#knock out's still argentinean

[cestacruz]

Doodles as i forget i have to wake up early

I miss Skywarp and Thundercracker so i wanted to doodle them in the RiD15 style

And some humanformers concepts because i like drawing people (not final designs, will try to refine more because this is fun, Grimlock is getting redesigned ASAP) (i yap in the tags)

[shadow-sandiego-shipping]

Restless Thief

Chapter 1 - Setting In Troubles

               Mom was great. Buenos Aires was great. The first night, although sure she was knocking on the right door, she still had a booking on the hotel a few streets over waiting for her. Funny story, despite being a normal citizen, for all accounts, Carmen’s mom was still suspicious of strangers who claimed to be her long lost daughter. It probably didn’t help Carmen introduced herself as Carmen (her self-assigned name).

               Her mom started using it for her ever since… By then it had been her name for only two years, but for all mom knew, it was what she was called all her life ever since she was a baby. If it were up to Carmen, mom would never learn about “Black Sheep”.

               Despite her suspicions, Carlotta agreed to talk to Carmen that night, after the children were put to bed. Then, after seeing the medallion with her passed husband and her missing child’s picture at the old Vera Cruz residence in Mexico, did she finally relented her suspicion. They talked about the past, about what Carlotta had been doing ever since learning about Dexter’s death. They talked about him. Carmen got to know more about her father, even if only through her mother’s memories. ‘You have his eyes.’ Carlotta told her. She agreed.

               When it was Carmen’s turn to talk about where she had been in the past twenty-one years, she couldn’t bear to tell her mom she’d been raised in VILE of all places, so she made up a small, harmless, little lie. Mom didn’t really mention the organization by name when talking about dad either, only telling Carmen some bad people were after Dexter, so really, Carmen didn’t even know the extent of Carlotta’s knowledge on VILE. Better to leave it as it was for the time being.

               It was quite late when they decided to part ways, almost too late for Carmen to comfortably walk to the hotel by her lonesome, if she weren’t a world renown thief (trained by a samurai ninja on top of that). Her mom offered to let her sleep in the guest room, but Carmen needed time to process everything.

               And so, for the following week, they established some sort of a routine.

               In the morning Carmen would enjoy the hotel’s commodities, train, run or explore the city. Despite being from Buenos Aires, she hadn’t really explored much of the region, other than her usual readings, so tourism was pretty much on the table.

               She would also talk to Player and let him know about everything she discussed with her mom and he would give her any news about the other members of Team Red. For example, the news of Shadow-san’s departure for Tokyo, Japan. That particular piece information let itself settle in the pit of her heart like a little rock would, perhaps due to her buried shame of being happy for Shadow-san’s misfortune, when he hadn’t made peace with his brother after returning the daishō, and instead had no other choice but help them take down VILE (feelings of relief for the help mixed with her own desires to spend more time with the ninja after finding out why he had become so distant over the years).

               In the afternoon she would visit mom, get to know the kids and play with them. As her mom taught her how to cook dishes from her upbringing (Argentinean and Mexican), and they would bond over the past some more. They’d eat together, clean together and talk until it was time for Carmen to go back to the hotel.

               By the end the fourth day her mother suggested she’d just stay at the orphanage rather than pay for a hotel room. So, she did. Four months passed by, just like that. And the more time she spent there, the less she could justify the restless nights she had been going through.      

               The first week, she blamed it on the jetlag and excitement of getting to finally spend time with her real mom. Carlotta was a wonderful woman, she was everything Carmen expected her to be and more. She was everything she wished coach Brunt had been…

               When the first month lurked by, Player finally asked what was up with her. Nothing! Nothing was ‘up’. She just… had issues with establishing new routines… ‘Right.’ Carmen was fine.

               Two months in, she was sitting at the kitchen counter with a glass of water in one hand and her phone on the other, talking to Player - at three thirty in the morning. ‘You know I get jittery after staying in the same place for too long!’ It was true! Back when she took a break from VILE hunting, right before that one rescue mission in Poitiers, before Shadow-san joined the gang, she couldn’t relax up until the end of that down time! And after the incident in Stockholm… actually, she out not to mention that one… Player still felt guilty about it. The point was… e-ever since she left VILE she had issues with settling down.

               And yet, recently she had gotten an HQ, laid roots, and she was sleeping just fine then. But that was different! Yes, it was, VILE as they knew it was gone now, while back then they had been freely up and running. Now that the threat was gone, why was she still so restless?

               She wanted to keep arguing with Player, but she couldn’t find compelling reasoning to back her up. Maybe she’d find it after a nap.

               Three months and counting, of dealing with a fucked sleep schedule in Argentina, Player gives up on arguing with her. Her mom, however…

               To be fair, she should’ve seen it coming. Despite being the best thief in the world, she wasn’t exactly being sneaky with her midnight (as in - middle of the night) stays at her mom’s kitchen, trying to find the sleep that would not come. And during the day, she wasn’t at her sharpest either. How could someone feel that tired yet not even close to falling asleep was beyond her. She excused herself with ‘I’ve always had trouble sleeping’ witch was true, and fortunately was something that would work with her mom - while it wouldn’t with Player - because Carlotta didn’t know that despite her sleeping problems (insomnia and night terrors), up until recently Carmen had been sleeping better and better every day. That was, until moving into the orphanage.

               The truth was… she got used to the Carmen Brand Outwear warehouse living.

               She missed Zack and Ivy’s tweaking, and repairs, and arguing. She missed Lydia’s daily rumble as the twins got to work on their side project. She missed the calming sound of the sea wrapping around shore. And despite loving the homemade Mexican and Argentinian dishes she and her mom cooked, she also missed the weird take out assortments Team Red would order, each suiting their tastes.

               Most of all however, she missed a little secret she held close to heart.

               On the nights she found herself restless, back at the warehouse, a certain samurai ninja would keep her company. He’d tell her the stories she loved as a child, about the land born from a spear and about the samurai warriors tasked with protecting it. It was silly, really, something that started as a sleep induced joke became this habit she’d share with him.

               The first time it happened, Shadow-san saw her getting water, quite late in the evening (she couldn’t remember the exact time but it was past midnight). He offered to stay with her until she returned to her room, and she confessed she couldn’t get a sleep’s wink. Regardless, they stayed up together, drinking tea rather than water (provided by the old teacher).

               Sitting in silence was their forte, but as the clock ticket and the night passed, Shadow-san too felt the weight of fatigue dawning on him.

               She told him he could go sleep, but stubborn he stayed. He asked if he could help in anyway, but really there was nothing he could do.

               Carmen had been so tired, she caught herself, a little too late, thinking how soothing his voice was. The worst part was: she didn’t just think it, she said it out loud too.

               When he lifted an eyebrow, a furious blush invaded her cheeks and she tried to come up with something to disguise the mishap. Teasing being her default comeback, she played around with the idea that her brain probably connected his voice to the bed time stories she used to hear from her nannies, after all, Shadow-san’s retelling of the “Ame no Sakahoko” myth was her favorite. She knew it was a low blow to mention their time in VILE, but it had felt like her only way out of the embarrassing situation.

               Shadow-san hadn’t batted an eye, probably too tired to make a connection himself. He had looked contemplative for a few seconds and then, to her absolute amazement, he began to tell the tail she hadn’t heard since she was seven. He really did have a nice, soothing voice. Carmen closed her eyes and let his storytelling drive her away through the night. One moment they were drinking tea in the kitchen, the next she was waking up, tucked in her sheets and feeling refreshed after a good night of sleep. She couldn’t even remember how she got there… The only thing she remembered was - Shadow-san… - He tucked her to bed. (Like a child…)

               She had been so embarrassed, she decided to pretend the situation had never happened. Except it did happen, and that night she had the best sleep ever in two years. So much so, three days later, there she was back in the kitchen; and soon enough, so was he.

               “Would you like me to narrate you something else?” Carmen opened her eyes after what could’ve been the fifth retelling of “Ame no Sakahoko”. Shadow-san looked at her with no malice. It was her favorite story, and she could hear him recount it, over and over (for the rest of eternity), but she was curious, what other stories did he know?

               “Sure.” And so their little secret became her favorite way to fall asleep.

               Shadow-san told her about samurai, ninja, oni, Japanese tales and myths; then, his own childhood stories ended, so he told her tales he learned from other parts of the world. Some of them she already knew; Researches done before work trips turning into deep dives on the various places she visited and their folklore. She liked his versions better. After he ran out of those, he spoke about life. His brother, his friends, the gangs he had been a part of, his time in VILE, faculty gossip (that one was her favorite). Every time Shadow-san would come up with something to talk about; maybe it was a new coffee shop he visited or maybe it was a book he started reading, his voice would always lull her to slumber and she’d wake up in her own bed, after an amazing night of sleep.

               She could never admit that was the reason she couldn’t get her shit together. How could she tell Player or her mom? I can’t sleep because I miss listening to my old teacher’s bedtime stories and tea? How embarrassing was that?

               She could deal. Although, she really, really missed Shadow-san.

               Four months was the final straw.

“You need to sleep mija!” It was two in the morning. Carmen sat in the living room for a change of scenery, laptop on her lap the only source of light in the darkness; that was, until her mom came by and turned on the light switch.

               “Mom! Sorry, I guess I got distracted…” Carmen says as a quick excuse. She knew Player wouldn’t be on the other side of the line at this hour, despite it only being a one-hour difference from Ontario to Buenos Aires, the kid was likely asleep.

               “Distracted is not cutting it anymore, Carmen. You’ve been staying up every single day I happened to see you, have you ever went to bed at a reasonable hour since you’ve moved here?” Her mom sounded absolutely exasperated.

               Carmen felt bad for worrying her, honestly. Player too. But she couldn’t help it. She tried, over and over, to fall asleep earlier. She counted sheep, sat in silence, listened to white noise from her phone, she made tea (it didn’t taste like his), she put on videos of people talking (they didn’t sound like him), history channels talking about folklore from all over (it wasn’t the same). Nothing she did worked. And so she ended up just taking naps from five to six or seven, it wasn’t nearly enough sleep, but it was all she got.

               “I’m fine, mom.” She says in a calm voice.

               “Ay, no. You’re clearly not. Every day you seem more and more tired. Have… was it something I did?” Her mom walks over to Carmen and sits down on the couch. “Is the guest bed not comfortable? Is your stomach upset with the food? Is it too spicy?” Carmen chuckles at her mom’s worried musings.

               She closes the computer and places it on the coffee table in from of them. “Mom, no. Nothing’s wrong. Everything is perfect, the bed, the food, you. I’m so happy to be here, promise.” Again, she keeps her voice calm.

               “Something must be wrong, or else you’d be sleeping normally, no?” She didn’t know how to reply to that.

               Mom holds Carmen’s hands on her own. “You know… after I lost you and your dad, I couldn’t sleep.” Carmen’s eyes widen at the confession. “I couldn’t share that burden with anyone, I felt so alone. But you’re not alone, you know that right?” Carlotta smiles at her, Carmen swallows the lump in the back of her throat and nods. “So… if something is bothering you, maybe I could help? If only just to listen…”

            It would maybe… feel better to talk about it, embarrassing, but it would be a weight off her chest.

               She takes a deep breath. “Well…” How could she phrase it? She hadn’t told Carlotta about Shadow-san or the twins, the little lie she told placed her in an orphanage in America before looking for her real family.

               …

               “In the two years after I left the orphanage… in San Diego, I got to live with uh… some friends.” Alright she could do this. “When I was looking for clues about our family, about you, they were my only family. Sh- uh…” Shadow-san was not a real person’s name. “Suhara, one of my friends, he used to make me tea and keep me company when I had trouble sleeping.” Suhara was the name Mr. Hideo called him, his old name. “He would tell me stories about Japan and other countries he read about. I love Geography and learning about different cultures. Sometimes he’d tell me things I already knew, but he’d tell them his way. And every time I ended up falling asleep right there.” She was smiling, she missed him so much.

               “Suhara sounds like a good friend.” Her mom beacons.

               “He was.” Carmen’s voice cracks. She separates from her mom, wiping at her face, no tears, just sweat.

               “Oh, honey, is he…?” Her mom asks carefully.

               Is he…? Oh, oh. “No! No, god no. He’s with his family in Japan.” Carmen corrects.

               “Oh! Oh that’s good! So he found his family too!” She claps her hands. Dealing with orphans for twenty-one years might’ve made her more sensitive to finding family stories, but it makes Carmen happy to see her mom so excited about Shadow-san’s fortune with his brother.

               “Yeah…” Carmen was happy for him too. He deserved to go back home after all they’d been through.

               “I wonder how a kid from Japan ended up in an orphanage in America?” Oh, time to change the subject. Carmen didn’t really have an answer (lie) for that yet.

               “Anyway! I’m sorry I made you worry, mom. I promise I’m ok. It’s just hard getting used to… all of this.” She says gesturing to everything around them.

               Her mom laughs quietly. “The orphanage can be a lot, I know. Do you want to talk some more about your friends?” She offers.

               It occurs to her, she didn’t even mention the twins. She was so tired, too tired to come up with coherent explanations for all of them to end up in the same place, and worse, to remember everything she was saying in order to not contradict herself later. Yeah, she aced Lying 1.0.1 back at the academy – and this was a conversation for another time.

               “I think I’m alright, mom. I should probably head to bed soon, right? Besides, I don’t want to keep you up.” She excuses. Then, with a smile she stands up taking her laptop under her arm.

               Her mom follows suit; she stops when Carmen reaches the guest room. “Mija.” Carmen looks back at her. “I love having you here, I waited so long to meet you.” Her eyes start glimmering. “At one point I lost hope I would.” Her mom had been through so much, it made Carmen fell warm, knowing she wasn’t alone in that sentiment. “But look at you, my little baby! All grown up!” She hugs Carmen gently.

               When they separate, Carlotta wipes her eyes with the sleeve of her pajamas. “Ay, sorry.” She fans herself with her hands. Carmen chuckles. “What I’m trying to say is. I’m so happy to have you as my daughter, and to have you in my life.” She pauses. “But, I also know you’ve been having your life, all this time…” Carmen raises an eyebrow. “It wouldn’t be fair of me to keep you here…”

               “Whoa, you’re not keeping me here! I choose to come here-” Carmen gets interrupted by Carlotta raising her hand.

               “I know. What I mean is: this orphanage? This is my thing! And I can tell, maybe it’s not yours…” Carmen crosses her arms in protest. “If you ever want to go back? To your life, wherever that might be, I just want you to know I can be a part of that too!” Why was her mom saying this? “And you can always stay here or come back here if you want.” As if Carmen would leave… “What’s mine is yours mija. I just want you to be happy.” Carlotta cups Carmen’s cheek.

               Mom’s really were a thing out of this world. Despite only being together for about four months, her mom could already read her like an open book. She might’ve even been seeing things Carmen herself could not.

               Carmen sighs. “Thanks, mom.” She couldn’t bring herself to address what Carlotta said right away… Not with exhaustion blurring the edges of her vision.

               Each of them retreats to their own space and Carmen closes the bedroom door before she flops onto the bed.

               Laying in the soft sheets, surprise surprise, she couldn’t sleep still. It was a weird interaction the one she just had with Carlotta, Carmen felt weird about it. What was her mom trying to imply? Should she talk about it with Player? Maybe ask for advice. The thought that the hacker could listen back to their talk crosses Carmen’s mind, and she finds that maybe she didn’t like that idea very much. Honestly, she should just tell him her secret too, he had a different perspective than her mom, so maybe… Maybe she could tell him about Shadow-san, and what her mom told her, and maybe he’d have the solution to her problem…

               She glances at the clock on the wall, three AM. She opens her phone and looks at her contact list… It was about two AM for Player already… She scrolls, Ivy and Zack, where would they be by now? She didn’t even know what continent they were in- Julia… the same situation, Devineaux, heh… good one.

