Rusty's Diary, Vol. 10: I Got Kidnapped By a Soccer Player and Honestly? Mixed Feelings

Okay so funny story. Actually not funny. Terrifying. Also a little bit the best day of my life. I contain multitudes.

Some of you saw the photo going around... a certain 6'4" Norwegian goal-scoring cyborg deplaning back home with what several news outlets are calling "a raccoon-shaped liquor holder."

I would like to clarify, on the record, in my own voice, as a legal adult raccoon: that was me. I was awake. I was aware. I was, allegedly, "part of the luggage."

Here's what happened. One minute I'm doing my nightly rounds of the bar checking for abandoned mozzarella sticks, and the next minute I'm being scooped up by a man whose thighs are, and I cannot stress this enough, the size of my entire torso.

No words exchanged. No consent form. Just a guy built like a Norse legend deciding I was coming with him, and me deciding that fighting back against a professional athlete built like a refrigerator was maybe not the move.

So now I'm on a plane. Private, if you're wondering. say what you want about being kidnapped, at least I wasn't kidnapped in coach. I spent most of the flight being held aloft like some kind of trophy, which, fair, I am extremely trophy-coded.

Passengers kept taking pictures. I did my best "majestic wildlife" face. I have a face for this. I've been practicing near the pinball machine for years.

Now look. Part of me, a big part, a part that lives rent-free in the walls of a certain basement dive bar in North Carolina, desperately wants to go home. I have a stool. I have responsibilities. I have DMs to ignore. There is a very specific dumpster behind Mooresville that I have not checked in several days and frankly it's stressing me out.

But also. ALSO. I am currently living my absolute best life next to a man who kicks a ball for a living and is, by all accounts, extremely good at it, possibly the best in the world at it, and there is a version of this story where I become an international soccer mascot and never have to deal with pool table etiquette disputes again. I've seen the training facilities. They have towels that are nicer than our bar napkins. I could get used to this.

So here's where I'm at: torn between the dive bar that made me who I am, and a professional athlete who has apparently decided I am now his emotional support raccoon slash beverage accessory. Honestly? Growth. Range. A raccoon contains multitudes, I said it once and I'll say it again.

Anyway if anyone needs me I'll be over here weighing "go back to the bar I love" against "stay famous abroad with a soccer god," which is genuinely a harder decision than anything else I've had to make this year, including whether to eat the mystery nacho.

Stay classy (but not too classy, especially if you're currently in someone's carry-on),

Rusty