Flag Football & The Royal Treatment, by Brian Oliu

Dukes & Duchesses:

Last Monday was my birthday.  I turned 28 years old.  This means that I was born on November 22, 1982.  Six months and one day prior, Prince William Arthur Phillip Louis of Wales was born to Prince Charles and Princess Diana in London–the first born son of Charles and Diana: the boy who would be king.  This, naturally, caused a great deal of excitement not only in England, but all over Europe as whenever the lineage of the crown is passed on, it is always cause for celebration. This excitement, undoubtedly, crept over the English Channel and into Barcelona, where the majority of my father’s side of the family resided, including my Uncle Fritz and Aunt Marie-Cruz, who are as glamorous as their names insinuate:  my memory of my aunt is that of Chanel sunglasses and a giant mink coat.  My Aunt Marie-Cruz invited my father to spend a summer at her house in Costa del Sol where he could drive one of her Mercedes as his graduation present; this was an image burned into my father’s brain as he was being spat at during basic training at the Air Force Academy a month after graduating high school.  Yes, Edu was her favorite, and therefore the son of Edu deserves such lavish treatment as well.  Shortly after my birth, my aunt and uncle were vacationing in the states and came to New Jersey to visit.  I was the first grandson (this is what happens in a family full of nuns) and so my arrival, certainly was triumphant—the sounding of a horn, a lone firework, a ringing of a bell.  Marie-Cruz, very much in touch with the haute-couture of the time brought a gift to celebrate my birth as well as the passing on of the Oliu name:  the signaling of a new generation to lead us out of the wreckage and into a new golden age.  They presented my parents with an outfit that had been seen donned by Prince William himself–in Europe, infant fashion had gone the way of the royals, and apparently the demand for such linens was high.  The outfit consisted of a silk shirt white lacework and a rounded Peter Pan collar, which fastened to a pair of powder-blue short-pantaloons christened with Swiss dots.  My parents, cruel as cruel can be (though one could argue that they did not want to offend our guests) placed me in the outfit and proceeded to take photographs–this, of course, was hilarious, as I was strictly an OshKosh B’Gosh kid–denim overalls conducive to a working class baby that knows nothing of the stench of aristocracy.

I’m not saying I have a memory of this–cognitive memories in children do not develop that early–but I do know that there was a tiny bit of tiny baby rage inside my tiny baby heart; rage not directed at my loving parents or Catalan aunt, but at Prince William:  an evil British twin, foppish and debonair, blue-blood, jawline. From that moment forward I knew my nemesis–a gift, certainly, for if we do not know who our nemesis is, we are at a disadvantage in life:  we need a person to rage against, to make us better, to make us stronger. Naturally, I had chosen the future King of England as my nemesis, as I, even as a small child, felt very highly of myself. Whereas Prince William identified with the wombat, I identified with the dingo, apex predator and the wombat’s greatest threat.  When Prince William was a child and was hit over the head with a golf club and had his skull fractured, I took a vested interest in the gentleman’s game.  I refuse to purchase red roses in fear of purchasing the particular German strain of tea roses that bear his name.  When he changed his major while at the University of St. Andrews from Art History to Geography, I immediately forgot where Tunisia was, even forgoing my life-long dream to capture Carmen Sandiego–in exchange I was finally able to appreciate the Flemish Primitives; a pleasure that I had denied myself up until that point.  I will admit to feeling badly about the death of his mother, but refused to purchase Candle In The Wind 1997, as I have deep ties to the original as daytime VH1 was an integral part of my television viewing experience growing up.

This brings me to the news this past week that Prince William announced his engagement to Kate Middleton, his on-again, off-again girlfriend, which, naturally, has sent me into a rage for a multitude of reasons: I now must rule out any Kates as potential suitors–this includes the following:  Kate, Katie, Katherine, Catherine, Cat, Cathy, Kathy, Katt, Katelyn, Catelyn, Caitlin, Caitlinn, Kit, Kitty, Kitten, Kat, Katy, Catarina, Katharina, Katrina, Catrine, Catriona, and any other new fangled portmanteaus we come up with in the coming years to designate our children as our own (LeKate, Xathrine, Katettat). Furthermore, with the wedding not coming until Spring of 2011, I cannot get married until 6 months and one day after the date of the wedding in fear of receiving Prince William-themed engagement gifts and having to take a photograph in a ruffled shirt apropos only at a Diamond Jubilee.  This obviously puts a damper on my pending marriage to Katy Perry, which will have to be postponed even more indefinitely than it previously was.

Thankfully, I still have football:  glorious, glorious football, the game of the proletariat where the only blood that bleeds is red, and where we only have our children to care for, as all of our worldly riches go towards putting flags on our belt and Powerade purchased at the West End CVS in our bellies.  I heard Prince William is quite the polo player, and to that, I scoff:  our legs are our horses, sore from walking miles upon miles to our jobs.  Our hands are our mallets, weathered and calloused from working in the factories.  And when William and I finally do meet face to face, him the old tyrannical king of a crest-fallen kingdom whose people have abandoned him, myself, as glorious as the day I was born, it will be on the football field, and I will catch the highest pass, break the fiercest tackle, for you, for you.

In the meantime:

SATURDAY 10:30 QUEEN CITY AVE/15TH STREET PARK

is where you will find me, amongst the people.

Nope shut him down, the king with the crown,
The Commissioner

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