               …

               It was three PM in Japan…

               …

               She clicks his name. The phone starts ringing.

               Thum, thum, thum, …

               Her heart beats wildly. What if he doesn’t pick up? What if he does pick up? What would she say?

               Ring, ring, …

               W-what was she doing? Why was she calling him out of the blue? She needed to hang up-

               “Hello?”

               …

               That was his voice, coming from the other side of the phone. He picked up…

               She releases the breath she’d been holding.

               “Carmen?”

               She still hadn’t replied. “H-hi! Hello! Shadow-san?” Still, her nerves were a mess. Usually she was so much slicker than this! She blamed the lack of sleep.

               “Hmm?” But did it feel good hearing his voice again.

               “Hi…” She sighs.

               “You’ve said that.” His voice had an amused edge, she could almost see the smirk pulling at corner of his lips.

               A moment of silence, then.

               “What time is it for you?” He sounds worried now. Did he know where she was? “Player informed me things have been going well with your mother.” Ah. As always, he read her mind.

               “It’s… late.” She replies. Silence… he was frowning, probably. “I can’t sleep?” She doesn’t know what she’s saying anymore.

               This was dumb. She felt dumb. She hasn’t spoken to him in four months, four. He hadn’t reached out to her, and she hadn’t reached out to him either! They were busy with their new lives, with their own families. This call was so unnecessary; she should just hang up-

               “Japan. The Land of the Rising Sun is located off the coast of Eastern Asia…” That was… “It is a country filled with sights to behold, magnificent temples and pagodas, cherry blossoms which bloom in spring.” It was! “Legend holds that Japan was created…”

               Through the phone, Shadow-san tells her that same tale, the same one she heard over and over, as a child during lessons, and as an adult when she couldn’t sleep. She felt like giggling with relief, his voice, as always lulls her to slumber in record time.

               By the end of the story Carmen is sound asleep and she can’t hear Shadow-san call out through the line. “Carmen?” He holds a few more seconds of silence before he hears the light snoring he had been so familiar with. He smiles mournfully.

               “Goodnight, Carmen.” He hangs up the call.

Summary | You are here | Chapter 2

[tomicaleto]

SO glad you reblogged that list of duolingo prompts, and only if you want:

maybe 33. “My compliments to your mother!” but, like---hopeless cook obi-wan to anakin?

I'm so happy you sent a prompt! I'm sorry it took me a bit to write but I'm coming to terms that I'm a super slow creator due to several different reasons and such

Anyways, here is the prompt list if anyone wants to send me another prompt

This is a little longer than I expected but we get Argentinean Anakin, golden eyed Anakin and a terrible cook Obi-Wan, with some of his mishaps being inspired by real life events (I was a sleepy child when it happened, okay, you can't judge me) Hope you enjoy!

33. “My compliments to your mother!”

“So, what are we going to eat tonight?” Obi-Wan asked, leaning on the kitchen island and shamelessly staring at Anakin’s ass as he leaned down and took a pan out of the oven. “It smells good!”

Anakin huffed from the heat and closed the oven’s door. “We’re eating empanadas, my mother’s recipe.” He explained, putting the pan on the counter and effortlessly moving the empanadas to a plate, making a neat pile. “If only to avoid you burning the whole floor down with one of your cooking adventures.” Anakin added, turning his head just enough so he could blink at Obi-Wan, making clear the comment was not mean-natured. 

Obi-Wan huffed and rolled his eyes. “Not all of us inherited our mother’s skills in the kitchen.” He complained. “We simply have to make do with what we were given.” 

Anakin finally turned around and put the pile of empanadas in between them, sitting down on the stool on his side of the island and grabbed one empanada, taking a bite as he stared at Obi-Wan with both eyebrows mockingly raised, a mischievous glint in his golden eyes. He swallowed quickly and quipped back “multiplying by zero is still zero, Obi-Wan!” 

He huffed and grabbed his own empanada. “I really tried this time.” He pouted, making Anakin laugh, his golden eyes closing as he chuckled. 

“What is that thing that your grandfather says? Do or do not, there is no try.” Anakin emulated the way old Yoda spoke. “I think you should take his advice and, you know, do not.”  

—

Anakin’s teasing wasn’t enough to stop Obi-Wan, though. And so, the next week he had Anakin sitting in front of him at his own house, his friend staring dubiously at the perfectly cooked gruel Obi-Wan had put in front of him. 

“What is it?” He asked, when Anakin didn’t even hint that he was going to pick the spoon and start eating. 

“Where is the sauce?” Anakin asked, briefly meeting Obi-Wan’s eyes with his own and then glaring back at the plate set in front of him. “Or the cheese?” 

“You know I can’t make sauce without ruining my pan forever.” Obi-Wan shot back. “And I know it’s traditional to make gruel with sauce at your house but I promise I followed the recipe and it tastes good so please give it a try and maybe don’t compare it to how your mother does it?” 

Finally, Anakin grabbed the spoon and picked some gruel on it. His face was neutral at first but then he grimaced and Obi-Wan’s shoulders slumped. “Is it bad?” 

“Eh…” Anakin began, shrugging. “It’s not bad per se,” he continued. “It just tastes like nothing.” 

Obi-Wan huffed, frustrated, and grabbed his own spoon. “Well, you’ll have to tolerate my flavourless gruel because there is nothing else to eat tonight in this house.” 

He pretended he didn’t see Anakin roll his eyes and kept eating. 

—

It was raining hard when Anakin knocked on the door, curls plastered to his forehead and golden eyes shining with unshed tears. He had an empty plate on his trembling hands and his lower lip was trembling. 

“Jesus, Anakin!” Obi-Wan said, shuffling Anakin inside and letting him dripping on his doormat as he frantically looked for some towels. “What happened?” 

He took the plate from Anakin’s hands and handed him the towel, turning around to give the man some privacy. “Take off your clothes, I’ll make you some tea to warm up.” 

As he heard Anakin shift around, he stared at the plate puzzledly. It wasn’t one of Anakin’s, as far as he was aware and it most certainly wasn’t one of his. It was absolutely tasteless in design. “Feel free to choose any clothes from my closet!” He exclaimed when he heard Anakin stop moving. 

Some minutes later, Anakin was entering the kitchen. He seemed calmer, but still down. “Can you add some milk to it?” Anakin asked, his voice soft. 

“Of course! Go to the living room, I’ll be there soon.” Obi-Wan ordered while opening the fridge without looking. He stared as Anakin dragged his feet towards the couch and poured the milk into the cup. “Do you wanna tell me what’s going on?”

Anakin flattened even more against the couch. “Dooku just broke up with me.” 

Obi-Wan pressed his lips together and remained neutral. He had never liked Dooku, he often seemed pretentious and tended to undermine Anakin’s brilliance in front of other people. 

All that without counting his personal jealousy towards the man for being the one dating Anakin and not appreciating him as he should. 

But now was not the time to celebrate Anakin being free from a frankly terribly toxic relationship but to offer support and comfort. So he put the cup on the low table in front of Anakin and hugged him towards his chest. 

Anakin followed without complaints, continuing on his rant. “He said some shit I can’t remember now and I threw a plate to his face.” Obi-Wan snorted then. “I can’t believe I wasted years on this guy.” He sobbed, and Obi-Wan allowed himself to rub his back. 

They stayed like that for some minutes before Anakin dried his tears with his hands and straightened from where he was slumped against Obi-Wan. “I know it’s my turn to cook but could we order in tonight?” 

“Of course, Anakin,” Obi-Wan answered. “I’ll take care of it.” 

With a little sniff and a nod, Anakin finally leaned forwards and grabbed the cup of tea Obi-Wan had made for him. He closed his eyes and sighed at the warmth coming from the cup before taking a long sip. 

He immediately blanched and spit the whole thing back into the cup, coughing and gagging. He left a curse in Spanish and put the cup back on the table, turning towards Obi-Wan. “What the hell is this?!” He accused. 

“What? It’s just tea, I did it like you always like it.” Obi-Wan exclaimed back, grabbing the cup himself and trying it himself. With great difficulty, he swallowed it as Anakin declared “It tastes like vomit!”

“I don’t understand what happened, I did it exactly as I always do.” Obi-Wan insisted, prompting Anakin to walk towards the kitchen and aggressively open the fridge. 

“Holy shit, Obi-Wan,” He said, as Obi-Wan arrived at the kitchen. “Did you put yogurt in my coffee?”

Obi-Wan paled. “Fuck.” He covered his eyes as Anakin began laughing. “Don’t laugh, I was so worried about you that I must have mixed them up when taking one out of the fridge!”

Anakin continued laughing as he put the yogurt back inside and then hugged Obi-Wan close, letting him hide his face on his chest as Anakin pet his hair. “Thank you, Obi-Wan, at least I’ll remember this day not as the day I got dumped but the day you almost poisoned me with your tea.” 

—

“You can help me only if you promise to keep to the cutting table part of it.” Anakin pointedly said as Obi-Wan neared the kitchen. He was once again preparing some dish he had learned from his mom for them both to enjoy. 

Since his breakup, Anakin had seemed a bit lighter, like a huge weight had come off his shoulders. He had been spending more time with Obi-Wan, and they had become closer in ways that made Obi-Wan yearn for more, their quick banter turned into what could only be flirting. 

And yet, Anakin seemed to be unaware of what he was doing. Obi-Wan had come to the conclusion that he would need to say something obvious before Anakin realised what was going on.  

Obi-Wan slid into place, the kitchen knife in his hand and a pile of carrots, potatoes and yams next to the cutting table. He started slowly, easing into it as Anakin moved around the kitchen, checking out different pots, glasses filled with varied seasonings and so on. 

“I’m not that bad, you know, I can stir the pot without burning the place down.” He teased Anakin. He got a snort back as Anakin threw him a side smirk. 

“And risk ruining my precious figure with whatever poison you manage to slip in the pot while I’m not looking? This body that my mother gave me?” Anakin shot back, striking a silly pose, leaning against the kitchen wall. 

There it was, an opportunity. Obi-Wan looked Anakin up and down, letting his eyes take his time in each part put on display. The silence turned heavy and charged, Anakin’s cheeks flushing as Obi-Wan finally met his eyes. “My compliments to your mother!” Obi-Wan finally smirked, watching how Anakin’s face turned completely red at his words and he lost his balance. 

He held eye contact as Anakin processed what had just happened. With lips pressed tightly together and golden eyes showing a mix of suspicion and what Obi-Wan thought could be hope, Anakin got closer to him. Obi-Wan wisely put the knife on the cutting table before pushing his hand softly into Anakin’s curls. 

Anakin kept searching for something in Obi-Wan’s eyes, so he kept himself relaxed and open. And then, Anakin looked down, smiling shyly, the way Obi-Wan loved. With gentle hands, he grabbed Obi-Wan’s limp hand hanging at his side and rubbed Obi-Wan’s knuckles. Finally, he looked up again. 

“Maybe I should compliment your mother, Obi-Wan.” 

It prompted a hearty laugh from Obi-Wan before he tugged Anakin closer by his curls and pressed their lips together. He opened Anakin’s lips with his own and licked into his mouth, enjoying how Anakin tried to get closer as they kissed. 

When they separated to catch their breaths, Obi-Wan dragged his beard on Anakin’s cheek, earning himself a gasp before he reached Anakin’s earlobe, dropping a wet kiss on it. 

“Why don’t you put the stew in the fridge and we order some food tonight instead?” 

Anakin’s nod was eager, and it made Obi-Wan chuckle as he leaned in again for another kiss.    

[stateofsport211]

📸 ATP official website

The penultimate Challenger final for the 2024 season was the Temuco Challenger, where Hady Habib, who defeated Joao Lucas Reis da Silva 6-3, 6-2 in another decent serving day, faced third seed Camilo Ugo Carabelli, who knocked out Renzo Olivo 6-3, 6-4 in a more solid showing. This match turned out to be a classic, even one of the Challenger matches of the year contender considering all the balance necessary for them to stand out outside of their point construction, emphasizing their pressure points handling in another instance.

C. Ugo Carabelli started by painting the lines to start the first game, holding his serves to 1-0 thanks to a forehand pass before the rain interrupted play for 4 hours. Afterward, H. Habib continued with a service game hold to 1-1, where his decent returning day also continued by going after the Argentinean's forehands, whose errors caused the former to break 2-1. Subsequently, H. Habib consolidated with a service game hold to 3-1.

Somehow, the fifth game of the first set became important because not only did H. Habib set up his two-point lead through a backhand down-the-line winner but also generated his initial break point with a forehand winner, but C. Ugo Carabelli still held his serves to 3-2. The unseeded Lebanese then continued with a forehand winner to force the deuce in the fifth game, but the third seed then continued with another massive hold to 4-3. Several games later, H. Habib earned his opportunity to serve for the first set, which he succeeded (6-4) to put himself in front position of this match.

[pinky-the-elephant-room]

Shoot your shot

♡ AN: I got around to writing for Haikyuu! again and this time it’s for Oikawa, can you believe I hated this man so much that I ranted to my friend about him for a hour? Now I’m writing a smut for him the growth we love to see it~ I’m an anime only person and I know some spoilers so ignore any inconsistencies you might see because this is an anime only canon fic. 

♡ Oikawa x Brazilian Fem Reader : Playing beach volleyball is a cinch no problem right? But the sight of you in a bikini is too much to bear and having a hard on while playing volleyball is hardly convenient. So when Oikawa sees you in nothing but a towel in the locker room he decides to finally make his move on you. 

♡ Warning: Explicit shower smut with 27 year old Oikawa, voyeurism, semi public sex, and maybe a daddy kink at the end? Read at your own discretion. 

✯ ✯ -------------------------  ✯ ✯ 

➢ Portuguese translation

⇢ Y/N, você está aqui? - Y/N, are you in here?  

⇢ Sim, ainda estou aqui - Yes, I’m still here.

⇢ Fode me o meu amor - Fuck me, my love. 

“Yoohoo! Lucas, how you been?” Oikawa said, stretching out his o’s.

His Argentinean teammate said something, but the reception was terrible.

“Hold on! Let me take this outside.” He stepped out of his air-conditioned flat out into the humid air.

The voice garbled a few more sentences before it became clearer. “C-can you hear me now?”

Oikawa grinned hearing the familiar voice. “Yeah! What’s up?”

Though, he will always cherish his memories with his former team in Japan. Oikawa was now connecting with his national team as well as creating bonds and chemistry on par with his friends back home.

“Alright, amigo, I just did you a huge favor. You’re going to love me and I’m demanding more of that milk bread from you.”

He felt the familiar irritation every time someone claimed his milk bread. Oikawa only shared his milk bread with his teammate because he never tasted the magnificence of the treat. He almost suffered a heart attack when Lucas asked what was so good about bread.

“No promises, but I’m listening,” Oikawa replied as he looked over the night sky of Bueno Aires, it felt gratifying to know that a Japanese boy from a small town now lived in one of the biggest cities in Argentina.

“You remember telling me to help out with your little crush on Y/N, right?”

He rolled his eyes and pouted, “I don’t recall asking for your help! I just asked if she was single. That’s two different things!”

