He is convinced that the real name of the man in goal is Manuel Fucking Almunia; why else would he insist on calling him that repeatedly? 

Does he have any reason to call him Manuel Almunia Rivero, sometimes first-choice, sometimes second-choice, sometimes third-choice goalkeeper for Arsenal, his Arsenal, his club, for whom he would have given up limbs that instant to bring some sort of glory? Has Almunia earned the right to his affection, as the rest of the squad has routinely through exceptional performance?
No, no he has not. Every Saturday morning that he is in between the posts, sometimes mid-week as well, Almunia reminds him why he has never won him over. And given that every time the ball has come into his own half he has felt compelled to shout, “All right, come on, Manuel Fucking Almunia! Don’t fuck it up this time!” there really isn’t any reason to assume his name is different. 
Of course, Mr. M.F. Almunia cannot hear his shouts, coming from an apartment situated along the East Coast of the United States; it’s not as if London has gotten any closer or the Atlantic any smaller. Still, this does not keep him from shouting, filling the typically silent Saturday mornings with vulgar, exasperated breaths that no one hears but himself. Possibly his neighbors as well. He has never really bothered to ask.  Besides, people don’t seem to understand when he says he watches football at 7:30 in the morning.
This Saturday morning is no different. Should West Bromwich Albion, yes, the West Bromwich Albion, West Brom, the Baggies, the perpetual relegatees from Birmingham who have not won in London in years, much less against a club like us, have any chance? The answer is of course not, a wholehearted and resounding no. But here we stand at 0-0 late in the first half, ready to win it in the final 45 minutes, and, as you guessed it, the man of the hour, Almunia, has committed the most glaring of all penalties, getting none of the ball and dragging a Baggie down in the box.  Penalty to West Brom. 
Great job, you stupid Spanish bastard. Really, keep it up, we could really use a few more plays like that, since the point of this sport is to give up goals, oh wait, I forgot, you have one job and that’s to keep the ball out of the goal, I can see how you momentarily forgot since I did too, no worries, sport, just keep this ball coming from 12 yards away out of the goal all by yourself and everything will be just fine, since that’s been so easy for you to do in the past. Just do your fucking job.
Manuel Fucking Almunia does his fucking job, diving low and right, pushing the ball wide of the post and out for a corner.
Well fuck, why can’t you do that every time?
________________
WOMAN: so how was work?
MAN: it was fine.
WOMAN: did you do anything? get any interesting clients or accounts?
MAN: nope, not today. 
WOMAN: oh, ok. well that’s too bad.
MAN: yeah.
WOMAN:
MAN:
WOMAN: so i found out they want me to go to seattle for a few days next week.
MAN: that sounds fun.
WOMAN: i think so too.
MAN: wait, isn’t next tuesday when you wanted me to take you to that movie?
WOMAN: oh right, well we can just go some other time.
MAN: oh.  ok.
WOMAN: what?
MAN: nothing.
WOMAN: what is it?
MAN: it’s just, i mean i already had it scheduled and told my dad that i couldn’t help him with his  taxes that night, so it would have been nice to know about all this beforehand. 
WOMAN: well i’m sorry, but i kind of have to go. since it’s work and all. it’s really not a big deal.
MAN: i know, it’s just really inconvenient telling people that i can’t do something for them and looking like a jerk, and then having to go back and explain that you cancelled on me.
WOMAN: well i’m sorry but you don’t need to get worked up.
MAN: it’s just what am i supposed to do now?
WOMAN: i don’t know.
MAN: me either.
WOMAN:
MAN:
________________
He welcomes halftime. It gives him the well-earned relief from the nonsense he has witnessed for the last 45 minutes. He is well aware that some of his jitters are attributable to the coffee he no longer sips but instead throws back, but it’s not enough to keep him from refilling his mug in the kitchen. He justifies it through the statement that was made by the in-match commentators, that one could have fallen asleep during that first half because of the lack of action. His living room argues otherwise.
The season so far has been a success. Arsenal sit in the top three, and it is still early on, with plenty of time remaining to make up for the early points dropped at Liverpool. And Manchester City can’t possibly remain at the top of the table much longer. But with all this reason for hope, he is still not content. He wants to be at the top of the table now. He wants to be in control. And all he can think about are the goalkeepers of the clubs who will challenge for the title: Cech, van der Sar, Hart, Reina. None have a middle initial that even begins with F. And this bothers him immensely.
The players have returned to the pitch for the second half. He remembers how he had once lectured her on why it’s not called a field. In fact, he recalls she used to roll out of bed around this time and walk into the living room to sit down on the couch and sip coffee, his coffee, while she slowly woke up. Neither one ever said much that early, either out of drowsiness or lack of anything to say or respect for the game going on. He isn’t sure which one it primarily was at this point.
But that doesn’t matter. Because Almunia has fucked up big time, beyond any recognition of his previous fuck-ups, even the first half gift of a penalty. Five minutes into the half and he’s out of position, the ball swerving past him and into the back of the net. Baggies 1-0. You’ve done it sir, you’ve really done it. You look awfully frustrated, now don’t you? I don’t know why, could it be possibly that you’ve thrown an entire season down the drain in a matter of seconds, and now have put the pressure on everyone but yourself? Is that it? Is it?
________________
WOMAN: ok what’s next on the list?
MAN: it says peanut butter. that should be the next aisle.
WOMAN: wait, do you know if we have any pretzels?
MAN: not that i know of.
WOMAN: well now we do.
MAN: here, don’t get those. they’re too expensive.
