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Mix Diskerud posts a brutally honest poem on Instagram about his status with NYCFC

The Poet Laureate of American Soccer strikes again. But he’s never struck quite like this.

Soccer:  2018 FIFA World Cup Qualifying - Semifinal Round-Guatemala at USA Trevor Ruszkowski-USA TODAY Sports

That Mix Diskerud is on his way out at New York City FC is not news. Despite the player still being under contract, the club has already given away his famous-cum-infamous number ten shirt to new designated player Maxi Moralez. He didn’t appear on a single team sheet following last summer’s embarrassing US Open Cup flameout against the New York Cosmos. NYCFC will surely eat a fat portion of his ridiculous, indefensible $760,000-per-year deal just to get him out the door.

But despite it all, the Mix Saga here in the Five Boroughs remains chock-full of the most sublime of theatrics. The player posted the following on Instagram Sunday evening:

What is the word that describes what this is? Has it yet to be coined? I mean, fuck. What we have here is an unvarnished blast of human honesty and self-reflection. Meticulously-worded literary abstractions swirling in a morass of ideology.

There’s existential malaise in here, toiling in the long shadow of the ever-present-yet-unnamed ‘somebody.’ ‘He.’ Is this merely Patrick Vieira? Claudio Reyna? Some mish-mashy Voltron of inconvenient truth-tellers, inclusive of late-model Jurgen Klinsmann, back-again Bruce Arena, and rascally ol’ Sheikh Mansour himself?

This is a social media post with more layers than an ogre.

Really, we oughtn’t be caught off-guard when the Mix Master ventures out into poesy’s briny deeps. His Twitter account has never lacked for taut, cryptic verse — both in English and Norwegian — and he dropped some casual Walt Whitman as recently as Friday:

John Keating’s beaming twice-over! This one’s straight out of “Song of Myself,” the sprawling powerhouse at the heart of Whitman’s titanic Leaves of Grass. This is a serious pull, as if Mix were announcing to us all, despite his inconsistent and often ineffectual play in the famous Etihad shirt, that he is large; that he contains multitudes.

“Have you reckon'd a thousand acres much? have you reckon'd
the earth much?
Have you practis'd so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?”

Whitman’s queries evaporate into a gas of rose petals as Mix calmly nods and dips quill into well. “I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the beginning and the end, But I do not talk of the beginning or the end,” he thinks to himself.

It’s a supreme irony that Mix Diskerud, who was signed in the immediate wake of the explosive climax of the Frank Lampard contractual debacle, came to overtake Danq Phranq ten times over as the most ill-advised signing in the brief history of New York City FC. It may be some time indeed before we hear a meaningful inside story (you know where to find us for an #exclusive, Remy Cherin!), but the facts are clear even now: on NYCFC’s first-ever opening day, Mix Diskerud scored the first goal in team history, and it was a damn beauty. Upon last year’s season premiere, Mix was among the team’s standout performers, notching a goal and an assist in a 4-3 guilty pleasure win at Chicago.

And besides those two games, he’s been a wickedly expensive enigma on the field, and simply an enigma off it.

But let’s be clear: once the papers are signed and he’s off the NYCFC balance sheet for good, soccer fans in the Five Boroughs will be totally unable to treat Mix Diskerud as an irrelevant symbol of a frustrating past. In order to pin him down thus, we’d have to have a clearer picture of the way his fantastically confounding brain works.

We don’t.

And that’s OK. Actually, I kinda like it.

*** *** ***

And as to you Life I reckon you are the leavings of many

deaths,

(No doubt I have died myself ten thousand times before.)

I hear you whispering there O stars of heaven,

O suns — O grass of graves — O perpetual transfers and

promotions,

If you do not say any thing how can I say any thing?

Of the turbid pool that lies in the autumn forest,

Of the moon that descends the steeps of the soughing

twilight,

Toss, sparkles of day and dusk — toss on the black stems that

decay in the muck,

Toss to the moaning gibberish of the dry limbs.

I ascend from the moon, I ascend from the night,

I perceive that the ghastly glimmer is noonday sunbeams

reflected,

And debouch to the steady and central from the offspring

great or small.