Oikawa remembered when he first saw Y/N at the 2021 Tokyo Olympics, he had been ecstatic to go home despite representing another country. It was his debut performance on a world stage. So, he walked around Tokyo for a while before heading back to his hotel to prepare for his match. When Oikawa turned on his T.V., he noticed it was the Women’s volleyball finals between Brazil and the U.S. It seemed like the Japanese women didn’t make it. He watched for a few minutes absentmindedly before he got distracted by player 24 from Brazil. She was the ace and was quite short, but it seemed like the average height for the female players. She was quite good, stealing point after point from their opponents. But that wasn’t what caught his attention. But rather her amusing victory dance each time she gained a point for her team. Y/N would obnoxiously dance in front of the net making her opponents furious.

Oikawa grinned childishly; he knew she was doing it on purpose as the U.S. team started making amateur errors as the gap between the two teams widened. It was a good strategy, one that he himself used on opponents that irritated him like his former kouhai, Kageyama. But his involved taunting, not twerking in front of his opponents. He didn’t think he would look half as good as she did.

From there, it was mere curiosity as to who the player was. She was quite pretty with her long curly hair and golden skin. He didn’t think he would meet her the very next day as she chatted with Lucas in Portuguese. He had no idea his Spanish speaking teammate even knew Portuguese. She had glanced over to him and introduced herself in rich accented English.

“Hello, I’m Y/N L/N. Nice to meet you.” She held out her hand.

He shook it, marveling at the softness despite the calluses he felt on her palm.

When she left to go find her team, Oikawa turned to Lucas and asked in a casual voice, “soooo… are you two together or something?”

Lucas just grinned at him and shook his head.

“Nah, she’s my how you say… my tomodachi.”

From there Lucas had taken it upon himself to get the two together, which didn’t work well after the Olympics were over as he returned to Bueno Aires and she to Brazil.  

“So, anyway I told her that you would do it in place of me! Isn’t that great?” Oikawa snapped out of his thoughts as Lucas continued.

“Wait what? Repeat that last part.”

He heard an aggravated sigh from the phone.

“Y/N participates in a beach volleyball competition every summer for charity. Her usual partner is gone, and she asked me, but I told her that I hurt my ankle. So, I volunteered you for the job!”

Oikawa blinked as the words registered in his mind.

“B-but I’ve never played professional beach volleyball before.”

Sure, he’s played some matches for fun every now and then. But surely a legitimate competition is different than screwing around with a beach ball.

“Ehh, it’s the same sport just with different rules. But don’t let that get in your way. This is your chance!”

Since he came back from Tokyo, Oikawa did sort of miss her and he hadn’t connected with any of the girls he met since.

“Alright fine. Let’s do this. How hard can it be?”

From there Lucas gave Y/N’s number to him. He immediately texted her and they figured out a schedule to practice together a few months before the actual tournament. Thankfully with the Olympics over, he no longer had to be in Argentina for the rigorous team practices and was free to go to Brazil as he pleased. So, a few weeks later he reached the coastal city Ubatuba in Brazil, ready to finally take a crack at beach volleyball.

Oikawa was munching away on his toast when he heard a knock in his hotel room. He quickly downed his breakfast smoothie and made his way to look through the peephole to see Y/N standing outside waiting patiently. He unlocked the door and let her in.

“Hey. How was your flight?” She asked as she kissed his cheek in greeting.

Oikawa felt his face get warm and tried not to get too excited over the fact that she had kissed him. He knew it was part of the friendly culture, but he couldn’t help the flutters that erupted from the gesture.

“Not too bad. Only two hours long.”

“Hope you’re ready to practice today. My friends and I have a court set up at Praia de Santa Rita. It’s a private beach we reserved and afterwards there are tons of restaurants we can go to for dinner,” Y/N said as she looked around the fancy hotel he had booked. He smirked at her reaction of course he deserved nothing but the best.

The two of them stepped out of the hotel and his eyes widened at the sight of her large jeep. Y/N jumped in and waved him inside. He carefully maneuvered himself in, hopefully, she wouldn’t drive too crazily.

“Put on your seat belt, you’ll need it!” Y/N screamed gleefully, and she revved up her jeep before pulling out of the parking lot. Oikawa’s nails dug into the seat’s handles while he held on tightly as she swerved around the tight corners without slowing down. His face continued to pale as she kept driving before finally pulling next to a beach. He carefully let himself out and his legs felt like jelly.

Oikawa gasped out, “y/n, please don’t ever drive again for everyone’s safety.”

He only heard the remnants of her door slamming and her giggles while she walked away. Oikawa followed her coming onto a rest area.

“Ok, this is where the restrooms and locker rooms are. So, get changed if you need to and then just follow the signs down to the beach,” she told him before heading inside herself with a small bag in her hand. He himself had brought along a change of clothes some shorts and a tank top with some sunscreen. Oikawa learned the hard way how important sunscreen was under the intense sun here when he turned into a lobster. After getting changed he found himself on the warm sand with the hot sun beating on his head. There was a volleyball net set up in the middle of the sand and there was a small group there getting warmed up as they spiked the ball from one side to the other.

“Hey! Good you’re here now we can get started,” a voice called from behind him. He turned around to see Y/N dressed in a small violet bikini which left little to the imagination. Her toned body and caramel skin caused his own body to burn with undisguised want.

“Are you playing in that?” He yelped.

Y/N looked down at her bikini confused, not seeing anything wrong with it.

“Yeah? What else would I wear? I mean sand gets everywhere. I can’t exactly wear a volleyball uniform on the beach,” she said with teasingly.

The flush on his cheek became brighter and he couldn’t exactly blame this on the hot sun either.

“So, what do you know about professional beach volleyball, Toru?”

His face immediately blossomed with a smile. He still wasn’t used to people openly calling him by his first name without honorifics despite being out of Japan for a few years now. But with Y/N it sounded natural and perfect coming out of her mouth. Though she didn’t exactly pronounce his name correctly, she rolled the rs too much. Oikawa never tried to correct her because he found her pronunciation absolutely sensual.

“Aren’t the rules mostly the same?”

Y/N shook her head. “Not exactly. A beach volleyball court is smaller and instead of six players, there are only two. Meaning only me and you are going to protect the entire court. There are no setters, liberos, or blockers. The two players usually divide it into two sides, protecting the left and the right. Beach volleyball games are usually faster, and it's usually played to 21 points instead of 25.”

Oikawa now understood why Lucas had readily volunteered him to become her partner. It would require time and dedication to become decent at the game which he was all too ready to bestow on her.

“Is that all?” he asked looking down at her.

Suddenly, he heard loud yells as the ball headed towards their area and he instinctively grabbed it before it hit either of them. But as soon as he touched it, the ball felt weird. It was lighter and bigger than the average volleyball.

“Oh, and the volleyball is different as you can see.”

Y/N patted his back and said, “come on. Let’s start.”

There were two other girls on one side of the court while he and Y/N occupied the other. She passed off the ball to him for his serve. Y/N went to stand in the top left while he served from the right baseline. He was just about to toss up the ball when he noticed something incredible.

Oikawa bit his lip to contain his groan, the sight was pure torture. It wasn’t fair to him and really any man. Y/N was standing in front of him with her knees bent, ready to receive any serve coming her way. There wasn’t anything wrong with her stance, in fact, if she was wearing her volleyball uniform, she would be doing her job like any other volleyball player professional or otherwise. However, in her bikini the forbidden scene made him feel like the worst type of peeping tom. But he couldn’t help it as he messed with the ball in his hand. Her position was perfect for him to saddle up behind her and press his cock against her clothed cunt. Her round ass cheeks were entirely exposed as the bikini bottoms were stretched against her body and the vaginal lips were apparent even against the dark purple fabric.

Which genius made it a thing to play volleyball in bikinis? Whoever it was Oikawa wanted to strangle and thank them from the bottom of his heart all at the same time.

He jerked his face away from Y/N’s body and tossed the ball in the air only to completely miss. The ball just tumbled a few feet from his person. Y/N turned around to give him a concerned look and gave him a thumbs up.

“It’s ok!” she yelled out before focusing back on her opponents.  “Keep going!”

‘Don’t look. Don’t look. D-O-N-T! LOOK! Ah fuck it,’ he thought as his eyes went right back to her ass. Honestly, he thought about possible sex with Y/N multiple times, but they were always fantasies with her on the bottom or on top riding him. But never from behind, clearly, he didn’t know what he was missing. His breath hitched when she bent down just a little further before righting herself again. He could probably call for an impromptu break and take her to the side for a private conversation. Maybe finally have that kiss they’ve both been craving for a long time before pushing her against a wall or a tree. He could hike her legs around him and fuck her until her voice was hoarse from screaming his name while her cunt creamed on his cock.

“Come on, Toru! Let’s go!” Y/N yelled as she effectively ruined his daydreams.

Ok, he had to focus now. Absolutely. The ball was once again in the air and he hit it with his palm only for it to hit the net. ….

Was it possible to bury only the face in the sand? He might have a need for that in just a few minutes.

Just as he was about to serve again his eyes wandered right back to Y/N’s backside, but this time she turned around at the same time to meet his eyes. His eyes widened and he quickly faced the front once more.

“Time out!” he heard Y/N say.

Y/N quickly walked towards Oikawa and stared him down.

“Have you been staring at my ass this entire time?”

He swallowed and coolly responded with a “no.”

“I’m not stupid, Toru! Is this going to be a problem for you?” she asked with her arms crossed and stern.

There was no point in lying, she already caught him red-handed so instead, he shrugged.

“It’s not my fault the view’s just too good. I’m only a man,” he said with a low voice.

“Y-you!” She seemed flabbergasted and amused at the same time. Y/N let out a snort and chuckled a few times before snatching the ball from his hands.

“Just go block for now. I’ll serve.” Y/N pointed to the same spot she herself was standing at. Oikawa being entirely shameless just ran his fingers through his hair and winked at Y/N before taking his spot at the front. The two women that were their opponents seemed to be hysterically giggling as well, guess he wasn’t as subtle as he thought he was. So, Oikawa just waved at them good-naturedly and readied himself for a rally.

It looked like Y/N wasn’t as distracted as him because she served without any problems and the game continued. It was much more difficult than he initially thought. While indoor volleyball was a team effort and everyone had to do their part, now Oikawa was responsible for everything. He was running around diving for the ball like a libero and even doing his own spikes as Y/N set a toss perfectly for him. Before he knew it, the game cycled through 6 sets faster than he was used to. That was another thing he noticed beach volleyball’s sets were much faster paced. Usually, he would take his time to dissect and figure out the opponent’s weaknesses before setting up tosses for his team. Now he had no time for that as he dived and ran after the lighter ball. Not only that he had to consider the weather, but the winds were also messing up his shots. Each time he aimed for the tight corners they would get blown out of bounds. Beach volleyball wasn’t harder necessarily, but it was definitely a challenge to learn.

After a couple more sets, Y/N called for a break. She handed him a cold-water bottle from the cooler while she drank some Gatorade.

“So, how long have you been playing beach volleyball?” he asked after swallowing the refreshing water.

“As long as I’ve been playing volleyball. It’s part of the Brazilian team’s routine. Playing beach volleyball actually makes you a better, well-rounded player,” she said as she put the tightened the Gatorade’s lid on and put it back in the cooler.

Y/N stepped closer to him and leaned into his face.

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten about you staring at my ass. I can’t have you missing your serves during the tournament,” She snickered, he felt her hot breath against his ears, causing shivers to erupt across his body.

Oikawa just leaned in even closer, deliberately eyeing her lips for a moment before staring back in her eyes.

“And what exactly do you plan on doing if I don’t stop?”

Instead of getting flustered and putting space in-between them, she instead stepped even closer to him and blinked innocently at him, her eyes dilating and enrapturing him.

“Behave and if you’re a good boy. I’ll reward you, promise,” she muttered just low enough for him to barely hear.

Y/N pecked his cheek and she lingered there for a moment, he could bask in her closeness and smell the remnants of the shampoo from her long hair.

“Y/N! Come on let’s play again,” her friend shouted from halfway across the court.

“Looks like time’s up. I’ll let you serve this time,” Y/N giggled and ran back to start the game again.

Oikawa felt embarrassment choking him on the inside and vowed not to mess up too badly again. He made his way back to the court and grabbed the ball, he deliberately didn’t look at Y/N as she once stood at the front to block. This time he hit one of his more powerful serves and found that most of the power didn’t transfer over to the ball, but he was able to slightly control the ball better this time. The rally continued on until the sun had turned orange and was about to set. Eventually, the group decided on another date they could meet up and practice again for the tournament.

When everything was packed up and put away, he and Y/N made their trek back up the beach to the resting area again.

“Hey, since we won’t be able to practice until next Saturday again. What say me and you practice by ourselves?”

Y/N looked up from her phone and nodded affirmatively.

“Sounds like a good idea. Practice matches once a week probably won’t help unless we get some practice of our own.”

Oikawa bit his lip, hesitating for a minute before asking her.

“Also, since I’m here, you mind showing me around? This is the first time I’ve been to Brazil.”

Y/N again nodded but with more enthusiasm this time as she regaled about tales of the amazing tourist spots and restaurants they could explore in their free time. The two of them went inside the rest area and he went into the men’s locker room to take a quick shower before changing into his clothes.  Just as he stripped down and stepped into the shower, he heard a crash and scream coming from the hallway. He turned off the water and tugged a fluffy towel around his waist before walking to track down whatever made the sound. When he walked out to an empty building, he heard Y/N’s voice distinctly cursing coming from the women’s locker room.

“Y/N? You alright?” Oikawa called out, he waited for a few minutes to hear her reply and when she didn’t respond he stepped inside. He peeked inside carefully just in case there were women walking around. He heard some clutter falling onto the floor a few feet away so following the noise he found Y/N in a towel trying to pick up her items.

“You ok?” he asked concerned. Y/N startled and lost her balance, tumbling onto the locker room’s floor.

“Toru, what are you doing in here? This is a woman’s locker room.”

“I know I thought I heard a woman screaming and then I heard your voice, so I came to check if you were ok.”

She sighed and pushed her dripping wet hair from her face. “Yeah, I’m ok I slipped in the shower, and then I realized I brought my phone into the shower, so I came to put it away, only to drop everything inside of my bag.”

Oikawa was about to bend down and help. “Here let me help.”

Y/N held up her hand and replied, “it’s ok I got it.” She gathered all her items and put it all away along with her phone.

Just as she was about to get up, the water that had been dripping from her body and hair gathered on the floor and made the tiles slick. Her foot slipped and she was about to hit the ground hard when Oikawa grabbed her in time before she could. However, Y/N lost her hold on the towel around her body and it exposed her chest and curves to his naked eyes. He quickly turned his head away while keeping a secure grip on her.

“Ahh! Don’t look!” she screamed and slapped her hands over her breasts. “Did you see anything?”

Oikawa swallowed and wished he could tell her no, but he sort of caught a glimpse at the body he had been craving to touch and feast his eyes on since he met her. So, he should opt to keep quiet.

“It’s ok, it’s nothing I haven’t seen before!” Except he panicked and opened his mouth.

“What does that even mean you jerk!” He could feel her try to pull away from his arms.

“Wait that came out wrong, I swear!”

Oikawa turned back around and felt blindsided by Y/N’s beauty. She was soaked to the bone, but never did she look more beautiful to him than in that moment.

“You’re so….” He trailed off. She looked at him a little confused and quit trying to pull away.

“So what?”

