I sit down to watch the final with you.
Being interested in soccer
made me intriguing at thirteen.
Not that I'm going for that.
Not that you're thirteen.

Nothing goes on
except the mechanism of the chronometer.
Having used up my allowance
for indecision and clumsiness,
I'm stranded on the right flank of the couch.

Cheering and jitters
are for the hopeful
and Luzhniki is the only
arena for anxiety
Exhaustion ensures
that there'll be no surprises,
and death will not be sudden.

I suppress the urge to
hold you back by the t-shirt
and other card-worthy fits.
If I collapse in painful cramps
I'll be penalized for loitering
Not being banned
is the most I can struggle for
in the Champions League.