Ever tried to live with an incontinent animal? It’s trying. It tries to poop, but cannot, yet poop is all there is. It’s trying, trickle-down economics.
Pegamequemegusta suspects Gerardo Martino has, or has had, an incontinent cat. Not a dog, for they vary too much as a species for a consistent image of Incontinent Dog to present itself to us; nor a budgee or a parrot, wherein comedy trumps tragedy every time. No, it must be, or have been, a cat, for incontinence in a cat is a curious phenomenon. The cat seems happy, only to redefine the idea of happiness you had assigned to the cat-happiness category. It runs, jumps, attacks stuff; it engages its various demons, as cats do. Grooming, as always, takes up a grand part of the day; only now it’s ineffectual. Likewise, the instinctual crap-concealing cats get up to, even the most domesticated ones who’ve never brought home a trophy of any size or consequence, convinced they’re Schwarzneggerarily invisible to both predator and prey, is no more, the burier diminished. Oh it will scrape around the water bowl as if digging a well, but the litter tray is no more recognisable than Radamel Falcao. The tail – the fluffy, expressive tail – is no longer under its control. Wet and limp it hangs; an unregulated sluice gate. At a poke drops will fall like merciless rain, yet the bowels ignore the thrum of the full emptying’s rhyme, reduced instead to the fragmentary inconsequentiality of the occasional blog post, seeping monotonously without ever truly delivering the payload.
Safety precautions must be taken, and firmly adhered to, as Martino found out the hard way one morning at the Camp Nou, we speculate. He had taken the Wrong Bag, the one that had been left within her grasp and was so perched upon as a nice change from her less than hygienic box. It was a gesture of possession, (semi-)loyalty, proximity in absence, a tribute, in a way. These considerations were lost on the back room staff, however, who scrunched up their noses. It was an accident. My cat, you see, her tail doesn’t… But Dani Alves just would not leave the matter be: “Caca Matino, Caca Martino!” It was the beginning of the end.
Yet his year-long sabbatical was not a waste. Martino most definitely discovered that the cat, so lorded as independent, disdainful, even, needs contact for validation. “Hello, I’m here. You – whatever you are – are here. If left with little other choice, I would eat you. For now, though, you are my anchor.” Now, post-Alves, such encounters were impossible except for brief comminglings when seated at the back step. Down at her level, things made more sense: a look, a caress, the odd purr, like in the old days when taking Spain to the wire, or all those Sundays of Maxi Rodriguez, Scocco, gol! A thought began to form: why even have a creature like this around if it’s banished out of sight like a mad ex-wife in the attic?
The question returned over and over, perhaps long ago but conceivably during this past year, as Argentina lost their way in the final and Sabella figured hanging around this team would leave him the world’s oldest man in his early sixties; even as months of pointless words and even less useful friendlies ticked by. The cat was distant but must be present. Never mind its schizoid state – the front half expressive, clean and occasionally vicious; the back a futile exercise in scatology – it’s still a cat. Besides, you’re stuck with it, Gerardo, he doubtlessly reflected, so no more Messi as a false 9, no more Messi as the crowded, beset-upon number 10, no more playing crocked players or putting on names to please the papers or hoping to get kudos for derring-do – at least not after Paraguay. Let’s not pick Palacio. Let’s just play Pastore in and around some decent midfielders. He now seems to have maturity on par with his ability, and balls to, say, not lay the ball off to Messi but instead Cruyff-turn a ¡Uruguayan! Let’s let Messi do his mystery-wrapped-in-an-enigma thing, waiting for space and/or a ball of yarn. Distant but present. Yes, Pastore will be the bearded little face of this team, Aguero the incisors, Biglia the whiskers, Mascherano the rasping tongue. And the back? Well, we can’t be sure, but Martino probably stared into space for a while here before muttering: You know, market forces.