He leaned in and caressed her cheek. Oikawa didn’t finish his sentence and instead just connected their two lips. As he sensually captured her lips, Y/N eagerly responded back to him as if she had been desperately waiting for this just like he was. Keeping one hand on her chin to angle her face, his other hand traveled down to her naked bosom. He reverently caressed and tweaked her dusky peaks while expertly maneuvering the kiss. Y/N whimpered with want when his tongue brushed up against hers. He smirked at her reactions as her breathing started getting more erratic and her cute noises became louder and louder. They only broke apart when he heard people approaching the locker rooms.

Just as Oikawa was about to move away from Y/N, she grabbed his hand.

“The far-left shower at the end,” she jerked her head towards it.

He smiled with excitement knowing that she wanted to continue as much as he did. Grabbing and picking her up like she weighed nothing, he hurried to the shower and tugged the shower curtain shut.

Just in time too as he could hear women laughing and talking in Portuguese.

“Y/N, você está aqui?” a woman called out.

Y/N for her part looked startled at being addressed and pushed away Oikawa’s hands that were still playing with her chest.

“Sim, ainda estou aqui,” Y/N responded in a clear voice. She shot a warning look to Oikawa as his hands found themselves back on her hips and making their way back up. He only cheekily smirked at her and returned to pawing at her cleavage.  She waited for a few minutes to hear her friend’s footsteps retreating before pulling Oikawa closer and aggressively kissing him. He tugged the towel around his waist off and hiked Y/N’s silky legs around him.

He carefully maneuvered to turn the shower’s knob and set her against the wall while a jet of hot water poured over them. And Oikawa went right back to devouring her mouth and grinding against her hot cunt. As soon as his cock made contact with her tingling clit, Y/N’s body spasmed and she tried to tug him closer. Her ankles interlocked at his waist and she tried to thrust below to encourage him to enter her. But he only chuckled at her excitement and continued to slowly slide back and forth. Y/N forgetting for a moment where she was exactly, enraged by his teasing smacked his thigh loudly enough to echo in the locker room.  Oikawa let out a low grunt and thrust full throttle into her. Her eyes widened at the sudden entry and she couldn’t even contemplate the fullness before he withdrew quickly once again.

“Fode me o meu amor,” Y/N begged.

Oh, that just wasn’t playing fair. He didn’t know what she said but her breathless voice and her needy eyes made him helpless.

 As if he could no longer bear to be apart without the drenched enclosed intimacy, he reentered without warning. Oikawa fucked her with the same hell-bent concentration he played volleyball with. She covered her mouth with her hand to contain the moans, that only muffled the noises rather than stopping them completely. The faster pace caused Y/N to skid up and down on the shower walls. She tried to find purchase against the tiles, but the hot water droplets caused her to loosen the grip. His breathing got heavier and uneven, why was it he could handle hours of volleyball, but the vise grip of her cunt made him want to spill inside of her like an immature adolescent?  He removed her hand covering her moist lips and thoroughly kissed her. He swallowed her moans and they stood in the shower making love for god knows how long. His hand found her engorged clit and his middle finger started pressing slow circle while his thumb and point finger started pinching it in time to his thrusts. Just as she was about to cum, Y/N buried her face in his neck. She bit down hard on his shoulder trying to contain the shrieks she wanted to let out. It wasn’t long before her spiral started to pull him as well, the constriction creating a perfecting suction to swallow his juices. He placed a hand on the wall to stabilize himself just before he pulled out of her and came all over her thighs. The water soon washed away all the evidence of their tryst as it flowed down the drain.

“Does the hot water feel that good?” Y/N’s friend called out. Soon of the other ladies started giggling and laughing along. “We’re leaving! See ya, Y/N!”

The two of them didn’t move from their spot until they heard the sounds of lockers being shut and the ladies’ voices being fading further and further away.

“I think they knew…” Y/N gasped a little embarrassed and horrified.

On the other hand, Oikawa kept smiling like a goof. “I love beach volleyball now! It’s my favorite kind.”

She let out a frustrated groan. “Just get out of my way. I need to get dressed before I prune even more.”

“Maybe next time you should call me papi,” he hollered out as Y/N started to dry herself and got dressed.

“There won’t be a next time if you don’t get your butt dressed soon or I’ll leave you behind.”

Y/n when she was all dressed up and ready to go, waited for him outside of the resting area. He came out joyfully whistling away and ready to leave. Oikawa slung his arm over Y/N’s shoulder and pulled her close. He was finally taking the chance to get closer to her like he always wanted.

“You’re going to be a handful, aren’t you?” she asked tickled with his antics.

He leaned in and pecked her forehead. “You know it,” Oikawa said with a wink.

[96thdayofrage]

The mental and physical impacts of solitary confinement have been clear for two centuries. In 1829, Pennsylvania Quakers opened the first prison designed for solitary, hoping to inspire reflection in the inmates. Instead, many went crazy or committed suicide. Thirteen years later, Charles Dickens made his first trip to America, and after seeing it first hand, solitary confinement shocked a writer whose bleak perspective inspired an adjective for intolerable suffering. “He is a man buried alive,” he wrote.

In the century and a half since, multiple international agreements have codified the practice as inhumane. In 2011, Juan Mendez, the U.N. special rapporteur on torture — who was himself jailed and tortured by the Argentinean military dictatorship for more than a year in the 1970s — declared that more than 15 days in solitary constitutes torture.

“Solitary confinement is recognized as difficult to withstand; indeed, psychological stressors such as isolation can be as clinically distressing as physical torture,” wrote Jeffrey L. Metzner and Jamie Fellnerin in the Journal of the American Academy of Psychiatry and the Law, in a paper about the medical ethics of physicians who participate in punitive isolation measures.

According to a report by Citizens for Prison Reform, there are 3,200 people in isolation in Michigan for more than 20 hours a day among the state prison population, like Richard Goddard, who has been in isolation for 47 years; James Miller, who has been segregated from the general population for about 36; and Daniel Henry, for 12. Clarence Henderon, who at 67 had been in isolation has been confined to a wheelchair due to severe arthritis. He allegedly goes months without going outside. “It’s just torture,” says Mario Lee, who goes by the name Akesi and has been incarcerated since 2005, currently serving time at the Ionia Correctional Facility.

Chris Gautz, a spokesperson for the MDOC, denies that the department regularly keeps inmates in solitary confinement for years. (A request for comment on the whereabouts of the individuals in Silenced was forwarded to the state’s FOIA office, and we’ll update if we hear back). “As of February of this year, there was one prisoner who has been in [administrative segregation] for more than one year, but less than two, out of 32,000 prisoners,” Gautz said. But Jessica Sandoval, senior campaign strategist with the national Unlock the Box campaign, says the MDOC fudges those numbers by labeling isolation a variety of technical terms, like Mental Health Unit; Observation; temporary segregation. And Alternative to Segregation (START program).

Akesi, who was recently moved to the START program, says the difference is meaningless. “The program is classified as general population. In reality, it’s administrative [segregation]. The only distinguishing features is that we are required to attend and participate in one hour of group therapy sessions once a week,” he says. “On the other hand, the similarities to seg are many. We are allowed one hour of outdoor recreation five days a week, confined to individual enclosures with concrete floors and enclosed by a steel and wire mesh cage.” He says they’re denied access to any congregate activities including religious services. “We spend between 23 and 24 hours per day in our cells. By no stretch of the imagination can the department of corrections claim that this program is general population or otherwise an alternative to segregation.”

“As social (i.e. human beings) one of the most severe punishments humanly possible that society can mete out to a human is to banish and condemn us to the tombs for the living — or otherwise subject us to extreme social isolation and sensory deprivation,” Akesi wrote in 2020 from the Ionia Correctional Facility in Ionia, Michigan. “It’s endless torture, psychological and physical.”

“This is the techno jargon that keeps the system opaque. All these euphemisms are for essentially solitary confinement,” Sandoval says. She says anything that forces an inmate to stay in isolation for longer than sleeping hours should be defined as solitary. (Gautz told Rolling Stone he didn’t have that information and forwarded the query to the department’s FOIA office.) The Michigan Department of Corrections counts 835 inmates in administrative, or long-term segregation, and 130 in punitive solitary detention, as a short term punishment. The race breakdown is stark: more than 70 percent of inmates placed in long term solitary are Black.

The prisoners’ descriptions are remarkably consistent: they describe severe mental health problems arising from solitary, from hallucinations to paranoia to suicidal ideation. One inmate reports losing his vision after staring at nothing in the near distance for so long. Another, Williams says, was screaming on the phone; he’d forgotten how to talk at a normal volume.

Williams points out that it’s not just the “worst of the worst” being held in isolation — Hannibal Lecters who would wreak havoc if they weren’t segregated. Inmates can get thrown in the hole for any reason, she says, or no reason at all. She claims it’s entirely based on the whim of the guards. “One man was sent to isolation unit after knocking over a glass of water,” she claims. (Gautz, the MDOC spokesperson, denied that guards put prisoners in solitary without due process or a just reason.)

Williams also notes that many facilities are in rural, almost entirely white towns: in some cases, the prison is the main industry. “You’re taking Black people to extremely isolated places. The town survives off of these Black bodies.”

“The further you go up North… its like some parts of the South in the 50’s and 60’s,” writes inmate Andraus McCloud. “The KKK turned in their robes for MDOC uniforms,” writes inmate Anthony Richardson. “Nobody is watching while they do their hate practices.”

When Danielle Dunn, a real estate broker, spoke to her little brother, 38-year-old Jonathan Lancaster, in February of 2019, he whispered the entire time. “There was a change in his voice. Clearly he was having mental health issues,” she tells Rolling Stone. Lancaster had been thrown in solitary after a scuffle with another inmate, and had become increasingly paranoid. “He was saying there was gas pumped into his cell. That his food was being poisoned. I said, ‘Are you OK? It sounds like you’re cracking up a little bit.” Lancaster got silent, Dunn recalls. “Then he whispered again, ‘They’re going to kill me.’”

Even as Lancaster started losing weight and continued to act erratically — he suffered from a variety of mental illnesses, his sister says, including schizophrenia — his sister alleges that prison staff failed to get Lancaster proper medical treatment. He began to hallucinate, crouch in the fetal position, and refused food and water. The Detroit Free Press reported that he lost 26 percent of his body weight in three weeks, dropping 51 pounds, according to the lawsuit.

“They didn’t even know why he was still in solitary confinement,” Dunn says. She begged staff to give him proper care but claims she was told he was “physically fine.” March 8th, 2019, he was pepper sprayed and put in an observation room, where he didn’t have access to water, according to the lawsuit. On March 11th, they cleared him for a hospital visit. Early that morning, they strapped him into a restraint chair and left him in his cell for several hours. At 12:50 he was found unresponsive and later declared dead. (Lancaster’s family is suing MDOC staff for wrongful death; Gautz declined to comment on the ongoing litigation.)

“My brother was severely tortured,” Dunn says, tearing up. “They beat him. There were bruises all over him. Pepper sprayed, beat, when he was unresponsive. They sat there and they literally watched him suffer and die.” Her mother was put in a mental health hospital. “It’s all but killed my mother. She’s suffering terribly.”

“The cruelty, leaving him to die in his own waste, suffering,” Dunn says, of her brother.

Surviving in solitary can be its own cruelty. Daniel Henry has spent more than a decade in segregation and, he says, he’s been told he’s never getting out. “It’s been a long 12 years in solitary at ICF and I have learned so much about the darker side of human nature and how cruel people can become when there is no real accountability or oversight,” Henry wrote to Willams. “I have also learned a lot about myself. And I’ve met many people in here and out there who have taught me how to sympathize with the next man’s pain and suffering.”

“Other countries do not utilize solitary confinement like we do let alone incarcerate their citizens for such lengthy sentences that virtually remove any hope for a future life outside of the criminal justice system,” Henry added.

He, and others, worry about Richard Goddard, who’s spent almost 50 years in isolation. “The man is the most kind, caring and humble human being I’ve ever met and he clearly presents no threat to either himself or the MDOC any longer,” says Henry. “The appearance is that they want us to suffer as much as possible on top of being confined to a small space for years.”

Williams hopes to turn outrage over conditions into action; the website has a “Take Action” page that lets people share their stories and lobby political leaders, like Michigan’s Democratic Governor Gretchen Whitmer.

“I am hoping that public pressure makes the MDOC admit that there’s a huge problem, and actually work toward fixing it,” she tells Rolling Stone.

She wishes elected officials could really see the conditions they perpetuate with their inaction. “I want legislators to visit these prisons in July or August, to step inside of a segregation cell and close the door when it’s over 100 degrees and see how long they last.”

[thewreckkelly]

ESL: Don’t Just Blame the Owners

Despite being Irish I can still name every player and their position from that game at Wembley on July thirtieth. I was six when it was played.

For nearly six months the Saturday matinees at my local cinema in Dublin included newsreel footage of the Lisbon Lions. I was seven and a fan of the Cisco Kid.

You couldn’t move in the good room of my Uncle’s house the night the Belfast boy destroyed Benfica. I was eight and not that familiar with watching football on TV.

I collected souvenir coins from petrol stations leading up to, throughout and after the World Cup finals in Mexico. I was ten and an outraged defender of the English captain.

‘Revie’s Animals’ found my undying loyalty throughout the seventies with my first live game being at Anfield in 1971. I was eleven and thought Liverpool was an incredible city and Johnny Giles the best player ever.

World performers like Cruyff, Ardiles and Muller intruded into my fandom and opened up a bigger world picture as they performed in the German and Argentinean World Cups.

Spain 1982 provided my first experience of a live stage for world football where Northern Ireland shocked the hosts and Scottish fans became my friends in Malaga.

London 1983 saw my first visit to Highbury and resulted in me becoming a proud season ticket holder.

For the best part of fourteen years I didn’t miss an Arsenal game, (including every final up to and including the 2005 FA Cup), as well as being privileged enough to attend many internationals, World Cups and European Championships.

The 1992 Barcelona, Sampdoria final at Wembley saw me experience in person a sidelined Cruyff steer his total football to the ultimate success, (not that it was that obvious in that particular game).

Euro 96 allowed me to indulge in ten memorable live matches.

There is little doubt that watching Maradona do his thing in Italy and Internationally, rates among the very special experiences of my football love affair.

Sky Sports proved a Godsend when I moved back to Ireland in 1997 and delivered me not just the Gunners experience but also allowed the wannabe coach in me to watch the technical side of the game develop and grow beyond recognition.

Then came Spain and Messi – enough said .....

All of which is a preface to my provenance and how I feel about the current state of football along with the recently abortive attempt by the big clubs of Europe to go their own way in a thing they chose to call; ‘The European Super League’.

First of all, Football doesn’t belong to anyone. Two sweaters and a ball will allow those, who want to, to live the dream for as long and as often as they want. Commercial Professional football is a whole different animal altogether.

I was born a year before Jimmy Hill changed the financial landscape of the sport and grew into the game with enough of a curiosity - from watching him as a staple pundit on TV throughout the seventies - to research and try to understand the significance of his success and how it had affected the game.

When Jean-Marc Bosman went to court and won, it caused me to again reflect long and hard as to what the knock on effect would be.

While I was a subscriber to Sky Sports for many years and tipped my cap to the way they presented the game I was forever aware Rupert Murdoch was not likely to be a fan of football and yet again wondered at where this pursuit of satellite domination would take the sport.

The USA has a had a chequered history with football, where on several occasions the Napoleon's of money tried to buy what they considered a product so it could be customised to suit the taste of viewers and advertisers with an entirely different understanding and approach to televised sport.

These businessmen had developed a successful TV sports model with their own home grown games that was based upon exploiting a herd mentality with inconceivable numbers, promoted ‘innocent’ escapism, nativism and an highly unlikely avenue for anyone to succeed in an American dream.

