Harry Kane and the Endless Pursuit of Not Winning Shit

My skull feels like someone took a meat tenderizer to it.

Sunday morning. 8:14 AM.

The toddler is throwing dry Cheerios at my shins like she’s feeding ducks at a scummy park.

I open my phone with one eye shut to dodge the blue light.

Harry Kane is trending again.

Jesus Christ.

The man moved to Germany, learned zero German, scored forty goals, and still managed to breathe his personal curse all over Bavaria.

I respect it.

Truly.

Kane is the patron saint of doing your job completely fine while everything around you catches fire.

That's working-class dad energy right there.

I spent forty hours this week staring into Excel spreadsheets that make my retinas bleed.

I hit the numbers.

I clocked the hours.

And what was my trophy?

A cold slice of frozen pizza eaten over the sink while my wife asked why the gutters still sound like a clogged bong.

Zero silverware.

Just a mild case of acid reflux and a half-empty fifth of Jameson hidden behind the laundry detergent.

Kane has that dead-eyed, mouth-breathing look of a guy who just wants to sit in a lawn chair and drink a lukewarm lager without anyone asking him to track back.

He looks like an assistant manager at a drywall supply warehouse.

A bloke whose wife makes him take off his work boots in the garage.

Yet millions of Germans expected him to save their football club.

Idiots.

You can’t outrun fate.

If you are born to come in second, you come in second. Whether you’re in North London, Munich, or sitting on the toilet with your pants around your ankles hiding from a three-year-old.

The kid just kicked a plastic golf club into my groin.

Penalty conceded.

Kane would bury it.

I’m just going to lie on the tile and wait for the Advil to hit.