I have often thought of myself as the Ibra of bloggers - brilliant, talented, tough, good looking, able to carry a team on my shoulders, feared, and able to pull off the ponytail look with style. Well, actually, I am none of those things except for the good looking, the ponytail part, and maybe the feared, but for different reasons. Also, like Ibra, I like to talk about myself a lot, sometimes in the third person. Anyway, with Ibra’s autobiography being released this Friday in Italy, I thought it was time that I told my story, too, Ibra style. (Only mine is much, much shorter, considering I’ve not really done anything with my life.) Also, for my story, you will not need to purchase a book, it is right here for you for free. You’re welcome.
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| We could be twins... except for... well everything, really. But our egos could be twins. |
I grew up in a small, rural town in Southern California, the daughter of a school teacher by day/high school sports coach by night. Sandwiched between two brothers, I was never going to be a girlie girl. In fact, much like Ibra, I could kick any of my sibling’s butts any day of the week, so they rarely gave me a hard time. Also like Ibra, I earned their respect by being taller than them and learning martial arts (although I may have made that martial arts part up for context.)
Unlike Ibra, I didn’t even know anything about football throughout my formative years. It was only through watching the 1994 World Cup that I fell in love with football. And just like Ibra, I initially found the Italian squad very good looking. (Okay, I probably made that part up about Ibra being attracted to the Italian players. Although, to my credit, there have been pictures like this that would back up my claim):
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| Mercenaries prefer blondes |
I can’t really put professional footballer on my resumé like Ibra can, rather I chose another vain, worldly profession: Fashion Design. Maybe it was an attempt to derail my football fandom, or something to give me some credibility when reviewing new kits. Or maybe it will be how I reach my lifelong dream of actually designing some proper kits for these players, but it was my path. I’m not proud, but I do have a degree. And off the pitch, that means something… doesn’t it? (I should have been a footballer.)
For the record, Messi and company are like schoolchildren, but I never had a hard time with Pep Guardiola. I actually think he’s brilliant, although I can see why Ibra and some other people may hate him. And to be fair, I never had to be coached by the guy. Much like Ibra, I don’t like to be told what to do. Also, if I had a black belt, I might find it hard to listen to Guardiola, who seems a little more zen, a little less macho. Even as a woman, that would get old. Also as a woman, I could never accuse Guardiola of not having balls, as the implications would overshadow the accusation. Although a guy like Pep with some fashion sense is hard to come by, maybe that would help me cope. But back to the subject at hand, I never threatened to physically attack the guy, even if I am glad that Ibra did. Were it not for that, Ibra would not have come to my Milan, and I would not be writing my bio in this awesome style.
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| The 1994 European cup winning AC Milan team |
Speaking of my Milan… people ask me how I became a Milan fan. Which is ridiculous. Everyone knows that the team you support comes from inside of you, it’s not a choice. But I discovered my Rossoneri blood by watching Serie A after having found football. It was when I saw the red and black stripes that my heart would skip a beat, and I would have to remind myself to keep breathing. (And it wasn’t just because of that beautiful Maldini, either, it was the actual football.) And while Ibra is known as a mercenary (although I prefer to think of him as the Mary Poppins of football, going from club to club helping them until some other club needs him,) anyone can see that he fits in best at Milan, able to utilize his martial arts skills on teammates and opponents alike. He and I also share a common love of screaming at certain Milan players, even if I only scream at them through my TV.
Not content with just reading blogs, I decided to jump into blogging with both of my giant Swedish feet. (Well, okay, my feet are neither giant nor Swedish, but it was just an analogy anyway.) So with my fellow Ibra-like former co-blogger, we founded this place for the fans of Milan who would also take a flying kick straight into Materazzi if given the opportunity. A place for obsessed fans to let down their Ibra ponytails and share their stories of butt-kicking and title-winning. (Although I can’t recommend injuring one’s self with the celebratory fist pumps. And I am personally skipping the Ibra facial hair, I’m not even convinced it looks good on him.) But I did model this blog after Ibra, in terms of awesomeness, at least.
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| Hell yeah. |
Alright, that is probably the extent of my Ibra-ness. Although I will say this: Elaine is a god to the fans of AC Milan. If Ibra were a blogger, Elaine would be him. And writing about Ibra takes the awesomeness factor of this blog to very dangerous levels, so Elaine must be careful when writing Ibra posts. Also, Elaine will buy Io Ibra on Friday, even if Elaine’s Italian is not worthy of the mud on Ibra’s boots. Although if Elaine waits until Tuesday the 15th, I am Zlatan Ibrahimovic may be available in her native English, and then Elaine will not have to worry about muddy boots or Italian conjugations. Certainly the juicy bits about Ibra’s fight with Onyewu sound worth the purchase price in and of themselves. I suppose Elaine could have put some juicy bits into this one, too, although then Elaine would have to charge money…
You’re welcome.
This post inspired by the music of Elias featuring Frans:
(After searching YouTube, I noticed that there are not yet any music videos dedicated to me or this amazing blog, so if you decide to make one, please let me know. I am particularly fond of a cute kid singing my praises for some reason, although I am not particular about which language the song is in or the instrumentation of the backup band.)