I remember being somewhat uncomfortable that day in 2015 when it was announced on the news the FBI had arrested several high profile FIFA officials – my discombobulation was not with regard to the corruption charges but rather the sole involvement of an internal American law agency in what was essentially a non-American criminal enterprise – where were Interpol?

Three of the biggest clubs in England are owned by Americans and the ‘Golden Boy’ of a ‘Golden’ generation of English footballers has set his tent up in Florida as the new face of the game stateside.

The financial exploitation of the game is in full swing and being led by US corporate vultures and bankers.

And therein lies the problem.

I believe European football changed when mostly egotistical owners believed it was necessary to adopt a profit and loss ethos over and above the reasonable – as set out by the management of professional sport in the US.

It could be said that this became most visible when merchandising was designed to marry itself to personal identity - a cornucopia of uniforms for the masses to openly display a sense of belonging. And all of a sudden ‘Official’ kits costing a pittance to produce in South East Asia were being hawked to fans at a mark up of ten thousand percent or so.

And the fans bought it.

Ticket prices galloped ahead of inflation by ridiculous percentages. Player wages went through the roof and transfer fees – coupled with agents’ commissions – found, to their collective delight, there was no ceiling.

Satellite companies shut out traditional terrestrial 'free to air' national broadcasters with unacccountable fees for exclusive rights.

Catering prices at stadiums became the stuff of usury practice with cognac shrimp con beurre blanc finding its way on to menus for non- football loving patrons of newly constructed corporate boxes.

Meanwhile the next World Cup is to be hosted in one of the richest non-football playing dictatorships in the world.

And the fans bought it.

Then an announcement out of the blue that the ESL was real!

And the fans didn’t buy it, (for the moment)

However it would appear fans are of a mistaken assumption they get anything in return for the excessive amount of money they pay into professional football - other than the ninety minutes promised, overpriced propaganda ridden tat, satellite service and being told little or nothing constructive by so called experts.

The brief history outlined above would, instead, indicate supporters unwavering attendance and acceptance of financial and other abuses will continue as long as fans demand a fix.

It’s an awful comparison but reality tells me street dealers don’t lower the price of heroin for the good of the addict.

So should we really blame the twelve clubs and their owners for the ESL debacle?

The number of highly paid pundits, managers, players, agents and broadcasters who have stood on a recent soapbox of straw to exclaim their abhorrence of the ESL make me laugh and cry in equal measure.

These are the same people who continue to personally milk the game with their outrageous salaries and fees – in most cases for being very average at what they do and in all cases way beyond anything approaching honest. They are not just hypocritical they are a curse on the game and absolutely guilty of legal daylight robbery.

Yet all the people of ‘standing’ in football have targeted a convenient scapegoat in owners and board members whom they believe are somehow more insidious than they are themselves. All of these horrors are most defiantly not the gatekeepers of football but they do uncaringly exploit the professional game for their own personal benefit – given the actual mediocrity of the majority of these parasites they are not just robbing the fans they’re actually robbing the owners as well.

The sport has reached a point where there are few, if any, innocents involved who are not, at least, partly responsible in the creation of the ESL and no amount of sanctimonious slobbering will convince me otherwise.

And the fans should know that by now.

Maybe not!

So, is there a solution to this problem?

No!

[frontproofmedia]

Press Conference Notes: Janibek & Seniesa Highlight Las Vegas World Title Doubleheader

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Published: November 11, 2022

LAS VEGAS — Two world champions and the son of a modern boxing legend hit Las Vegas for a press conference two days away from a world title doubleheader at Pearl Concert Theater at Palms Casino Resort.

In the main event, middleweight boogeyman Janibek "Qazaq Style" Alimkhanuly (12-0, 8 KOs) will defend his WBO world title against British champion Denzel Bentley (17-1-1, 14 KOs). This is the first title defense for Janibek, who was elevated from interim champion after Demetrius Andrade elected to move up in weight.

The co-feature sees one of women's boxing's biggest stars, Seniesa "Super Bad" Estrada (22-0, 9 KOs), defend her WBA minimumweight world title against Argentina's Jazmin Gala Villarino (6-1-2, 1 KO). Estrada, who formerly held the WBO light flyweight crown, will make her Top Rank debut after signing a long-term pact with the promotional company earlier this year.

In a four-rounder, lightweight sensation Emiliano Vargas (1-0, 1 KO), the youngest fighting son of Fernando Vargas, will make his Top Rank debut. His father also serves as his head trainer.

At Thursday's press conference, this is what the fighters had to say.

Janibek Alimkhanuly "Last time {I fought}, it was just the beginning of my knockout career. I hope God will {give me the strength} to do much better, and you can see all of my good punches." "When I came to America, it was already in our plans to bring a good team around us. Because of this team, I am a champion now." "I don't know why nowadays champions don't want to fight with the other champions. I don't think they should be afraid. I am here. I am a champion now. I am here to fight the champions. Hopefully, Top Rank can organize a fight with another world champion next." Denzel Bentley "This means a lot. We're at the top of the sport now. This is what I've dreamed of as a fighter. This is what every fighter dreams of. It's the opportunity of a lifetime to be here in Vegas and fight for the WBO world championship against the champion himself." "You're going to see something special." On Janibek saying he will knock him out "He's meant to say that. He wants to keep his KO streak and so do I. We're in for a good fight Saturday." Seniesa Estrada "I'll be back in the ring after over 300 days. I'm so blessed to continue, and end, my career with Top Rank. I thank God, and I thank Bob Arum and Top Rank for giving me the opportunity to represent women's boxing. They've done such a great job with Mikaela Mayer, and I've always noticed that and recognized that. I'm happy that now I can be back in the ring and show everybody what I'm about and continue to rack up world titles." "I don't underestimate anybody that I step in the ring with. I know that this is her time to shine. I know she's coming in to defeat me, and she's coming in as the underdog. I know she's training harder than she's ever trained before, and I'm training harder than I've ever trained before because, now, I have a bigger and better platform. I know I still have a lot to prove. I know Argentineans are tough, but I have that Mexican blood and Mexican heart. I come from where fighter like Fernando Vargas came from and other great Mexicans. I'm going to show that Saturday night." "It's very special because these last 11 months have been difficult for me staying out of the ring and not fighting. So, I felt like I was missing out on so much because I'm so competitive, and I want to show that I'm great. I know it means so much to my father and {head trainer} Dean {Campos}, who put so much time into me when women's boxing was nowhere. Women's boxing has had the most amazing year this year. Fast forward to now, I feel like I didn't miss out on anything these past 11 months because I'm back at a better time in women's boxing than ever. I'm just going to elevate women's boxing so much more." Jazmin Gala Villarino "It's a happiness I cannot hide. I'm happy, and I'm ready for this moment." "This is a big opportunity. I'm going to take full advantage of it. I feel like they are underestimating me a little bit, but I come from the land of 'Chino' Maidana and all these great Argentinean fighters. We are going to put on a great show Saturday." "I prepared to get the title away from the champion. She's like the fifth-ranked women's fighter in the world, and I'm going to take full advantage of this opportunity. That's how I prepared." Emiliano Vargas "God is the greatest. I want to thank Bob Arum personally for the taking the time and even considering signing me. It's a blessing. Top Rank has had all the stars of boxing in history. You look back, it's had Floyd Mayweather, it's had Oscar {De La Hoya}. it's had countless, countless world champions {and fighters} I look up to. It's a blessing. I want to thank my management as well for looking over everything and making sure everything is right. We're ready to put on a show November 12." "{My father} is everything I need him to be. A great father, especially with him not having a father... we have a beautiful dynamic. He's everything I need him to be. He doesn't really need to get on me. I know exactly what I need to do, and this camp has been phenomenal. I've had the opportunity to spar with Jorge Linares this entire camp. I'm ready to go. I'm ready to show the world that these Vargas' can fight. We're not just a last name. You'll be surprised. Believe me, you'll be surprised."

Saturday, November 12

ESPN+ (11 p.m. ET/8 p.m. PT)

Janibek Alimkhanuly vs. Denzel Bentley, 12 rounds, Janibek's WBO Middleweight World Title Seniesa Estrada vs. Jazmin Gala Villarino, 10 rounds, Estrada's WBA Minimumweight World Title

ESPN+ (7:15 p.m. ET/4:15 p.m. PT)

Raymond Muratalla vs. Miguel Contreras, 8 rounds, lightweight Emiliano Vargas vs. Julio Martinez, 4 rounds, lightweight Javier Martinez vs. Marco Delgado, 6 rounds, super middleweight Floyd Diaz vs. Edgar Joe Cortes, 6 rounds, junior featherweight Charlie Sheehy vs. Markus Bowes, 4 rounds, lightweight Karlos Balderas vs. Esteban Sanchez, 8 rounds, lightweight Antonio Mireles vs. Eric Perry, 6 rounds, heavyweight

(Featured Photo: Mikey Williams/Top Rank via Getty Images)

[justonesongmore]

XXIII: 1923

On Irreducibile Particles, Rapid Assimilations, and Molasses Funks

1. Billy Jones: “Yes! We Have No Bananas”

One of the four or five irreducible particles of the silliness of the Roaring Twenties, the folly of the années folles, the glitter of the Goldene Zwanziger, the keynote and image of all that was evanescent and soon to vanish, like champagne bubbles, in the era to come. A vaudeville routine sold as a Tin Pan Alley ditty, with a stop-start melody and nonsense refrain that captured a bluff, jaunty mood and lent itself to repetition, sawing relentlessly away with or without the lyrics kidding the incomplete Americanisms of the Lower East Side. But that kidding remains, a none too subtle reminder that the white majority would never consent to seeing immigrants as fully human. Nonsense in the United States is always political; perhaps that too is not unique to us.

2. Clay Custer: “The Rocks”

The consensus among jazz scholars is that Clay Custer is most likely a pseudonym for the tune’s composer, but there are a few other Chicago-area pianists it could be, including his brother Hersal. Regardless, it’s the first disc on record to feature a walking bassline (so early in its development that it’s almost a stumbling one); this, combined with the previous year’s publication of “The Fives” from the same pen, is the birth of boogie-woogie piano. By decade’s end, the genre will have been fully formalized by pianists who all point to the work of Arkansas-born, New Orleans-trained, Chicago-adopted “Gut Bucket” George Washington Thomas as fundamental. Even apart from the all-important bassline, the chromatic opening trills and development of its themes—the rocks could be wave-dashed, or more euphemistic—give delight.

3. King Oliver’s Creole Jazz Band: “Dipper Mouth Blues”

Seven years is a long time in pop, which hot jazz still is. The gap between the Original Dixieland Jass Band’s first recordings and the first sides made by Joe “King” Oliver’s band—who would undoubtedly have been one of the ODJB’s primary inspirations back when New Orleans was the quarantined heart of jazz, before it spread like a virus to infect the entire nation—would have been noticeable in any era, but a comparison between the two reveals that while the white boys got the energy and the raucousness right, they missed the funk and the communal interplay. Oliver’s muted trumpet solo isn’t just virtuosity: it responds to and is responded to by the rest of the band, including the young second cornettist, recently arrived to Chicago from New Orleans.

4. Bennie Moten’s Kansas City Orchestra: “Elephant’s Wobble”

And just as the first true New Orleans jazz is waxed, so too is the first true Kansas City jazz: less molasses funky, more brightly riffed, with a hard-stomping rhythm that presages much industrialized pop to come, from Motown to techno. Bennie Moten, a nearly thirty year old pianist, composer and now bandleader who had knocked about the Missouri ragtime scene since his youth, scored his first recording date in St. Louis, with a band of Kansas City luminaries who individually hearken back to older forms, from Sousa’s drilled marches to Joplin’s ragtime of theme and recapitulation to Ossman’s savagely strummed minstrel banjo: but together, powered by the newly hot-running engine of jazz, they produce a gleeful, entirely modern sound that piledrives, lean and hungry for rhythm, into the future.

5. Sylvester Weaver: “Guitar Blues”

Most discographies will note this as the first country blues record; but Sylvester Weaver was born and reared in Louisville, Kentucky, which if it wasn’t a New York-scale metropolis was still no dirt-road waystation; nor is it the Deep South. Like most of his Black peers making their way before recording horns in the years before the electric-recording boom, Weaver was an urban entertainer—his first recordings were as an accompanist to blues singer Sara Martin. His instrument was called a “guitjo,” a banjo body strung like a guitar, and his slide technique sounds particularly otherworldly on its resonant body. The technique has appeared before, as played by Hawaiʻian musicians and white southerners; but here the sound connects (on record) to the blues, and the echoes from it will be lasting.

6. Os Oito Batutas: “Urubu”

We have heard the most prominent soloist in this supergroup before: choro composer and flautist Pixinguinha had already left his mark on Brazilian popular music in the 1910s. But when he joined seven other Black and mulatto choristas to form an eight-man group in 1919 so that a theater empresario would have an attraction in between showings of silent films, the result was a music that swung harder than traditional choro and even outpaced early samba: “Urubu” (the Guaraní word for vulture, and you can hear a wheeling, wing-fluttering flight in Pixinguinha’s flute) is just as modern, as dynamic, and as future-facing as any New Orleans jazz. In fact, musicians like Os Oito Batutas (the eight legends), demonstrate that the spirit of jazz was never exclusively a North American phenomenon.

7. Rosita Quiroga: “Sollozos”

Two legends in the field of Argentinean tango make their debut with this recording: Rosita Quiroga, the music’s first great woman singer, born in the lower-class milieu to which a cosmopolitan like Gardel only pretended; and Osvaldo Fresedo, the song’s composer, who when he begins to record in his own right will become perhaps the most emblematic tango bandleader of the decade, with a long career to follow. “Sollozos” (Sobs), with a lyric by the composer’s brother Emilio, is one of the great tango songs, uncovering the everyday pathos within the music’s slinky passion. Quiroga’s direct, unadorned vocal style refuses self-pity even as her words ask us to pity her, and the harmonium which opens the recording casts the plucked guitars which accompany her throughout in the light of eternity.

8. Carlos Gardel: “Alma porteña”

But as tango branched out into newly classed and gendered forms, Gardel the eternal cosmopolite continued to go from strength to strength. “Alma porteña” (Soul of Buenos Aires) is another of the deathless tango songs, in which the music itself is apostrophized as the cause, and cure, of all man’s ills. The mellifluous self-assurance in his baritone voice, the intricate backing of his accompanists Barbieri and Ricardo, and the swooping, tantalizing melody from Vicente Greco, who had been writing and performing tangos since the early 1910s, make a dazzling, almost overwhelming display of what I think of as Baroque tango, tango at its most self-important, self-mythologizing, and capital-r Romantic. If tango is une force qui va and Gardel is its prophet, why should we ever ask for anything more quotidian?

9. Bessie Smith: “Baby Won’t You Please Come Home Blues”

Three long years after the record companies learned that there was a market for “race” (for which see blues) records, the most famous and well compensated blues singer on the Black vaudeville circuit finally signed a contract with Columbia to cut her first records, accompanied on piano by early jazz pianist and empresario Clarence Williams, who had published (and supposedly co-wrote) this song. Its co-composer, Charles Warfield, later complained that he was cheated, which was probably true enough: music labels had much to learn from sheet-music publishers on how to screw over their talent. But the song itself is just a trifle: what makes it stick is Bessie Smith’s full-lunged performance, too self-possessed to be melodramatic about missing her lover, but too serious about her heartbreak to treat it flippantly either.

