Not even sure if I'm going to publish this. A feeling of blah, I feel like shit. ¿Qué carajo me pasa? Se supone que tengo apenitas 39 años, que por supuesto no es tan joven pero tampoco es tan viejo, carajo mío.
Me levanto (y apenas eso, por cierto) y lo que deseo es inmediatemente volverme a echar, qué carajo, que esto es un ridículo, mierda.
Y me meto en eso que es juzgarme, ¿qué te pasa, pedazo de mierda?, levántate y no seas pendejo
hi´jueputa, que tienes hijos, que tienes esposa, que hagas algo flojonazo de mierda.
La luz de sol que me compré me da en la cara, como tiene que hacer, y voy flotando...
//////////////
Maybe the whole point is, I have to admit I'm feeling like shit. Maybe the whole point is, sometimes we do feel like pieces of shit and that's okay, not ideal obviously, but it happens. And it happens to some more than others, some feel it more acutely than others, and they need to deal with it on their terms.
Maybe I'm one of them.
///////////////
Maybe the whole point is, I'm a--what do they call it?--introvert. And instead of judging people who say that, accept that I am too, and that they may be feeling what you feel now.
//////////////
The kids have done the quiz and are now are watching the movie. They seem to like it. The administrators have come and gone. I don't feel right, don't feel like a teacher, don't feel like I'm the best person for this job, not sure about who I am, not sure, not sure...
Certainly these are valid feelings.
//////////////
But they are also 1st World feelings. So you don't feel like working? Well, you have a job. A good job. So get working. You don't feel like the right person? Guess what, the school district says you are that person, and you agreed to be. So be him.
////////////
En fin es así. No siempre tiene uno ganas de hacer lo que necesite. Pero el punto es que lo hagas, que vas de un día para otro. Así es la cosa. ¿Y si no hiciste ayer bien lo que tenías que haber hecho? Pues, ¿qué le vas a cambiar ahora? Ponlo en el retrovisor y sigue adelante, pues es por ahí que queda lo que tienes que hacer.
Hoy. Y mañana. No en el ayer.
Monday, November 21, 2016
Thursday, November 3, 2016
The Cubs Just Won the World Series: It's never just baseball if it's Cubs baseball
“As my dad realized in the ’50s, there’s something liberating about knowing your team is going to lose. With the outcome sealed, you become free to enjoy the game and the experience of the ballpark for whatever it is. Sometime in the middle of the incredible, marathon, rain-delayed epic that was Game 7, I came to that conclusion myself.”
Rob Arthur, fivethirtyeight.com
I so much wanted to be like Rob Arthur’s dad. I thought I would be. All day Wednesday, after the Cubs had secured that beautiful, rare jewel that is a World Series Game 7, I told myself: “We’ve broken the NL Pennant curse, and I’m overjoyed at that. The team has shown incredible resilience; they did not roll over and die like so many past Cubs teams.” I repeated it, over and over again: “I am going to enjoy this game, win or lose, close or blowout, because, for the first (and maybe only) time in my life, the Cubs are playing in a World Series Game 7. I will enjoy it because it’s baseball, and I love baseball, and I will enjoy it however it unfolds.” In other words, I would be a baseball fan first, and a Cubs fan second.
********
And I really was, for a while. I told the kids they could stay up late tonight and watch Game 7. Of course, I was thrilled when Dexter drilled a leadoff homerun, but neither did I get particularly upset when Carlos Santana drove in the first Indians run. I was happy when the Cubs got two more, and then two more again. The score was 5-1, and I almost--but didn’t--tell Sonia, “If we lose it now, perhaps the curse is still alive.”
However, the damage was still done: I expected a win.
Perhaps I should explain a bit more. Us Cubs fans are a superstitious bunch. Very early on this postseason, I started a text group with family, friends and coworkers, all Cubs fans, and shared thoughts during the games. It was fun, and it provided community. But in Game 6 of the NLCS, the Cubs ready to clinch, we got out to an early lead, and I thought, “Texting can only ruin this.” The Cubs won and clinched the National League. I didn’t text during a game the rest of the postseason. Before and after, sure. But not during.
