Gordon Robinson | The legend of the golden urn

Here’s a classic Shaggy Dog Tale (edited by me or we’d be here all day) of which Haemorrhoid would’ve been proud but was never actually told by him.

Arthur was hired as head butler for notoriously eccentric, short-tempered American billionaire Micah Rackets. On his first day, Rackets took Arthur into the ballroom and pointed to a pedestal. Resting on it was an exquisitely carved, ancient golden urn.

“Arthur,” Rackets said gravely, “this urn has been in my family for seven generations. It’s worth $5million but its sentimental value is priceless. If anything happens to it, I’ll personally ensure whoever’s responsible is ruined for life. Understand?”

“Perfectly, sir,” Arthur replied, swallowing hard.

For three years Arthur cared for the urn immaculately. He dusted it with a microfibre cloth; kept the room at 68˚; and everyone away.

Then, one rainy afternoon, disaster struck.

Arthur was polishing the chandelier directly above the pedestal. His foot slipped on the ladder; his elbow caught the chandelier’s rope; it swung wildly, clipping the pedestal. Arthur watched in slow-motion horror as the golden urn toppled, hit the marble floor and shattered.

Panic gripped Arthur. He knew Rackets would soon be home. He couldn’t face the blame. He couldn’t be ruined.

Arthur swept up every shard; threw them into a burlap sack and ran out into pouring rain. He jumped into his car and sped away. He drove until his gas gauge hit empty; rolled the car into a ditch; grabbed the burlap sack and hiked through torrential downpours. He walked for days, surviving on water and wild berries; crossed the Canadian border desperately putting distance between himself and Rackets.

For five years, Arthur lived as a nomad. He traveled across the freezing steppes of Siberia; spent a year in a Tibetan monastery; two years in the Australian Outback. Everywhere he went, he carried the burlap sack terrified that, if he dropped it, someone would discover his crime.

Finally, Arthur ended up in a tiny village in the Sahara Desert. He figured he was safe there. He traded a fragment of the broken gold for a mud-brick hut and a goat. He lived a solitary life. He became a familiar, strange fixture in the village the quiet foreigner who kept a burlap sack in his hut. He aged, his hair turned grey but he finally felt at peace. Blame couldn’t reach him.

One afternoon, fourteen years after he fled, Arthur was sitting outside when, suddenly, he heard a strange sound.

Chug-a-chug-a-chug-a-chug.

He squinted against the desert sun. A dust cloud on the horizon came closer. It was a black luxury SUV. It screeched to a halt in front of Arthur. Two heavy-set men in black suits and sunglasses came out flanking the rear door.

The door opened. Out stepped Rackets.

He was older, walking with a cane, but his eyes were as piercing. He walked up to Arthur who was paralyzed with fear. Arthur braced himself for the ruin he’d spent fourteen years avoiding.

Rackets looked Arthur up and down, took a deep breath, and said:

“Arthur! Thank goodness I found you! The chef accidentally dropped a plate in the kitchen fourteen years ago and we’ve been trying to figure out who to blame it on ever since. Anyway, have you seen my urn? We’re moving.”

There’s probably a shorter but no better way to describe my angst at the Jamaica Football Federation (JFF) than this tedious tale. I’ve been beyond disappointed for two years but, when I read that JFF Boss Michael Ricketts was blaming an ineligible DR Congo Goalie for Jamaica’s failed World Cup qualification, I arrived at the end of my tolerance tether. Ineligible? Why? Because he played for France at youth level and didn’t complete formal nationality switch paperwork?

Really? Seriously? THAT’s why Jamaica didn’t qualify?

I’ll be the elder Hardy Boy. It’s JFF’s fault Reggae Boyz watched World Cup on TV. Football Gods gave us a perfect qualification path when top three CONCACAF nations were named co-hosts.

How’d JFF respond to this golden gift? It hired Steve McLaren - world’s worst football coach. Everybody knows I consider Englishmen, generally, to be awful football coaches. Lookie here: How many top-five EPL teams have English coaches?

Then, of all available Englishmen, JFF went for McLaren whose immediate experience was unemployment for five years after spending less than a year at FIVE clubs. Before THAT his résumé’s highlight was failure, as England coach, to qualify for the Euros.

That’s been eclipsed by his failure to beat Curacao in two tries or beating-stick T&T despite leading 1-0 after 85 minutes. What the granny-gungus-natty has DR Congo’s goalie to do with Jamaica’s qualification failure except to help Ricketts find someone to blame?

And don’t get me started on his full-throated support of Infant Gianni even after disgraceful World Cup interference at Trump’s behest and attempts to sell FIFA’s commercial rights to private entities.

Has Ricketts found a golden urn?

Peace and Love.

Gordon Robinson is an attorney-at-law. Send feedback to columns@gleanerjm.com