10. Ma Rainey with Lovie Austin and Her Blues Serenaders: “Barrel House Blues”

The blues singer who taught Bessie Smith to perform in public, and whose popular performances since the early 1900s in medicine shows, minstrel shows, and vaudeville had no doubt influenced white singers from Sophie Tucker to Marion Harris, also cut her first records for Paramount in 1923, at the age of forty-one. Accompanied by Chicago-based pianist and composer Lovie Austin and her hot jazz band, Rainey sings three verses that mock at Prohibition while reinforcing her own status as the elder stateswoman of the blues: the “Papa” of the song is presumably is Will Rainey, her husband, manager, and one-time partner, while “Mama” is herself, a creature of voracious appetite whose addiction to port, sport, gin, and “outside men” is a thorough rejection of a respectability that couldn’t touch her.

11. Esther Bigeou with Piron’s New Orleans Orchestra: “West Indies Blues”

Anglo-Caribbean music has not appeared in these pages since 1915, but it didn’t go unheard, nor was its influence insignificant. “West Indies Blues” was written by the great Black jazz songwriter Spencer Williams, with funning lyrics by Edgar Dowell, in the wake of Jamaican-born Pan-African Black separatist Marcus Garvey’s conviction on trumped-up charges of mail fraud: the broad dialect Esther Bigeou, a New Orleans native, uses to caricature West Indian speech is, at this remove, indistinguishable from the Coon dialects white songwriters had been putting in the mouths of US-born Blacks for generations. Even so, the sheet music was subtitled “a calipso,” and though it’s not proper Trinidadian calypso, it’s played by people who have heard it: Armand Piron’s orchestra was one of the foremost Creole bands of New Orleans.

12. Marion Harris: “Who’s Sorry Now?”

As the genuine articles began to take their rightful place before the recording horn, the white women whose imitations of blues shouters had made the racist recording market safe for the blues began to move into more genteel forms of music-making, where Black women presumably couldn’t follow. (We’ll see about that.) Marion Harris, a constant presence here since 1916, has never sounded more polished and inexpressive—which is to say, whiter—than when warbling this ditty by dilettante composer Ted Snyder (who we won’t see again) and Tin Pan Alley lifers, lyricists Bert Kalmar and Harry Ruby (who we will). A song of vindictive triumph paced like a parlor ballad, it retained enough kick thirty-five years later to jumpstart the career of a teenager who sang like a grown woman.

13. Sophie Tucker: “You’ve Gotta See Mamma Ev’ry Night (Or You Can’t See Mamma At All)”

Of course, La Tucker never followed the trends for white women singers. Now in her mid-thirties, she had built too firmly on a foundation of Coon shouting to move blithely into sweet girlish Tin Pan Alley fluff: but raucous faux-blues Tin Pan Alley fluff would do just as well. “You’ve Got to see Mamma” was written by popular hack Con Conrad (empresario Billy Rose is credited on lyrics), and in general outline it’s a good imitation of contemporary Black women’s songs, slightly saucy, humorously aggressive towards a wayward lover, and firmly self-respecting. But there’s no actual blues structure or emotion to it, which makes it all the better as a cloak for the indeterminately-raced Tucker to wrap herself in: big and brassy, but ultimately respectful of show-biz and social convention.

14. Wendell Hall: “It Ain’t Gonna Rain No Mo’”

The ways in which the desiccated remains of minstrelsy were shaped and pounded into country music are a major part of the recording history of the 1920s. “Ain’t Gonna Rain” is considered a folk song (four years later, Carl Sandburg would suggest that it dates to the 1870s), but Hall, a Midwestern vaudevillian who performed under the legend “The Red-Headed Music Maker,” punches out the verses, with nonstandard vocabulary and Southern rural hokum straight out of Uncle Remus, in a minstrel-inflected screech and yowl, a sound which would migrate into the “high lonesome” style which will characterize honky-tonk. But he’s also very much of his time: his instrument was not the banjo but the ukulele, the portable if not particularly versatile instrument which gave a fizzy, irrepressible soundtrack to the 1920s.

15. Fiddlin’ John Carson: “The Old Hen Cackled and the Rooster’s Gonna Crow”

Après Eck, le deluge: country fiddlers were still major entertainers in the rural communities where they set and called the dances, and as the South urbanized, they grew into bigger stars thanks to old-time fiddling conventions. The fifty-something Carson, of Atlanta, was hot enough stuff that he was a local fixture on the new medium of radio and appeared in newsreels. A sharp-eyed Atlanta distributor cajoled Okeh’s talent scout Ralph Peer into recording him in a rare acoustic-era location recording, a makeshift studio set up in an empty Atlanta storefront. Peer wasn’t happy with the results (he’d do better later), but the record, “Old Hen” b/w “Little Old Log Cabin in the Lane” (see 1907), sold out at the next convention. No hero, as we’ll see, Carson nevertheless lasted.

16. Asako Tanabe: “Sendo kouta”

As country music slowly pushes its way onto record, so too does the music frequently compared to it: Japanese enka, which (like country) originated in a specific milieu but has since broadened to mean any vaguely folkloric or traditional popular music. I’ve been unable to learn anything about the singer attributed here: 田辺朝子 is a common enough name that basic online searches are useless. But 船頭小唄 (often translated as “Ferryman’s Song”) was a major musical touchstone of the era, a street song which borrowed the melody of a Shinpei Nakayama composition. It became infamous in the wake of the Great Kanto Earthquake, said to have been predicted in the haunting, death-obsessed lyrics. A sentimental 1923 film of the same title inspired multiple recordings; this is the one posted to YouTube.

17. Mounira al-Madiyyah: “Asmar malak ruhi”

1923 was the first full year of nominal Egyptian independence from the British “protectorate” which had begun in 1882 and was formalized during the War to break Ottoman power. Although the British occupation would not be entirely ended until 1953, the promulgation of the first constitution and the convention of the first parliament in Cairo is worth commemorating here, with the voice of the first Muslim woman in the modern era to come to prominence as an entertainer in Egypt: before her (as throughout North Africa and the Middle East), the profession was limited to Jewish and Christian women. أسمر ملك روحي was one of her signature songs, one that has had long echoes in Egyptian light-entertainment history: “Dark King of My Soul” is one way to translate the title.

18. Mohammad el-Wahab: “Ma niish bahebbek”

Egyptian popular music was still only just being born: the September 1923 death at the age of 31 of café singer and musical-theater composer Sayed Darwish, whose melodies (some of which we will hear in future) borrowed Western structures and sometimes instrumentation in a break with classical Arabic formulas, is a useful demarcation point. Mohammad el-Wahab was a friend and close collaborator with Darwish in his last years, and would become perhaps the most important Egyptian popular musician of the twentieth century, but one. This early song, a light taqtuqa from the kind of genial musical romantic comedy which would come to form the backbone of the West and South Asian film industry, is an anti-love song performed in character as a rascal protesting (too much) that he only loves himself.

19. Marika Papagika: “Opou dis dio kyparissia”

The Anatolian Greek singer Marika Papagika was by now more or less the undisputed queen of the ex-Ottoman diaspora in New York City, despite continued challenges from Kiria Koula. Within the next year or so she would even open the first café-aman (and behind authority’s back, a speakeasy) in the Western hemisphere; but here, with her husband on cimbalom and other immigrant musicians on violin, cello, and percussion, she sings a song which takes its title from the Greek folk air “When You See Two Cypresses,” but hares off in other directions in the singing. It’s called a Zeïmpekiko (Anatolian Greek folk dance) on the label, but scholars, noting the modern fusions which New World residence has imparted to Papagika’s musical ecosystem, have called it an early example of rebetiko.

20. Naftule Brandwein’s Orchestra: “Doina and Nachspiel”

As we move further into the 1920s, the number of great recordings by the Eastern European Jewish artists who brought what we now call klezmer to the tenements of New York City will slowly decrease. Partly this is because of rapid assimilation and the inroads made by Jewish artists into mainstream US culture: the next generation of talented Jewish musicians were more likely to aspire to be Gershwin or Brice than Brandwein or Picon. But also, beginning in 1924, the country’s open (to Europeans) immigration policy was for the first time given a permanent numerical limit, heavily restricting (as it meant to) the number of new Jewish immigrants to the United States. There will be more klezmer records in future, but let this be a valediction for the first generation.

21. Isa Kremer: “Dwie Guitarre”

But there was a whole constellation of global Jewish culture which the policies set by a know-nothing Congress could not touch. Isa Kremer, the great Russian Jewish soprano, was born to bourgeois parents in what is now Moldova, but was publishing revolutionary poetry in Odessa as a teenager. She debuted as an opera singer in Italy; within a few years, she included Yiddish folk songs in her concert repertoire, supposedly the first woman to do so. The Russian Revolution left her without a home (her family had backed the moderates), and her peripatetic concert schedule brought her to the United States in 1922, where she was acclaimed by Jewish and non-Jewish audiences alike. This selection of Russian romans or “gypsy” music is illustrative of her clear voice and lively style.

22. Pau Casals: “Kol Nidrei”

Another example of Jewish music having entered the concert canon: the German (Protestant) composer Max Bruch had composed this piece for cello and orchestra in 1880, the melody of the first section based on the Hebrew prayer recited during the evening service on Yom Kippur and that of the second on one of Isaac Nathan’s 1815 settings for Byron’s Hebrew Melodies. (Gentiles appropriating Jewish art and being reappropriated by Jews in turn has a long history.) The great Catalan cellist Pau Casals rendered it sensitively, accompanied only by Edouard Gendron on piano, for Columbia in 1923. In those years Casals was the preeminent cellist in Europe, recording in France and conducting an orchestra in Barcelona. An ardent Republican, he went into self-imposed exile when Franco came to power, and never returned.

23. Marian Anderson: “Deep River”

Only two years out of high school, and still a decade out from becoming world-famous as the greatest African-American contralto of the twentieth century, Marian Anderson recorded her first sides in December of 1923. Her repertoire even then included this Harry T. Burleigh arrangement of a classic spiritual, which would become one of her signature songs. “Deep River,” with a stark simplicity of melody and lyric which contain entire implied universes of emotion and history, is one of the essential, irreducible elements of Black American art. Anderson’s early low, throbbing performance, recorded the same year that hot jazz and the blues fully came into their own on record, after some fifty years of what historians call the Nadir, an era of horrific violence and terrorism toward Black citizens, still resounds today.

[bunvoyagesarah]

Bosnia & Herzegovina

(Herz-ee-go-vina because I have trouble saying it everytime.)

Mostar, then Sarajevo

Wednesday

I arrive after a very long nine hour bus drive from Kotor to Mostar. I had researched some hostels and had some recommendations but hadn't reserved anything, thinking it would not be a problem. So I get off the bus and go to the hostel I had in my mind only to find they didn't have any beds. I asked if I could use their wifi or if they had a recommendation and she suggested two around the corner. I leave. This old man on a stoop who had seen me go in the hostel, tells me to come to this other hostel. He rings the doorbell chats with the owner for ten seconds and leaves me there to check in the last bed of the night. The owner was very friendly, offering me juice and giving me a very long rundown of the town. Thirty minutes later, a girl comes into the room and says, "We're all going to dinner, wanna come?" Five minutes later, I have some untied sneakers on my feet and I'm standing outside the hostel with six strangers saying thank you for saving me from who knows how much more explanation of the the tiny town of Mostar. We went to this restaurant for dinner, walking through the town on the way. Thais, the girl that invited me to dinner, was informed they no longer had veggie burgers after we all received our food, so we wait and wait for her new dish to come out. After asking a couple more times for her food, it finally comes. Then we ask a few times for the bill, when that finally comes we ask for a discount or shots of rackija, the local drink. The waiter quickly brought over shots for the whole table and we all left happily for some ice cream before walking back to the hostel.

Thursday

The hostel, Mirror Hostel, has many rules which I had learned over dinner the night before from my friends.

1. No shoes inside

2. Don't open the door when people ring the bell

3. No hitchhiking

4. Don't be late for the free breakfast

5. If you sleep upstairs, you eat upstairs, away from everyone else in the group

All the "rules" were found out by trial-and-error and left everyone getting yelled at by the owner at some point. Breakfast in the morning was dramatic as a guest upstairs tried to eat with everyone at the communal table. After breakfast, a girl and I made plans to walk around the town and then go to the pool. As I was giving my laundry to the hostel worker, we gained a French girl who spoke about ten words of English. We set out for the town, stopping by stalls to shop and hoping to catch someone jumping off the famous Stari Nav bridge. Frenchie kept disappearing and then finally told us she was going to go eat, despite her turning down the free breakfast thirty minutes prior for unknown reasons. After walking all through the town, Marleen and I left for the pool where we hung out for most of the 100 degree day. We returned to the hostel, hanging out with other guests and slowly adding to our group before all going to dinner at the same restaurant, this time having a coupon for free shots and dessert! We return to the hostel to find Frenchie very drunk. Although she was in a different room, she wanted her own air conditioning unit off, even though it was still quite hot out. She came into our room three or four times to steal our remote and try and turn off her air conditioning unit. After an hour or so, the owner was yelling at her to go to bed or she would call the police. Eventually she must of gone to bed. But she was very dramatic.

Friday

I woke up at 6am to catch a train to Sarajevo. As I'm getting ready, Frenchie knocks on the bathroom door, then as she leaves asks if I'm cooking in the kitchen right there. She was an odd one. The train to Sarajevo was beautiful, just as everyone had said. I arrive very early and am able to get into my hostel, which has a giant, friendly yellow lab that greets you everytime you come in. I drop my things and go on the free walking tour learning all about the Serbian siege of Sarajevo from 1992-1995, the ruling by the Ottoman and Austro-Hungarian empires, and the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife. I met some nice Brits on the tour and an Argentinean guy and we all got lunch together. The guy and I went to the Genocide Museum and then split up. I met up with the Brits in the evening for a couple drinks, but then threw up in a bathroom before enjoying one drink. I think the lunch did not agree with my stomach. I went home and ended up throwing up three times in a couple hours. My hostel mate from Kyrgyzstan tried to give me a hot dog. I refused.

Saturday

I woke up in the morning not feeling great but determined to make it to the abandoned bobsled track from the 1984 Olympic Games, even if it meant taking all day to get there. I made it up the gondola with two guys who happened to have just graduated from University of Chicago. We explored the bobsled track and ran into the British girls I knew. We walked all the way down and spent a couple hours exploring the town. The guys went to another museum and I went back to rest, still not feeling great. By evening, I went out to find a print store to print my bus ticket for the morning and spend the rest of my Bosnian Marks. I had two marks left, and with a little bit of an appetite left bought some corn on the cob from a street vendor for exactly two marks. It was delicious. In the morning, I got on a 6am bus to Belgrade.

[wineanddinosaur]

What Do the Country’s Top Sommeliers Bring to a BYOB Dinner?

“I’ve loved these wines for a long time, and this vineyard is special, and the 2014 magnum is rare!” Patrick Cappiello said excitedly. He grabbed the Dard et Ribo Crozes-Hermitages “Les Rouges des Baties” off a table in the basement of NYC’s Peking Duck House, a favorite BYOB party room of area sommeliers. “I’ll pour you a giant glass.”

That Northern Rhône wine made sense. The occasion was a dinner for producers visiting for a Rhône wine festival. It wasn’t the only thing that the wine director of Philadelphia’s Walnut Street Café was sharing that night. Jolie Laide Trousseau Gris Rosé, PAX Gamay Noir, PAX Sonoma-Hillsides Syrah — Cappiello had also brought a trio of California esoterica to share with the vignerons in attendance. It was an opportunity to show off the homegrown talent he distributes through his company, Renégat Wines. “We’ve been drinking French wines for a long time, so it’s about f*cking time, right?”