To expect a win, to say it looks good, to hint it might be coming, to even think it might be coming: to a Cubs fan, that is to invite disaster and heartbreak.
********
By the time the rain delay was called, after the ninth inning, I was a shell of a man. I had no idea how long the delay would go, so I sent my boys to bed. I was exhausted. I was a ball of nerves and the nerves were frazzled. I considered going to bed myself; after all, I reasoned, maybe if I went to bed, maybe they would play better, maybe they would stop giving up leads. I would be happy to forgo watching if it meant the Cubs would win the World Series.
Clearly, I had failed in my goal. Whatever happened to Rob Arthur, the exact opposite had happened to me. I was now a Cubs fan first, WAY first, and a baseball fan second, WAY second. Baseball could go to hell for all I was concerned. How did that happen?
Oddly enough, I think I can pinpoint the transition point exactly: it was in the bottom of the fifth inning. Maddon brought Lester in; I wasn’t sure about the timing, but I gave up second guessing Joe a long time ago. With runners on 2nd and 3rd, Lester bounced a 57 footer to retiring David Ross, who took it straight off the mask. Ross, knocked off balance, got his feet tangled up and couldn’t get to the ball. Jason Kipnis scored all the way from second.
I told Niko, “I hope you saw that because it will be a long time before you see two guys score on a wild pitch again.” And then I thought Fuck. Only the Cubs. Only the Cubs have two guys score on wild pitch in their biggest game ever. As if to drive it home, Joe Buck said, “The last time two men scored on wild pitch in postseason play was in 1911, when [catcher’s name] refused to go get the ball.”
The score was 5-3 and I was pissed. If Jason Kipnis had hit a two run homerun I wouldn’t have been pissed. But goddamn it, two runs scoring on a wild pitch because our catcher got knocked on his ass by a pitch? Without even realizing it, I began to tense up. It didn’t matter when Lester got out of the inning without further damage, or even when David Ross hit a homerun to make it 6-3. I was convinced Ross’ homerun was only a little torture so that the inevitable smackdown would hurt even more. I became silent. I read Helter Skelter on my Kindle during commercials even though I’ve read it a hundred times because I couldn’t bear to be alone with my thoughts, let alone actually talk with anyone.
Chapman came in in the eighth. The Cubs led by three with a man on. Four outs to win. Despite knowing better, I was beginning to hope again. Brandon Guyer was hitting. Brandon fucking Guyer. Of course he ripped a two-strike, two out double. 6-4, Cubs. Rajai Davis came up. Rajai fucking Davis. Of course Rajai Davis, who hadn’t homered since August, ripped one down the line against Chapman, who hadn’t given up a homerun since June 18. Of course it was 6-6.
And of course I wasn’t watching a great baseball game, a World Series Game 7, what will probably go down as one of the top 10 games ever. I was just another Cubs fan, wallowing in self-pity, dying on the inside, wishing I had never even heard of the Cubs, maybe even the whole goddamn sport of baseball, because it was never gonna happen anyway.
*********
Sonia was asleep on the couch. The kids were in bed. I wandered through the house, a zombie, somewhere between consciousness and elsewhere. I couldn’t think, couldn’t reason, I only felt wiped. I had my Kindle in my hand. I ended up laying on my bed reading Helter Skelter. Manson, Sharon Tate, the Beatles. In the distance sounds began to penetrate through my daze. Joe Buck, John Smoltz, somebody, was saying Kyle Schwarber has hit a single after the rain delay.
Some force, from somewhere, pulled me off of the bed. I didn’t have my glasses on, didn’t know where they were. They were dropped off at some point in my aimless wandering. I grabbed a stool from the kitchen and sat two feet from the television set so I could see. Maybe I shouldn’t be watching. Schwarber got a hit when I wasn’t watching. But I kept watching. Watched Almora pinch run. What if we need Schwarber’s bat later? Watched Bryant drive it deep, watched Almora make a brilliant baserunning play and get to second on the tag. Watched them walk Rizzo. Smart move.
