By Jonathan Blaustein
Honestly, what can I say that hasn’t been said?
I’ve written about Trump in my weekly column, constantly, for the last 2 years. I was as guilty of preaching to the choir as anyone, but at the time, I felt like I was doing what I could.
A week later, and it’s obvious I was a lazy bastard, like the rest of us Blue State Americans. I thought spouting off once a week, and voting in November, was enough civic participation.
Clearly, I was wrong.
America wanted a cowboy President again, even if this one lives in a phallic tower, instead of a sprawling ranch. Now, before you stop me, I know that Trump is a businessman raised in Queens. I get it.
But I’d argue that America vacillates between our desire for a macho, swaggering leader, a Captain Kirk type, and our need for a super-smart, meritocratic Spock, who invariably cleans up Kirk’s mess. America is a bifurcated nation, and we behave that way come election time. Red/blue. City/country. Black/white. Liberal/Conservative.
Ensconced in our urban zones, or blue state enclaves, we lose touch with that more rugged America. The land of hunters, cowboys, rodeos, pickup trucks, mullets, and low-end beer. The Electoral College slightly favors that half of our society, and while we often bemoan it, there might be some logic to keeping the Country crew with some skin in the game.
Because there are a hell of a lot of states that are redder than the blood coursing through Alexis Sanchez’s veins. Blood that we need to circulate properly through his magical hamstring, so that it doesn’t secede from his leg. Yes, I was always going to get around to Arsenal, or this wouldn’t be a soccer blog. But the transition is not as arbitrary as it might seem.
Truth is, Alexis Sanchez is our Captain Kirk. He’s all Id, running wherever he damn well pleases. Arsene Wenger has to play him, all the time, or he’ll leave for another club. Alexis doesn’t speak to the press much, but when he does, it’s always some version of “I hate to sit. Me entiendas? Rest is for pussies. If I don’t get to play, I am angry. So Angry. Mucho enojado. You won’t like me when I’m angry.”
The cowboy spirit, pure recklessness and self-confidence, is what makes him great. The never-say- die attitude. The ferocious way he chases down goalies. It’s all heart, but perhaps not a lot of head?
By the time you read this, we may know if our super-star has ruined himself for a month or two. He might miss the Man United and PSG games. He might tank Arsenal’s title challenge before it’s begun in earnest.
But you know what? There’s nothing you can do to stop him. Shockingly, it seems like there’s nothing Arsene Wenger can do to stop him either.
All we can do now, I’m afraid, is hope for the best. (For the next 4–8 years.)
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