Sharing for pure pleasure, or sharing with an agenda? Pouring the tried and true, or busting out a maverick? As we tasted through the wines that Cappiello and other sommeliers had pulled from their personal stashes to share that night, I wondered what pros who weren’t there would have brought.

On the restaurant floor, sommeliers have other masters than themselves: the food, the diner, the bottom line. When off the clock, what bottles do they open to impress, and why? I asked the question of sommeliers all over the country. It turns out that the pros have some principles in common for the wines they use to wow pals.

Go Big or Go Home

You’d think that when sommeliers want to make a splash, they’d just pour big-name trophies. Sometimes they do: the Francois Raveneau Chablis that Evan Zimmerman, of D.C.’s Reverie, cracks open; the 2007 magnum of Carlisle Winery James Berry Vineyard Syrah that Leonora Varvoutis of Houston’s Coltivare “drools over.”

“But you don’t want to push too hard in that direction, or the bottle comes off as pure braggadocio,” says Steven Grubbs, wine director at Atlanta’s Empire State South. Rather, pros try to offer something unique.

“It’s nice to check in on the icons,” Caleb Ganzer of Manhattan’s Compagnie des Vins Surnaturels says, “but extra points if it’s a rarer bottling.” His go-to? Cedric Bouchard La Bolorée 2009, made from a tiny parcel of Pinot Blanc. With a golden apple core and a texture like compressed croissant flakes, it’s all the more impressive because it’s surprising. “People don’t realize you can make Champagne with Pinot Blanc,” he says.

That wine goes for about $600 on lists, but bigness isn’t just in a name or price tag. Michael Corcoran, of Peppervine in Charlotte, N.C., likes something brawny, “a wine that will unfurl in a decanter a few hours while more timid bottles are consumed and forgotten.” Dal Forno Romano’s Valpolicella Superiore, for instance, is a third the price of Amarones because its grapes have been air-dried half as long. But it’s “redolent of sugar plums, kirsch, baked black cherries, cedar, balsam, spice, and smoked meat,” he says, a bruiser that brings “lasting memories.”

Speaking of big, pros insist that size does matter. Patrick Laman of Chicago’s Maple & Ash found his wow factor in a 1985 Diamond Creek “Gravelly Meadow” Cabernet not only because of its Californian staying power — “My friends were laughing at how primary it still was after 30-some years” — but because it was a 6-liter bottle. “Everybody had more than their fair share.”

Element of Surprise

Somms take many routes to get their drinking buddies to that a-ha moment. Alexandra Rovati, head sommelier at Manhattan’s DaDong pours a familiar varietal from an unexpected locale. “Barely anyone has heard of Argentinean Pinot Noir,” she says. Particularly in its 2011 vintage, Bodega Chacra “Cincuenta y Cinco,” a biodynamic, old-vine Pinot, is the velvety knockout she brings to dinner parties.

Commanders Palace sommelier Dan Davis flipped that equation recently with an unexpected varietal from a classic region. He was pouring for a Burgundy blind tasting group. “The first thing that struck everyone was the color — almost golden, with flashy highlights,” he recounts. “It looked at once young and old. The nose was lemon curd and almond.” The group was stumped. “Remember,” he told them, “there is more than one white grape in Burgundy.” The wine was a 2007 Domaine Ponsot Clos des Monts-Luisants Premier Cru Morey-St.-Denis, Burgundy’s only premier cru Aligoté. “Everyone was excited to taste a special bottle and learn something in the process.”

For others, the surprise is in the sticker shock — in reverse. A wine that’s a steal can really impress. For Ryan Bailey, wine director of the NoMad in Los Angeles, that bottle is low-intervention Lancelot-Royer Champagne. It expresses the minerality of its grand cru vineyards, but with a richness from aging. “I probably shouldn’t be too vocal about it because not a lot is made and it’s still incredibly affordable,” he says. “But tasted side by side with big house and cult grower Champagnes, these wines leave them in the dust.”

Better with Age

Most somms agree with Maple & Ash’s Michael Loveisky: “Drinking a wine that is older than yourself or produced the year you were born forces you to have some perspective.” But an aged wine only works if it’s as ready for drinking as you are. “My non-sommelier friends don’t have the knowledge to select properly aged wines,” he says, ��so this is one of my favorite ways to impress them.”

For a recent get-together, Kevin Bratt, the beverage director of the Joe’s Seafood, Prime Steak & Stone Crab group, uncorked a 1995 magnum of Château La Croix de Gay Pomerol. The wine, he says, “was in a beautiful place and continued to evolve through the night.” What made it a conversation piece was Bratt’s perfect timing.

Of course, some producers do that work for you. Rustic Canyon Family wine director Kathryn Coker trusts in the Domaine de Vieux Château 1er Cru Chablis “Le Lys” 2005 precisely because of it’s aged so long in-house. “The ‘05 is the current release and it was just bottled in 2016!” she says. That time in the barrel leaves the wine textured and complex enough for a special occasion.

Best is an aged wine that subverts expectations. When she wants to impress, master sommelier Pascaline Lepeltier opens wine from her native Loire. Lately, she’s pulling out “a wild card”: aged Muscadet, like the 1989 Luneau-Papin Le L d’Or. “Everybody is surprised,” she says. “It’s incredibly briny and easy to drink but super complex at the same time. You realize it doesn’t need to be full or rich or dense to be good.”

Unsung Heroes

Somms such as Lepeltier like to knock friends’ socks off with underdogs that over-deliver. For Karen Van Guilder-Little, of Nashville’s Josephine, that means Zinfandel. Big, dark, and juicy but not overbearing, the little-known A. Rafanelli from Sonoma’s Dry Creek Valley has an elegance unexpected in a Zinfandel, she says. It’s a vehicle for her rehabilitation of the varietal. “I know it’s not cool to like Zin, but this bottle will convert people,” she says.

For Maurice DiMarino, beverage manager of SoCal’s Cohn Restaurant Group, sharing outliers with fellow somms is a service to the industry. “I like to remind them that almost every region is doing something unique,” he says. At a bottle share with master somms, he poured Lagrein from the Serra Guacha in Brazil, a region he describes as “dismissed by many and undiscovered by most.” The wine was “beautiful, fresh, and racing with acidity.”

Andy Hata of Cleveland’s Urban Farmer is the gutsiest underdog promoter. His current favorite is the 2017 M Cellars Reserve Pinot Noir. Though its cherry-raspberry juiciness evokes the Williamette Valley, and its earthiness and structure “scream Burgundy,” it’s made 45 minutes from downtown Cleveland. “Mention the words ‘Ohio wine’ and people’s expectations are for the worst,” he says. “Then blind taste them on this and blow their minds. In our local sommelier tasting group, it is not uncommon for one of us to sneak this into a lineup next to top Pinot Noirs from around the world. It always over-performs.”

A Story to Tell

Whether they’re pouring a star or a sleeper, a lot of professionals agree with Maple & Ash’s Frankie Villar: “The personal connection is what makes the difference when aiming to impress.” A 2010 magnum of the biodynamic, single-block Churton Pinot Noir “The Abyss” is his wine to share, not just because it’s only produced in exceptional years but because, as an intern at The Abyss in 2015, he walked the slopes where the grapes were grown.

Some sommeliers’ choices are Proustian. Angela Gargano, wine director at Montana’s Triple Creek Ranch, grew up in a Sicilian family. “Hidden gems” like the bright, aromatic 2016 Fattorie Romeo del Castello by producer Chiara Vigo, the third generation of women to grow grapes at her family estate on Mount Etna, evoke memories for her.

Others like to share souvenirs of their travels. Jake Yestingsmeier of Omaha’s Monarch Prime looks for tasting room-only finds like Cliff Lede’s “Rockblock Series” Cabernet, whose blend and label change with each vintage. For Francesca Maniace, it’s the story of the hunt that elevates a bottle. The Jerome Prévost Fac-Simile Rosé Extra Brut that she recently brought to dinner was “vinous and expressive with intense depth and complexity of fruit.” But Maniace, the wine director at San Francisco’s Che Fico, valued it all the more because her purchase, at a shop in Reims, coincided with a chance meeting with Prévost himself.

On a Mission

Some sommeliers argue that the important thing to impress upon companions is a political or environmental statement. Their favored bottles reflect their mission. Allie Poindexter of Nashville’s Henrietta Red highlights the women who are transforming the wine world. If you drink with her, she’ll open an SP68 by celebrated young Sicilian producer Arianna Occhipinti. The mineral, terroir-driven white is “a jumping off point for conversations surrounding alternative growing and winemaking methods, gender in the industry, and the trajectory of Sicilian wines,” she says. Ditto the wines of Elisabetta Foradori, “a standard-bearer for native varietals” in the Dolomites. Her lively, polished Foradori Vigneti delle Dolomiti Teroldego, says Poindexter, “is a great example of the benefits of sustainable farming practices.”

Vinny Eng, who just left his gig as the wine director of San Francisco’s Tartine Manufactory, is a champion of emerging talent, especially new producers who haven’t yet picked up distribution. Lately, he’s been sharing wines by the young and “incredibly talented” Claire Hill, who makes “supple, entirely gulpable, fresh, delicious, and really soothing Mourvèdre.”

But whichever new producer he has spotlighted, Eng sums up the motivations behind every sommelier’s wow-factor bottle: to give friends an experience they won’t soon forget, and to connect through the shared pleasures of the palate. “What I love about the wine community and how it evolves is that you have room for more and more voices,” says Eng, “and it creates a beautiful experience for individuals to find affinity for things they hadn’t known they had an affinity for.”

The article What Do the Country’s Top Sommeliers Bring to a BYOB Dinner? appeared first on VinePair.

source https://vinepair.com/articles/sommeliers-best-byob-wines/

[torixus]

Barça 6 - 1 Sevilla: Is a Complete Trash

Phil Coutinho gets a boost, while Ivan Rakitic, Sergi Roberto, Luis Suarez and Leo Messi each score a goal, as Barca easily cancels the deficit of the first section and enters the semifinals of the Copa del Rey; Jasper Cillessen is excellent in the net, stops a penalty in the effort to win CAMP NOU, Barcelona - FC Barcelona looked easy to return to the quarter-finals of the Copa del Rey, easily ahead of Sevilla in a thrilling second-leg matchup that had it all: an electric Leo Messi, a criminal goal, another who was saved, who seemed accidental at first sight, and a late burst who put everything in stone. In the end, the Catalans were too strong for Sevilla, overcoming a total deficit of 2-0 since last week's first leg to advance to the semi-finals for the ninth straight season, 6-1 (6-3 and over). ). . add) A glance at the score sheet shows how unleashed he was. Philippe Coutinho was aiming for a reinforcement. His first goal was scored by a penalty, while Ivan Rakitic, Sergi Roberto, Luis Suarez and Messi all contributed one goal each. Goalkeeper Jasper Cillessen made several saves, including a penalty in the 26th minute, allowing Barça to remain in control. Things were noisy in the stands but relatively placid on the pitch until the 12th minute, when a penalty kick was awarded to Barça after Messi was knocked down in the box. Surprisingly, the Argentinean captain kicked Coutinho, who advanced and shot a low shot in the left post, just out of reach of the goalkeeper to give Barça a 1-0 lead after 13 minutes. of play Seville immediately threatened to give up. Cillessen stopped a shot from André Silva in the 23rd, which was eliminated from the post before being cleared. And the day's safety came three minutes later, on the 26th, when the Dutchman opened the Ever Banega penalty, which would have given Sevilla a decisive goal. Camp Nou being already in the state of pandemonium, the place exploded on the 32nd day, when the long pass from Arthur Melo to Rakitic seemed out of reach of the Croats. But Sevilla goalkeeper Juan Soriano misjudged the game and went too far, as Rakitic hit the ball with the tip of his fingernail, enough to trick Soriano and allow the ball to roll unreservedly with two goals from Barça. That could not have been a better start for Barça, but they entered the locker room at half-time, knowing that one goal from Sevilla would make things even more difficult, forcing Barca to score at least two times more. This turned out not to be a problem. At the 53rd, Coutinho opened the scoring for Barça 3-0 with his second goal of the match, in a precision center from Luis Suárez. However, despite his three-goal lead, he was still too close for comfort. Cue Sergi Roberto, who raised the score to 4-0 from virtually the same place as Coutinho had scored two minutes earlier. Messi calmly reached number 20 Barca and the hero of the last big comeback of Barça, the epic win of the Champions League 6-1 on Paris Saint-Germain, beat Soriano to give a break to Barca. . But the advantage of Barça's four goals, enough to ensure the pass in the semifinals, was ephemeral. Events quickly followed on day 68 when Guilherme Arana suddenly pulled out a goal for Sevilla, earning them a goal by knocking out Barça. The nervousness of the Camp Nou began to increase when the timing was reduced and Barça clung to an added advantage thanks to a single goal, while he was also at the wrong end of a possible tiebreaker . Then, in the last minutes, the big weapons are out. Suarez practically put the game and the quarter-finals away in the 87, converting a magnificent pass from Jordi Alba to 5-1 (5-3 total). And at the time of the reduction, Messi broke into the game with a goal of scoring 6-1 (6-3 agg.) And sent to Seville permanently to pack his bags. via Blogger http://bit.ly/2DKaSxb

[stateofsport211]

📸 ATP official website

The other day, the singles quarterfinal matches in the Maia Challenger kicked off with Kimmer Coppejans, who previously knocked out seventh seed Alejandro Moro Canas 6-4, 6-1 in the second round, and second seed Federico Coria, who advanced to the quarterfinals after Adrian Andreev's withdrawal a round after Geoffrey Blancaneaux had to retire. This match turned out to deliver even more goods, with their balance in constructing their points remained the key apart from how they handled them when things started to get physical.

Fefo kicked off the match by scoring a cross-court forehand return winner to force the deuce, but even if he had break points along the way, K. Coppejans still held his serves to 1-0. It took several more games before the Belgian's drop shot generated one of his latest break points, which also converted it to break early 2-1. In the next game, Fefo broke back thanks to his cross-court forehand pass (2-2), which was continued with his service game hold to 3-2.

Subsequently, Fefo fired a combination of drop shot and lob midway through the next game before he broke to 4-2, consolidating his position with a service game hold to 5-2. The Argentinean second seed's forehand winner set up his set point right in the next game before K. Coppejans held to 5-3, which meant the former had to serve for the first set. Since he succeeded (6-3), Fefo was technically a set away from the semifinals.