Zobrist. Oh God please Zobrist. Two strikes. Oh my God he it it! We lead. It doesn’t matter we’ll probably blow it. They walk Russell. Montero. Oh my God another hit! A two run lead! Maybe...maybe...maybe...can we hold that?
Three outs. I don’t look for my glasses during the commercial. We scored when I wasn’t wearing them. I pace. I sit back down on my stool. All I can feel, all I can hear, all I can think, is my heart beating like John Bonham.
Carl Edwards Jr. takes the mound. Can this guy do it? Napoli out. Next guy out. Two outs. Next guy on (Brandon fucking Guyer), takes second. Rajai Davis. Motherfucking Rajai Davis. Singles. 8-7.
Mike Montgomery. Commercial. I pace. Back to the stool. Michael Martinez, for the Indians. Curveball, strike. Curve ball, dribbler towards third, Bryant charges, throws to Rizzo, third out, Cubs win.
I’m not sure if my heart is beating anymore because I am one with it. I don’t jump, don’t yell. I don’t look at the screen. I slide off the stool and fall down on Sonia. “The Cubs just won the World Series,” I say. They’re words, nothing else. “Congratulations,” she says. “They deserve it. You deserve it.” “I’m going to tell the kids,” I say. Niko and Orlando are out cold. I wake them up and tell them “The Cubs just won the World Series.” It’s only words. They only convey a message. I tell them they can get up and watch the celebration if they want. They’re already back asleep.
The game’s been over for about two minutes and I’m walking up the steps when it finally, really, actually, hits me. The Cubs just won the motherfucking World Series. I scream and yell and jump and drink NA beer and I don’t stop for two hours. I don’t know how I’m gonna work tomorrow and I don’t care.
Monday, August 15, 2016
On Loan
In sports, a loan involves a particular player being allowed to temporarily play for a club other than the one he is currently contracted to. Loan deals may last from a few weeks to all season-long and can also subsist for multiple seasons.
--Wikipedia
*************
As most of you probably know, I am kind of a sports junkie. But not so much the sports junkie that listens to sports radio for hours a day or parks in front of ESPN every weekend (except, of course, when the Hawkeyes play). And I don't play, either, unfortunately; I would love to, but it is quite difficult to find leagues for unathletic people in their late 30's, especially when you have two young children.
No, I am a different kind of sports junkie: the nerd sports junkie.
For me, ESPN, sports radio, etc. are only supplements to my true passion: cards and dice sports. In C & D sports (as we in the community call ourselves), each player in whatever sport you are mimicking is given a card, with their performance from the previous season embedded in dice chances. You then roll the dice to see what happens. You could think of it as "Dungeons and Dragons" for sports. (D & D, as it happens, was inspired by Strat-o-Matic). There are many, many wrinkles, of course, that you can add in (and believe me, I do) but that is the general idea.
For me, it began with baseball. Before I had kids, I was quite the man about town. I loved going out with friends, shooting pool, playing darts, talking politics, you name it. Suddenly, though, I had this ten pound little being in my life and found that going out three or four nights a week wasn't gonna be. Not only wasn't it going to be, I didn't even want it to be; kids tend to make you tired.
When Niko was almost a year old, I bought a baseball preview magazine. On page 14 was a full page ad for Strat-o-Matic Baseball. It brought back vague memories of playing with my brother Marty while on interminable visits to southern Iowa (although, I would come to realize much later, the game we had played was actually Statis Pro, not Strat-o-Matic). Intrigued, I asked Sonia if she would mind if I purchased it, with vague, optimistic promises that it would be something I could do together with the kid(s) as they got older.
The kids, of course, prefer video games. But I fell. Hook, line and sinker. When the kids were little, I had tons of time around the house that I had never had before and I filled it with draft leagues, tournaments and replays. And a strange thing happened: even as the kids got older and our schedules filled up with play dates, soccer games, and school, I got even more into the games than before. I mad a few futile attempts to entice buddies to play with me, but nobody was really interested. It remained a solitaire passion.
