A ball is rolling down a hill. At the bottom of the hill is a sign that says "BRAT" in sloppily drawn letters, as if way the letters look themselves is mean to convey the nastiness of the word. The ball, a shiny top-of-the-line number with undulating lines and a hefty price tag, is stamped with four bold letters of its own. Though it is difficult to read the word they form as the spheroid picks up speed, we already know that it says "JOZY".
Make no mistake, the ball was kicked from the top of the hill by the young American striker whose name emblazons it. He showed up late. He appeared to sulk during games, visible petulance growing every moment with his team's inability to get him the ball. His managers, two of them, criticized his commitment and he ended his English stay with an ugly head butt to an opposing player. Yes, the kick with which he sent the ball on its way was swift.
As the ball bounds quickly away from him, the young striker can only watch as even his slightest transgressions are turned directly into new momentum for its journey down the hill. Writers and observers are more than happy to give it an extra push, pulling alongside the zooming orb and slapping it forward with accusations of bratitude, their own questions on his commitment, and a propensity to seize on anything and everything he says or does. A twist of the striker's intent here and there turns an innocuous bit of chatter with an English contemporary in public into a new burst of attitude-problem energy.
It seems he's helpless. Utterly helpless.
Or is he? Can he possibly catch the ball, which is now but a speck in the distance and perilously close to the end of its journey? Can he bring it back up the hill in any measurable way, putting separation between it and the scarlet letters B, R, A, T?
Perhaps simply stopping it is the first step.
Jozy, the hill, and his rolling ball will all be transported to South Africa in a few weeks time. Between now and then, a stint at training camp with his USA teammates should be a quiet one. He will play in warm up friendlies against the Czech Republic and Turkey, and while those matches aren't quite opportunities to slow the ball down, he can do some good just by playing hard and not providing it any more momentum.
No quit, no attitude, no problems. Once the ball is rolling, the standard for behavior gets that much higher; it's not enough to be like everyone else, Jozy has to be better if he wants that ball to stop.
In South Africa, the ball's ultimate fate could be decided. The right kind of performance augmented by a clear commitment in both training and matches, and he might be able to catch the ball, trap it under foot, rear back, and blast it back up the cursed hill. If he hits it just right, it might even stay there.
Do the opposite, throw a tantrum or anything that might be viewed as a tantrum, take the wrong step, become frustrated in a match and lash out, pick up a team-crippling card, or just simply fail to work hard enough, and that classy high priced ball will go sailing straight into the looming sign with the damning word. Once that happens, getting back up the hill and removing the stigma of the word will be like climbing Mount Everest with goalposts tied to one's feet.
Maybe it's all unfair that the ball is flying down the hill at such a rapid clip. Maybe Jozy's not a brat, nor should he be headed towards the label. But perception is everything in the world of soccer, and as long as the ball is rolling, danger lurks ahead.
A ball is rolling down a hill...