WOMAN: but they taste better.
MAN: they’re literally the same thing.
WOMAN: look, i think they taste better, and i wouldn’t eat the other ones anyways so they really would be a waste of money.
MAN: all right, whatever.
WOMAN: what?
MAN: nothing.
WOMAN:
MAN:
WOMAN: are you really going to get upset?
MAN: i just don’t know what goes on in your head.
WOMAN: well thank you. that’s awfully nice of you.
MAN: i mean they’re the exact same thing. not a single diff—
WOMAN: ok really just stop it. please.
MAN: fine. i’ll stop.
WOMAN: ok.
MAN: ok.
WOMAN:
MAN:
WOMAN:
MAN: so are you going to get that peanut butter or what?
________________
And shit, 2-0, the second one coming a whole two minutes after the first. That is definitely what they mean when they talk about responding positively. Learning from your mistakes. Instead of letting this one go past him like the first one, our lovely Spaniard has decided to usher this shot into the back of the net as if the ball were a paying customer searching for their seat in a crowded stadium, much like the one groaning at him now. 
He is livid at this point. But at the same time he is perfectly calm inside, for the same reason he has been able to remain calm throughout this season. He expects this to occur. This no longer comes as a surprise to him, and by preparing himself for the anguish that will follow after each misstep, the pain subsides and becomes bearable. He still must express his disgust out loud, because that is what someone as invested as him must do, regardless of whether or not he actually feels it.
At this point she used to rub his shoulders, put her arms around his neck, softly blow air into his ear, do the things she knew his body would have no choice but to respond to, no matter how uninterested the rest of him was. He figured she thought it was funny how he acted at the television, at this little Spanish man whom he would never meet, and even if he did, he would definitely use his high school Español and ask for an autógrapho like a little kid would. But right now, he is the biggest bastard in all of London. So go ahead, get yourself out of this one. Because I bet you just go and fuck up again.
________________
WOMAN: so i think i might start looking for another job.
MAN: really? how come?
WOMAN: well i mean it just isn’t what i really want to be doing. i’m not a salesperson really, putting up with all those different clients is just stressful.
MAN: so what are you gonna do?
WOMAN: i’m not sure yet. i need some time to figure it out.
MAN: well just hang in there until you can find something, don’t quit without a plan.
WOMAN: well…
MAN: what?
WOMAN: i gave my two weeks today…
MAN: what?
WOMAN: what?
MAN: why the fuck would you do that?
WOMAN: huh? calm down, what are you talking about?
MAN: so now i’m supposed to subsidize you for however long it takes for you to find another job?
WOMAN: will you just calm down? i’ve got money, you know.
MAN: yea, and it’ll last you a few hours with all the shit you buy.
WOMAN: hey—
MAN: so how long is this search for what you actually want to do going to last?
WOMAN: stop—
MAN: because i don’t want your quest for meaning to go on indefinitely, even though i know you’d like that.
WOMAN: just listen—
MAN: no, because guess what? everyone hates their job, you’re no fucking different except you’re the one who decided that wearing down the savings account was the way out reality. did you ever think about how this would affect me?
WOMAN:
MAN: well did you?
WOMAN:
MAN: did you ever think about me and how i’m supposed to put up with this shit? did you?
________________
A third? Really? A third? Unheard of, unprecedented, uncalled for by any means. We’re at home, and this is West Brom, for the mercy of the entire city of London. For the first time, he’s tempted to stop watching. The abuse being forced upon him is close to unbearable. But he hangs in there.  He’s better than that, to quit on his team. Unlike that bastard Almunia.
He isn’t sure what she would have done at that point. It’s never been 3-0 to West Brom, never. He imagines she would have tried to calm him down, do more of the same as she did at 2-0. She might try to coerce him to crawl back into bed with her, act like there’s no game at all. Or she might leave him alone, let him be angry by himself. But she would be back. Once he calmed down.
________________
MAN: you can’t stay in there forever, you know?
WOMAN:
MAN: i’ve told you i’m sorry, but what else can i do?
WOMAN:
MAN: i’ll stand outside your parents all night if i have to, longer even. you’re going to come out and we’re going to be just fine.
WOMAN:
MAN: i really am sorry. i didn’t mean to lose it. i swear i won’t yell at you anymore. now will you just come outside so we can go back and talk and go to sleep? i know you’re tired.
WOMAN:
MAN: well i’m right here for as long as it takes, ok?
WOMAN:
MAN:
WOMAN:
MAN:
WOMAN:
________________
We get two back, but it’s over. 2-3 to the away team. And you can pin this one on the man between the posts. A complete and utter reaffirmation of the name Manuel Fucking Almunia. Week in, week out, you can set your clock to his fuck-ups. Next week, tune in for another episode featuring—oh shit—Chelsea. That’ll be fun.
He turns the television off and leans back on the couch with a deep exhalation. It’s over. At least the painful part has passed. But sometimes the aftermath, the reflection on the mistakes are worse than the actual mistakes. He wants to forget, to move on, to think about the hope that next week brings, what a victory would mean. But all he can think of is Almunia. That bastard. It’s getting old. How much longer can he put up with this? Will he ever get any better? Will he ever really learn? Will he?


Aaron Riggs is a writer from Louisville, Kentucky.  A graduate of the University of Louisville, he has worked numerous jobs, from legislative aide in the Kentucky General Assembly to parts manager at a Vespa dealership.  Set to begin law school in the coming year, this is his first published story, hopefully the first of many.  Feel free to follow him on Twitter @aaronriggslou.