A few years ago, I branched out. Niko is a huge American football fan, so I bought Strat-o-Matic "for him". We've played a few games together, but he prefers Madden on the PS3. I probably would, too, if I were ten. I enjoyed it, but unlike the baseball game, it doesn't play particularly well solitaire. Football spends a lot of time on the shelf, unfortunately, unless Niko gets bored and I can talk him into a game.
The next time I branched out would present new challenges. I have played and watched baseball for as long as I can remember, and football for almost as long. While I had to learn the mechanics of the game system, the sports themselves were second nature to me. Basketball is similar, but I've never been a big basketball fan.
So as I found myself "without a sport", as it were, during the long, cold, dark Iowa winters, I decided I was going to become a hockey fan. First on the list was buying Strat-o-Matic hockey. As I tried to learn to play, however, I was baffled. What was a "line"? When did the subs come in? What in God's name was "icing"? So, in order to really enjoy Strat hockey, I had to learn the sport itself. I checked out The Idiot's Guide to Ice Hockey. I bought a book on the history of the NHL. I started watching the NHL Network. I chose a favorite team, seemingly out of thin air: the Minnesota Wild.
It worked. I learned about hockey, and I love it, and I love playing Strat-o-Matic hockey. Within 18 months I was as fluid in Strat hockey as I was in baseball. The last several years I've been playing Strat baseball spring through fall, and Strat hockey fall through spring.
Soon enough, though, I became restless. I was ready for a new sport. I was ready for C & D soccer.
**************
Like many Americans of my generation and those before me, my relationship with soccer is quite different than my relationship with the "big three" of baseball, football and basketball, Until 1996, the United States did not have a First Division Soccer league. For a huge smorgasbord of reasons political, cultural and other, which I won't go into here (not that I'm an expert by any means!), soccer has not caught on in this country like it has in virtually the rest of the world. This is changing: Major League Soccer (MLS) is now an established league, with 20 teams and expanding, and for my kids as well as most others their age, soccer is as natural as, perhaps even more so than, baseball, football and basketball.
I personally never participated in a game of soccer until I was 21 years old, in February of 1999. I had recently arrived in the picture postcard city of Merida, Venezuela. Venezuela is an exception to the Latin American rule: along with Cuba and the Dominican Republic, baseball is the big sport, not soccer. In Merida, though, that was not the case. Soccer ruled. I soon discovered that if I was going to play sports, I would have to play soccer.
Merida sets along a finger-like valley in the northernmost part of the Andes mountains. In very few places is the ground flat. But just above the parking lot for the Facultad de Humanidades, where I (sporadically) attended classes, there was a flat stretch of land, perhaps 60 yards long and 40 yards wide, with the frame of the goal on either end. The nets had long since disappeared. On Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, guys (and only guys) would play pick up games of eight on eight, first goal won. Winners stayed and took on the next team. If no goal was scored within 10 minutes, there'd be a shootout. On the north side of the field, the ground jutted up quickly; on the south side, it jutted down abruptly. Many, many times, when a ball would fall off that tiny cliff, it would hit a car, and the alarm would reverberate in the cool, foggy air around us.
I had no cleats. I had no shinguards. Pretty much the only thing I knew was that I wasn't supposed to touch the ball with my hands. I was almost always put at defender by the self-appointed captains of my teams; I was almost always (and probably correctly) blamed when we would lose our game. "Catire!" ("White guy!") they'd yell. I learned that word fast. I was just a body out there, but I had fun. I made a lot of friends. When I wasn't losing the game for my side, most people were interested in getting to know the catire.
***************
Still, I never really got soccer until 2002. It was the summer after my first year of teaching, and I was spending it in Merida. The big difference this time was that the World Cup was going on in Japan and South Korea. It was noted in the U.S.; but in Venezuela is was everywhere, all the time. It didn't take long and I was caught up in it too. The United States advanced to the quarterfinals and was beat by Germany; I learned many of the finer points of the game and learned to discuss, analyze, even argue it. I learned to admired the athleticism of the players and marvel at the way they bent the ball. The players flopped too much (and they still do), but what the hell.
