Having been the manager of the one of the best loved mystical football teams of all time, those little magicians from the feted mountains of Latin America who make up the team of Rio Grande; I have been fortunate enough over the years to have met many of my literary heroes, all of who are avid Rio Grande supporters.
Just recently over half time oranges in the changing rooms Carlos Castaneda was commenting on Acosto's ethereal dribble down the left wing, before a delicate touch as soft as Peruvian mountain wool release Aromga to start to torment the opposition defence. He looked across the room at those brave men, and said
"For me there is only the traveling on paths that have heart, on any path that may have heart, and the only worthwhile challenge is to traverse its full length--and there I travel looking, looking breathlessly."
The Rio Grande players looked on in awe and admiration at this great man.
The next day at training the swarthy italian midfielder Gargagno strode up to me and said "Signore can we ave a wordio " It took me aback greatly when he said that recently an outbreak of faux mystic writing had caused him great sadness and that he did not understand why teams who cannot play the Rio Grande way and writers who cannot write like true mystics, are unable to just sit back and admire the works of those who can.
He told me of his love for Marquez, Castaneda and Kafka he said for him it was enough to read and appreciate them and that he had no intention of trying to ape their literary master strokes. At which point he ran of and kicked Milanetto in the nuts.
