They’ll get there eventually.
I wish I could swim there someday.
Somewhere far away, somewhere far away,
The mushroom rains are falling.
Right by the river, in a small garden,
The cherries have ripened, bending down to the ground.
Somewhere far away, in my memory,
Now, as in childhood, it is warm,
Even though the memory is covered
By such heavy snows.
Self-guided missiles, self-sharpening knives, and self-satisfied men playing checkers. A sad sight—a heartbreaking sight!
After all, if people gather in a closed room for several years, practically in the same dying composition, and only they themselves know about this gathering, then this is definitely not a sport. It is not even a form of entertainment or a show. It is a sect. A closed sect with no desire to see the world! Or to show itself to the world!
And, let us repeat, this has nothing to do with sport. It is a limited group of strange people who have learned to play one single game in their lives and never want to change anything. And incapable of doing so. It is precisely their faceless existence that destroys any remaining hope of preserving even the appearance that this could be a sport. But to do that, it is simply necessary to go to European and world championships. To take part in various events outside their narrow space of limited oddities.
Maybe these poor souls will come out into the world someday? Or realize that the world is much bigger and brighter? And that being self-satisfied inside a closed space is bad for grown men. Maybe… they will come out someday… into the light of day…