Niko was born in April of 2006. After school ended that spring, him and I were together 22 hours a day, every day, until late August. Luckily for both of us, it was another World Cup year, this time in Germany. I watched almost every single game that year, because really, what else was I going to do? The next summer, Sonia and I went on our honeymoon to Peru and Venezuela, where the Copa America (South American championship) was going on. Orlando came along in 2008; the South Africa World Cup in 2010, Copa America Argentina in 2011, World Cup 2014 in Brazil; I shared them all with my boys.
Last summer we spent in Lima; they were playing the Copa America in Chile. We watched all or part of just about every single game.
Niko and Orlando both play soccer; I've even done some coaching. It is as weaved into their existence as much as baseball was in mine. Even for me, it's probably tied for second with football; and as the NCAA and NFL disgust me every day just a little bit more, it may even move ahead of that.
***************
Strat-o-Matic does not make a soccer game; I had to go to their main rival, APBA. APBA has lots of different soccer leagues: England, Italy, Spain, Germany. But I decided to be patriotic and go with MLS. As I did with hockey and the NHL, I set out to learn as much as I could about the league and the sport. As I did with hockey, I chose, more or less out of thin air, a favorite team: Sporting Kansas City. I read about the business structure.
As I did so, I kept coming across a term I just didn't understand: players "on loan". In all other American sports leagues, and indeed most professions, you are under contract with one team and play for them. Period. But apparently, soccer, due to its European business ancestry, has a concept, not present in the North American sports leagues, of loaning. Say, for example, Kansas City has a player under contract, but he's not playing at the current time, for whatever reason. They can "loan" that player to another team, maybe within the same MLS, but more usually in another league, until such time as they want to use him again.
****************
Two days ago I completed my thirty-ninth year off of the umbilical cord. We had a great time. We grilled out, cooking so much (SO MUCH!!) meat and other delicious food. Many loved ones came over and celebrated with me.
After the party died, I got out APBA and set up for my next game. Sporting KC vs. Portland Timbers. As with my other sports, I've learned a lot about soccer through my games. For example, I learned that I would only have one of my bigger players for part of the season because he was on loan from England's Premier League.
And I started to think about that, this concept of being on loan. And the more I thought about it, the more I liked it. Because if you think about it, we're all on loan. So far my loan to this world has lasted 39 years and I would be overjoyed if I could get another 39, although of course I have little control over that: who knows when my Club decides They need me and I have to head back?
A little harder to swallow is the idea that those around me are on loan to ME. With many people, it's not such a big deal; coworkers, fellow committee members, etc. are clearly with me for a stated time and purpose. Casual friends are the same way. With close friends, with extended family, it's a bit more difficult: does time and distance really separate us? Were my hometown buddies and college roommates and aunts and uncles and cousins really just on loan to me? Does that relationship HAVE to be severed?
The immediate family is hardest. I don't WANT my dad, my brothers and sisters, Sonia, my kids, OH MY GOD MY KIDS, to be on loan. I certainly didn't want my mom to be on loan. I want to control those contracts. I wouldn't mind, necessarily, loaning them out when it's good for everyone involved, but I damn sure would love to be able to say "You're coming back" whenever I damn well please, whenever I want to make sure they're okay, whenever I want to make sure I'M okay.
But I'm not in that position. I'm the player and the coach, not Management. I don't make those decisions. Someone Else makes those decisions, Someone Else with far more power and sway than I have or can ever aspire to have.
And I guess that means that the best I can do, the ONLY thing I can do, is be the best damn player and teammate I can, and thank Management for all the players They bring me into contact with during my time on loan here.
--Wikipedia
*************
As most of you probably know, I am kind of a sports junkie. But not so much the sports junkie that listens to sports radio for hours a day or parks in front of ESPN every weekend (except, of course, when the Hawkeyes play). And I don't play, either, unfortunately; I would love to, but it is quite difficult to find leagues for unathletic people in their late 30's, especially when you have two young children.
