Dada's Sketchbook

The romantic concept of playing football in the rain has quite a lot of fanfare and I absolutely don’t get the appeal.

Speaking from experience, you can count your lucky stars if match day is on a breezy overcast day — easy on the players, easy on the spectators. Add a drizzle to that and things are still under control. Your boots are wet and you start feeling the chill but it’s all fine.

However, once the heaven’s diapers start to overflow, it’s time to run. The wet ground grabs onto the ball and dribbling becomes impossible, people slip and fall all the time often injuring others, there’s water in your eyes, the wet sand on the ball bruises your skin, every shot on the ball kicks up the muddy water from the field (into your mouth), people splash each other with water and stop taking the game seriously, they jubilantly celebrate missed shots by sliding into the pool of water, the concept of opponents has long dissolved into the same muddy water, everyone’s laughing their asses off, the field quickly becomes a podium of slapstick humor, all the actors enjoying the dazzling absurd, chaotic experience under dark grey clouds. All of a sudden. A blinding bolt of lightning brings play to a halt. The deafening thunder follows. The clouds above have had the last laugh.