A.O.K.

A.O.K. was the name of our local football team, and it used to be strongly present at the national Premier League for years. The name is still the same, the city is still the same, and yet they are not. I mean they are either smaller or bigger, these unnoticeable alterations which occur with time and prove Heraclitus right. And the gaze changes... I do not know if it grows duller or sharper. Both, I assume. Anyway, I just wanted to say that my dad's passion to pass his own fascination with good football over to his sole son proved a total disaster and from an unexpected side-way, without the slightest bad intention: the destined tendency goes this way, one reaches the dungeon hall full of gentle intentions. He has been an excellent driver, but those 45 minutes from home to the stadium were so heavy on me, I would try to be brave and hold my vomit back and I would normally succeed, hoping for the still orange drink to soothe my despair.
that short Papaioannou (on the left) was my absolute favorite

I saw many stars of the real football times, that they were playing just for the glory and the cheer. I attended spectacular matches, I saw people waving their hats, their jackets and raising their voices in despair, in exaltation, in contempt. It was all so lively, but I would be rather trying to conceal my discomfort. Every time that I notice big football events happening, I expect someone to get me a still orange drink. Nevertheless, I was admiring Mimis Papaioannou, the short devil, Domazos for the popular appeal he enjoyed and Koudas for his determined style. Many matches have I attended.