No, I am a different kind of sports junkie: the nerd sports junkie.
For me, ESPN, sports radio, etc. are only supplements to my true passion: cards and dice sports. In C & D sports (as we in the community call ourselves), each player in whatever sport you are mimicking is given a card, with their performance from the previous season embedded in dice chances. You then roll the dice to see what happens. You could think of it as "Dungeons and Dragons" for sports. (D & D, as it happens, was inspired by Strat-o-Matic). There are many, many wrinkles, of course, that you can add in (and believe me, I do) but that is the general idea.
For me, it began with baseball. Before I had kids, I was quite the man about town. I loved going out with friends, shooting pool, playing darts, talking politics, you name it. Suddenly, though, I had this ten pound little being in my life and found that going out three or four nights a week wasn't gonna be. Not only wasn't it going to be, I didn't even want it to be; kids tend to make you tired.
When Niko was almost a year old, I bought a baseball preview magazine. On page 14 was a full page ad for Strat-o-Matic Baseball. It brought back vague memories of playing with my brother Marty while on interminable visits to southern Iowa (although, I would come to realize much later, the game we had played was actually Statis Pro, not Strat-o-Matic). Intrigued, I asked Sonia if she would mind if I purchased it, with vague, optimistic promises that it would be something I could do together with the kid(s) as they got older.
The kids, of course, prefer video games. But I fell. Hook, line and sinker. When the kids were little, I had tons of time around the house that I had never had before and I filled it with draft leagues, tournaments and replays. And a strange thing happened: even as the kids got older and our schedules filled up with play dates, soccer games, and school, I got even more into the games than before. I mad a few futile attempts to entice buddies to play with me, but nobody was really interested. It remained a solitaire passion.
A few years ago, I branched out. Niko is a huge American football fan, so I bought Strat-o-Matic "for him". We've played a few games together, but he prefers Madden on the PS3. I probably would, too, if I were ten. I enjoyed it, but unlike the baseball game, it doesn't play particularly well solitaire. Football spends a lot of time on the shelf, unfortunately, unless Niko gets bored and I can talk him into a game.
The next time I branched out would present new challenges. I have played and watched baseball for as long as I can remember, and football for almost as long. While I had to learn the mechanics of the game system, the sports themselves were second nature to me. Basketball is similar, but I've never been a big basketball fan.
So as I found myself "without a sport", as it were, during the long, cold, dark Iowa winters, I decided I was going to become a hockey fan. First on the list was buying Strat-o-Matic hockey. As I tried to learn to play, however, I was baffled. What was a "line"? When did the subs come in? What in God's name was "icing"? So, in order to really enjoy Strat hockey, I had to learn the sport itself. I checked out The Idiot's Guide to Ice Hockey. I bought a book on the history of the NHL. I started watching the NHL Network. I chose a favorite team, seemingly out of thin air: the Minnesota Wild.
It worked. I learned about hockey, and I love it, and I love playing Strat-o-Matic hockey. Within 18 months I was as fluid in Strat hockey as I was in baseball. The last several years I've been playing Strat baseball spring through fall, and Strat hockey fall through spring.
Soon enough, though, I became restless. I was ready for a new sport. I was ready for C & D soccer.
**************
Like many Americans of my generation and those before me, my relationship with soccer is quite different than my relationship with the "big three" of baseball, football and basketball, Until 1996, the United States did not have a First Division Soccer league. For a huge smorgasbord of reasons political, cultural and other, which I won't go into here (not that I'm an expert by any means!), soccer has not caught on in this country like it has in virtually the rest of the world. This is changing: Major League Soccer (MLS) is now an established league, with 20 teams and expanding, and for my kids as well as most others their age, soccer is as natural as, perhaps even more so than, baseball, football and basketball.
