageous sums for numerous players all day (Aguero, Llorente, Rossi, Forlan, Carroll, Adam) and constantly getting turned down. I think a big club makes a decision and stays with it, otherwise, top players and their clubs will not take you seriously. I find little integrity in the wayward bidding of outlandish sums, and here’s my call number 3: Liverpool, currently sitting in 7^th will finish ahead of Tottenham. There may be a six point gap at the moment, but don’t say I didn’t tell you so when it happens in May ... LW