[igetcontent]

Saturday's star-studded 2018 World Cup showdown between Argentina and France is must-see material. Lionel Messi, Paul Pogba and Antoine Griezmann are just a few of the top-tier players who will be showcasing their talent on the world's biggest stage on Saturday at 10 a.m. ET. France enters this marquee matchup at +135 on the money line, meaning you'd need to bet $100 on a French victory to win $135. Argentina is +240 (wager $100 to win $240), while a draw in regulation is +200. The over-under on total goals scored in this 2018 World Cup fixture is 2. Before you lock in your 2018 World Cup picks, you need to see what European football expert David Sumpter has to say. Sumpter is an applied mathematician who wrote "Soccermatics," a book that explains how math works inside the sport. Along with other experienced analysts, Sumpter developed the powerful Soccerbot model. The Soccerbot reads current odds and all team performance data, calculates key metrics and predicts upcoming matches. In nearly three seasons since its inception, the Soccerbot is up an incredible 1,800 percent on bookmakers' closing odds. The Soccerbot has already nailed draws for Argentina-Iceland (+385) and Brazil-Switzerland (+360). It also correctly predicted Iran upsetting Morocco at +275, just to name a few of its big calls. Anyone who has followed it is way up. Now, the Soccerbot has digested the film, crunched the numbers and broken down every single player on France and Argentina. The model has released a very strong money-line pick, which it's sharing only over at SportsLine. The model knows France will be facing Argentina for the first time ever in the knockout stage of a World Cup. This is the first fixture at the 2018 World Cup that pairs two previous World Cup champions against each other. France enters this match still looking to find its best form. Les Blues topped Group C, but failed to impress while doing so. However, France's defense has stifled its opponents thus far in Russia 2018. France has only conceded five shots on target in its three group games, with the only goal allowed being a penalty in France's 2-1 victory over Australia. The model also knows Argentina didn't qualify for the Round of 16 until the final minutes of its third game. After a shocking draw with Iceland and a 3-0 blowout loss to Croatia, the team edged Nigeria, 2-1, to advance to the Russia 2018 knockout stage. This World Cup notwithstanding, France has lost just once in its last 15 matches. Argentina, meanwhile, is in a long slump, having won just four of 14. However, the Albiceleste have Messi, the top scorer in team history and one of the most successful players in the history of the game. And they won't have to face Germany, which has knocked them out of the last three World Cups. France v Argentina preview: Lionel Messi and co looking up after slow start Argentina are looking to put their tricky World Cup start behind them against 1998 winners France in the last 16 on Saturday. A 1-1 draw with minnows Iceland and a humbling 3-0 defeat to Croatia left the 2014 finalists on the verge of elimination, but a 2-1 win over Nigeria saw Argentina through in second place. Jorge Sampaoli's position was reportedly in doubt before that crucial Nigeria victory, but the Argentina coach is now looking forward to playing 1998 winners France in the last-16. "We are going to play against a team with great individual players," Sampaoli said. "They are among the very best contenders and we will need to be very consistent to come out on top of a very difficult match." After Argentina's victory over Nigeria, Sampaoli headed to the dressing room without celebrating alongside his players, but Lionel Messi went over to hug his coach before he departed in a show of unity with the under-fire manager. "Leo's gesture with me makes me proud. He knows all the passion I put into everything I do," Sampaoli said. "We share the dream of coming to Russia to achieve something important for Argentina." Much has been made of Messi's influence on the Argentina side, but France goalkeeper Hugo Lloris rejected suggestions they were a one-man outfit. He said: "There is so much expectation around Messi, which I think is normal, but still I think the Argentina team has a lot to show. "They have had difficult times and still have been able to qualify. I am sure they will feel like going much further in the competition, they have won the World Cup before. "This is going to be a big match, and a difficult one, we are going to have to step up our level." Team news Benjamin Mendy will miss out for France through injury, having come off the bench in their dead rubber with Denmark last time out. There are no new concerns for Argentina, who could name the same side that beat Nigeria to qualify for the last-16. Opta stats France and Argentina will be facing each other for the 12th time. The South Americans hold the upper hand with six wins to two (D3), keeping a clean sheet in eight of their previous 11 encounters with the French. Argentina have won their two World Cup encounters with France, back in 1930 (1-0) and 1978 (2-1). On both occasions, they reached the final, losing it in 1930 and winning in 1978. The last South American team to beat France at the World Cup were Argentina in 1978. Since then, France are unbeaten in eight World Cup fixtures against CONMEBOL opposition (W4 D4). Argentina have gone past the first round for the 12th time in their last 13 World Cup appearances, the only exception coming in 2002. Their last four knockout games in the tournament have produced only three goals (2 goals for, 1 against). Since the introduction of the round of 16 in 1986, France have always made it past that stage whenever they've reached it (1986, 1998, 2006, 2014). Messi has never scored in the knockout stages of the World Cup: 666 minutes, 0 goals. He is the last Argentinean player to score against France, back in February 2009 in a friendly (2-0). Lionel Messi is the third Argentinian player to have scored in three different World Cup tournaments, alongside Diego Maradona (1982, 1986, 1994) and Gabriel Batistuta (1994, 1998, 2002). France's Olivier Giroud has failed to score in his last 357 minutes at World Cup/Euro, his longest drought at major tournaments, with his last goal dating back to the Euro 2016 quarter-final against Iceland. He's yet to register a shot on target at this year's World Cup, having spent 200 minutes on the pitch. Merson's prediction This game sounds like an absolute cracker but, if I'm being honest, it's not really. On the performances so far these are the two sides I can't see winning it. I definitely can't see Argentina winning it because they look a really poor team. France haven't been great themselves but I think they'll be far too good for Argentina. I've seen something from France that tells me they could click at some point, however, I look at Argentina and they are an old team. They look like a tired team and that's why I'm going for France. FIFA World Cup 2018: Riding on a million prayers, Argentina take on France KAZAN: "They are breathing down your neck, you are running out of life," goes the song. The Albiceleste are living on the edge, but the Argentinian fans are singing a different tune. Earning a last-gasp ticket to the Round of 16, Argentina arrived in Kazan, the industrial hub on the confluence of Volga and Kazanka, on the wings of a million prayers, desperate to repeat their coup, this time against the French on Saturday. France, guided by their 1998 World Cup-winning captain Didier Deschamps, cruised to the Round of 16, rather relaxed, but their placidity has led to a lot of criticism back home. On the contrary, Jorge Sampaoli just about managed to pull Argentina through to the knockout stage - in the face of rumours of getting sacked, player rebellion and "fighting for reality against the virtual". Lionel Messi finally shed his cloak of despair for factory overalls and Marcus Rojo's 86th-minute winner carved Argentina's passage to Kazan. Despite having attracted unappetizing headlines back home, the easily-distracted Frenchmen have not lost the desire to fight and look unusually focused. Leave alone unrest, not even a word of whining has emerged from the French fortress. Samuel Umtiti, Messi's Barcelona club mate, said: "We're working to improve, to play a bit better, because we can do it. But the most important thing will be to win, because if we go all the way, even if most people are not pleased by our football, everybody will be happy and we won't hear any more that the football was lacking." Having spent most of his Thursday's press meet discussing Messi, Umtiti admitted knocking Argentina out would give him added satisfaction. It sounded like routine talk, like France's two wins and a draw in the group phase, in contrast to the dramatic life of their opponents. Fumbling against Iceland, thrashed by Croatia, Sampaoli struggled through the chaos to get his first XI right. Gerard Houllier, who assisted Aime Jacquet in his successful 1998 World Cup campaign, has made an interesting point in his column for a French publication. The former Liverpool manager argues that Argentina run the risk of an emotional meltdown after their last-minute high to secure qualification. He has cited the example of Germany who failed to muster up enough energy against South Korea following their miraculous victory over Sweden. Criticised for not having set the tournament on fire, Deschamps knows how to go about it from personal experience. The pace of Ousmane Dembele and Kylian Mbappe down the flanks is the newest weapon most defenders are wary of. The worrying point for Argentina is that Gabriel Mercado and Nicolas Tagliafico are not known for handling pace well. Even Nicolas Otamendi and Javier Mascherano struggled to keep an eye on Ahmed Musa the other night in Saint Petersburg. With Pogba, Ngolo Kante, and Blaise Matuidi in midfield, and twinkle-toed Antoine Griezmann up front, France look upbeat. Still, Les Bleus do not have a Messi who takes a wink to come alive, sensing before anyone that Ever Banega has found his range.

[escaroonline-blog]

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[365footballorg-blog]

Boehm: 10 stories, personalities and plotlines to follow in MLS this season

USA Today Sports

February 27, 201812:25PM EST

Making predictions in Major League Soccer can be a fool’s errand. With parity the default setting for most of the league’s history, basement dwellers can vault into the ballroom with startling speed – witness the recently-reborn Houston Dynamo and Chicago Fire – and dynasties can just as quickly turn to dust. (Ask the LA Galaxy.)

Certain big-picture trends have taken shape in the build-up to 2018, though. So here’s a rundown of some scenes, personalities and plotlines to keep in mind as the season unfurls.

Who Will Rise?

Alberth “La Panterita” Elis: Leading the charge in Houston | USA Today Images

Even though neither won major hardware, the Dynamo and Fire were two of last year’s feel-good stories: clubs with proud histories who turned the page on several years of woe with dramatic turnarounds that landed them in the MLS Cup Playoffs.

MLS is a place where these sorts of swift revivals can take place, even in midseason. The Colorado Rapids, Seattle Sounders and Real Salt Lake have given us examples over the past two years, and now 2017 strugglers like D.C. United, the LA Galaxy and Montreal Impact aim to follow suit.

The Battle of Los Angeles

LAFC’s Bob Bradley and Sigi Schmid of the Galaxy | USA Today Images

LAFC are finally here, and so for the first time since 2014 Southern California is home to two MLS teams, sparking a duel for hearts and minds (and butts in seats) across a soccer-mad megalopolis of some 25 million residents.

The newcomers swaggered onto the scene with flashy branding, a large, flush ownership group, dazzling downtown stadium and notable marquee names like Carlos Vela and Bob Bradley. Yet their roster remains confoundingly short of full size, even if more of the players currently in camp officially sign in the days ahead.

Meanwhile, down in Carson, the incumbent Galaxy have kept their South Bay cool, declaring a “Since 96” tagline and buffing, metaphorically at least, their five MLS Cup rings. That’s probably just as well, considering that 2017 was their worst season ever, prompting a dramatic – and so far highly promising – squad makeover since Sigi Schmid arrived for his second stint in charge last July.

Target on TFC

TFC parade their 2017 plunder | USA Today Images

With the Galaxy taking some hard knocks, the league’s center of gravity has shifted well north and east. Toronto FC are now MLS’ model franchise as well as reigning treble winners and marked men. Last year the Reds set a new standard, and now they aim to make further history by staying a while at the top.

TFC used the continuing influx of Targeted Allocation Money to cook up a smart, ambitious batch of offseason signings headlined by Ager Aketxe, Auro and Gregory van der Wiel. Blue-chip talent, tactical adaptability and a sturdy culture of success give the Canadian side real hopes of repeat feats at home and CONCACAF Champions League glory abroad.

Up from the South

Ezequiel Barco | Atlanta United

South America has always been a rich recruiting ground for MLS – and the rest of the world too, for that matter – but over the winter the stream became a flood. More than two dozen products of the continent have arrived in the league since last season’s end, and at markedly younger ages than past editions.

The New York Red Bulls’ capture of Alejandro Romero “Kaku” Gamarra and Atlanta United’s MLS-record-breaking purchase Ezequiel Barco dominated the headlines, thanks in part to drawn-out transfer sagas with Argentinean sides Huracan and CA Independiente, respectively. But also keep an eye out for the likes of Milton Valenzuela with Columbus Crew SC, Orlando City’s Paraguayan Josue Colman and Santiago Mosquera with FC Dallas.

New Bosses in Town

Timbers owner Merritt Paulson (L) with new coach Giovanni Savarese | USA Today Images

Once known as a place with relatively long leashes for coaches, MLS has experienced a wave of managerial turnover lately. The aforementioned Sigi Schmid is one of eight head coaches who’ve been in their current job for less than a year, and six of those are new for this season.

Some are familiar faces, like Bradley and retired US national teamer Brad Friedel (New England Revolution). Others arrived from overseas, like the San Jose Earthquakes’ Swedish gaffer Mikael Stahre, respected French figure Remi Garde in Montreal and former New Zealand boss Anthony Hudson, whose Colorado Rapids tenure kicked off early with CCL action this month.

The Portland Timbers’ Giovanni Savarese might just be the most intriguing of the bunch, an old-school MLS hero with hard-earned savvy and a global contacts list.

Young and Restless, Old and Relentless

David Villa: Still hunting | USA Today Images

Hardcore North American soccer heads are by now familiar with the #PlayYourKids movement, the grow-your-own philosophy that’s taken root at Homegrown hubs FC Dallas, the New York Red Bulls and Real Salt Lake.

Many are watching to see whether the Philadelphia Union and Montreal Impact follow through with plans to take a similar tack this year, and even star-studded Atlanta United have built a promising pipeline from academy to first team.

So MLS is getting younger. But don’t let that distract from your appreciation of the veterans who continue to command the spotlight. David Villa is still torching defenses at age 36, and even has a chance to earn an incredible fourth World Cup trip with mighty Spain this summer. Iconic goalkeepers Tim Howard and Nick Rimando remain starters at 38, while US lions DaMarcus Beasley and Kyle Beckerman keep on trucking as their 36th birthdays approach.

Tactical Innovations … and Imitations

Greg Vanney and Patrick Vieira | USA Today Images

In a league where variations on the 4-2-3-1 formation were once a default setting, Toronto, Atlanta and New York City FC have lately been drivers of stylistic innovation. TFC dominated the league last year with a possession-centric 3-5-2 as one of their mainstay shapes, while Gerardo “Tata” Martino has shaped ATL UTD into a high-octane attacking unit with distinctive patterns of play and City’s Patrick Vieira made it cool to build out of the back. 

Such successful new approaches in MLS tend to be copied, and we’ve already seen Colorado and the Vancouver Whitecaps working in three-man back line setups during preseason. Will someone else change the paradigm this year?

Big Dreams Down South

Atlanta’s Michael Parkhurst and Orlando’s Dom Dwyer | USA Today Images

Atlanta wowed the league in their expansion debut campaign, and followed it with another ambitious offseason, swinging big-money deals for Barco and skilful midfielder Darlington Nagbe, among others. The Five Stripes have been a surprise smash hit in the capital of the South, but must now avoid the sophomore slump.

A few hours to the south, their nascent rivals in purple are also gearing up in pursuit of glory. Sick and tired of missing out on the postseason in all three of their years of MLS play, Orlando City SC made whopping 13 new acquisitions, at least eight of them starting-caliber, underlining the urgency that will pace their season – and in all likelihood, their three grudge matches with ATL.

Russia and its Repurcussions

The league will take a brief breather in June as the planet turns its attention to the 2018 World Cup. Participating in that tournament is a realistic goal for two-dozen or so MLS players, all of whom will aim to prove their fitness and form to their various national-team coaches in the season’s opening stages.

Two countries who WON’T be taking part, as most readers know all too well, are the United States and Canada. Both are set to enter new eras under new leadership, the US with a still-to-be-selected head coach and general manager and Canada by John Herdman, who surprisingly moved over from Les Rouges’ very successful women’s squad in January.

They’ll look to MLS as a source of present and future talent, providing new faces with a crucial opportunity to join the rebuilding process.

New Era in the Capital

Paul Arriola and Ben Olsen lead D.C. | USA Today Images

D.C. United were MLS’ first great club, dominating the league’s early years and filling up a large trophy case at venerable RFK Stadium. That iconic but ancient venue eventually became a millstone around United’s neck, however, forcing beloved player turned longtime coach Ben Olsen to play a soccer version of Moneyball value shopping to compete as the Black-and-Red sought a new home.

That quest is finally nearing fruition, and its completion could launch D.C. back into the MLS elite. In July Olsen & Co. will at long last move into Audi Field, their intimate new facility on the Anacostia River waterfront. And though that requires them to play 12 of their first 14 games on the road as well as two early home games at one-off venues in Maryland, the payoff will be enormous for the league’s original flagship franchise.

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Boehm: 10 stories, personalities and plotlines to follow in MLS this season was originally published on 365 Football