an arm and a leg

There is a moment in the heroic saga which cinema has captured very well. That particular moment when the storm breaks and the audience knows that, very melodramatically, the end has begun. But since in the real world all outcomes are not so unequivocally preordained as the climax in movies, I reckon, that albeit in the short term, the World Cup has kicked off a bad time for me.
Suddenly I am doing one thing and one thing only, the one thing it is all about. Back end staff to the World Cup fever; good in itself, my trouble is that I cannot describe the symptoms all that well when that is what I’m supposed to do.
It is a feeling well-known to me, when all the balls fly over your head and you can reach none.
The football metaphor is very strong with my circumstance right now so much so that when El Diego spoke of this 30 days being nothing in the life of a man who wants to kiss the World Cup, I cried and felt there was football in my veins. A true son of Argentina.
But since my metaphor is not as literal as Maradona’s in that in it there are shifting goalposts and no balls, it figures that I cannot get my hand to it and claim God on my side.
Moons come and go, and this will wane too, 90 minutes at a time. While it does, more than once will I think how, when it was high tide for him, he had the gumption to reach for it with his hand whereas I take too many touches and end up shooting wide.