Share the shit out of this. Share the ever-loving shit out of this. The UK is facing a vote with a party that has been very vocal about fucking over the homeless. Remind them why this policy is trash. Raise a huge swell of sympathy. Make it political suicide to go ahead with their plans.
Thank you so much for being here tonight. I know a lot of you have flown a long way. I really appreciate you being here. I wanted to celebrate with you guys. I have played some of my favorite shows in Mexico. It felt right to come celebrate with you. Tonight, it doesn’t feel like a night to celebrate. Last night, there was a tragedy in my home town of Manchester. I am left with a hole in my heart. I went to my first show in the arena, and I’ve had some of my best experiences in my life in Manchester. We have a choice every single day that we wake up of what you can put into the world, and I ask you to please choose love every single day. I promise that we will back very soon to Mexico… We will be back to do a full show. But, tonight, if it’s okay with you, we’re gonna play a small acoustic set. I hope you understand, and I hope you will join me in a moment of silence for all the victims and their families. Thank you for understanding. I love you very much.
If you don’t, it goes something like this: Leicester City Football Club, the unfancied, fearless Foxes—hailing from a city known less for winning football trophies and more for curry, Kasabian, and King Richard III—began the season as 5000-1 underdogs to win the Premier League.
Tonight, they were crowned champions. With two matches to spare.
Attempting to find an equivalent in the history of professional sport is futile; there is nothing remotely ripe for comparison.
Seriously, there’s nothing.
It’s impossible not to sound platitudinous about this, particularly after a season’s worth of “Do You Believe in Miracles?” think pieces, but the fact is that what Leicester have done is truly a singular, stupefying, utterly ridiculous story.
Ask anyone how they did it, though, and you’ll get plenty of answers.
They might point to the fact that this was a season typified by turmoil, underperformance, and distraction for each of the league’s favourites—from Chelsea, to Arsenal, to the red and blue halves of Manchester.
Or that Leicester rode their fortune, outperforming almost all statistical indicators during their run, and built a title-winning campaign from seemingly unsustainable performances that would be unlikely to even secure them fourth place and Champions League football in another simulation of our reality.
Or they might tell you that this was a team masterfully moulded from a motley crew of ragtag castoffs, brilliant role players, and diamonds in the rough. That this title was the product of refined research, impeccable recruitment, and intelligent coaching, which gave rise to a squad that played to its strengths, took its chances, and clinically diagnosed tactical advantages and systemic inefficiencies in opponents. That this was a success story built upon seamless, almost providential pivots from attacking particle accelerator to defensive fortress, in a season that contained fewer matches and fewer injuries than opponents had to endure.
They might say that it was Riyad Mahrez’s grace in the box, or his magic wands for feet that led to a PFA Player of the Year Award after being bought for only £400,000 the year prior.
Perhaps they’ll tell you it was Jamie Vardy’s unsparing breakaway speed, or his ruthless near-post lashes, which saw the man—who, yes, half a decade ago was playing in the seventh division for £30 a week while working in a carbon-fibre factory—break the Premier League record for consecutive goalscoring appearances.
Some will assure you it was N’Golo Kante’s tireless running, incredible transitional ability, and outrageous intuition, which have now catapulted him from the French second division to the French national team in a few years.
Or maybe it was Danny Drinkwater’s inch-perfect tackles, or inch-perfect through-balls, that have seen him transformed from “Midfielder with a Funny Name” into “Midfielder with a Funny Name in the England Squad.”
Or the aerial commitment, rugged marking, and run-tracking of a defence that beats with one heart, that unabashedly tussles, that like an accordion, squeezes the air out of an opponent’s attack before expanding into the counter.
Or Kasper Schmeichel, the son of a goalkeeping legend—unrelentingly treated as though he bears “The Lesser” as an epithet trailing his surname—who has now written his own legacy, with a host of highlight-reel saves and a consistently diligent command of his eighteen-yard kingdom.
Or Claudio Ranieri, the manager once mockingly known as “The Tinkerman” for his ceaseless rotational policy, who has uncharacteristically settled on a first-choice lineup, whose motivational tactics over the course of the season have included rewarding his players with pizzas and beers for shutouts, and whose easy-going charm and modesty in front of the cameras have given us a second impression of a man eminently capable of keeping feet on the ground and morale sky high.
Or, perhaps, they might just tell you this was all meant to be.
“I always told myself that when I reached a certain point in life, I’d get a dog. I thought maybe when I get my own home. Or when I’m more settled. But that point never seemed to come. So I decided to go ahead and adopt. The majority of the dogs at the pound were pit bulls. I originally wanted a younger dog, but this one had a red card on her cage, which meant that she was going to be euthanized. She was emaciated and had kennel cough. But when I reached out my hand, she licked it. I named her ‘Adidas’ because I wanted a running partner. But that dream ended pretty early. All she wants to do is hug and kiss and lay on you. She doesn’t care who you are. If she senses that you’re the least bit receptive to her, she’s coming right toward you. Just a few minutes ago she jumped into somebody’s wheelchair. It’s made me more of a people person. I’m always having to explain to people why she’s trying to kiss them.”
Bendat-Appell brought his son to the airport after his weekly swimming lesson to help show the boy how to stand up for what they believe in. The boy’s maternal grandparents were Holocaust survivors who spent time in refugee camps, Bendat-Appell said. And as a rabbi at the Institute for Jewish Spirituality in New York, Bendat-Appell said he believes strongly in using history to guide actions.
Yildirim, a store manager from Schaumburg, had come to the airport with his wife and four children to bring cookies to the lawyers offering pro bono services to immigrants that had been detained.
[…]
When the children jumped off their father’s shoulders, Adin happily approached the little girl and asked her name. Meryem, a bit shy, managed a “hello” before the fathers exchanged phone numbers.
When they started hearing from hundreds of friends and acquaintances, they texted each other, in awe of the way the small moment became momentous.
As the response grew, they spoke on the phone and finalized plans for a Shabbat dinner at the Bendat-Appells’ home next week.
When the five-year-old comes to this country, he will begin his hostile takeover almost immediately. He is going to touch everything in the house and his hands will be sticky for some undefinable reason and nothing in the house will ever feel entirely not sticky ever again.
He will sow disinformation. He will run up and down the aisle of the airplane creating chaos and making fake plane noises with his mouth, even though he is clearly not a plane. He will say the floor is lava. He will say he is a dinosaur. He will say he is Batman. He will say he is a doctor who can vaccinate you against cooties. All of these will be lies.
@dollyp shared a story on twitter about refugees after the news of trump’s new ban (which has, thankfully, for the moment been stayed by a federal judge)
326 Miles 