I personally never participated in a game of soccer until I was 21 years old, in February of 1999. I had recently arrived in the picture postcard city of Merida, Venezuela. Venezuela is an exception to the Latin American rule: along with Cuba and the Dominican Republic, baseball is the big sport, not soccer. In Merida, though, that was not the case. Soccer ruled. I soon discovered that if I was going to play sports, I would have to play soccer.
Merida sets along a finger-like valley in the northernmost part of the Andes mountains. In very few places is the ground flat. But just above the parking lot for the Facultad de Humanidades, where I (sporadically) attended classes, there was a flat stretch of land, perhaps 60 yards long and 40 yards wide, with the frame of the goal on either end. The nets had long since disappeared. On Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, guys (and only guys) would play pick up games of eight on eight, first goal won. Winners stayed and took on the next team. If no goal was scored within 10 minutes, there'd be a shootout. On the north side of the field, the ground jutted up quickly; on the south side, it jutted down abruptly. Many, many times, when a ball would fall off that tiny cliff, it would hit a car, and the alarm would reverberate in the cool, foggy air around us.
I had no cleats. I had no shinguards. Pretty much the only thing I knew was that I wasn't supposed to touch the ball with my hands. I was almost always put at defender by the self-appointed captains of my teams; I was almost always (and probably correctly) blamed when we would lose our game. "Catire!" ("White guy!") they'd yell. I learned that word fast. I was just a body out there, but I had fun. I made a lot of friends. When I wasn't losing the game for my side, most people were interested in getting to know the catire.
***************
Still, I never really got soccer until 2002. It was the summer after my first year of teaching, and I was spending it in Merida. The big difference this time was that the World Cup was going on in Japan and South Korea. It was noted in the U.S.; but in Venezuela is was everywhere, all the time. It didn't take long and I was caught up in it too. The United States advanced to the quarterfinals and was beat by Germany; I learned many of the finer points of the game and learned to discuss, analyze, even argue it. I learned to admired the athleticism of the players and marvel at the way they bent the ball. The players flopped too much (and they still do), but what the hell.
Niko was born in April of 2006. After school ended that spring, him and I were together 22 hours a day, every day, until late August. Luckily for both of us, it was another World Cup year, this time in Germany. I watched almost every single game that year, because really, what else was I going to do? The next summer, Sonia and I went on our honeymoon to Peru and Venezuela, where the Copa America (South American championship) was going on. Orlando came along in 2008; the South Africa World Cup in 2010, Copa America Argentina in 2011, World Cup 2014 in Brazil; I shared them all with my boys.
Last summer we spent in Lima; they were playing the Copa America in Chile. We watched all or part of just about every single game.
Niko and Orlando both play soccer; I've even done some coaching. It is as weaved into their existence as much as baseball was in mine. Even for me, it's probably tied for second with football; and as the NCAA and NFL disgust me every day just a little bit more, it may even move ahead of that.
***************
Strat-o-Matic does not make a soccer game; I had to go to their main rival, APBA. APBA has lots of different soccer leagues: England, Italy, Spain, Germany. But I decided to be patriotic and go with MLS. As I did with hockey and the NHL, I set out to learn as much as I could about the league and the sport. As I did with hockey, I chose, more or less out of thin air, a favorite team: Sporting Kansas City. I read about the business structure.
As I did so, I kept coming across a term I just didn't understand: players "on loan". In all other American sports leagues, and indeed most professions, you are under contract with one team and play for them. Period. But apparently, soccer, due to its European business ancestry, has a concept, not present in the North American sports leagues, of loaning. Say, for example, Kansas City has a player under contract, but he's not playing at the current time, for whatever reason. They can "loan" that player to another team, maybe within the same MLS, but more usually in another league, until such time as they want to use him again.
****************
Two days ago I completed my thirty-ninth year off of the umbilical cord. We had a great time. We grilled out, cooking so much (SO MUCH!!) meat and other delicious food. Many loved ones came over and celebrated with me.
After the party died, I got out APBA and set up for my next game. Sporting KC vs. Portland Timbers. As with my other sports, I've learned a lot about soccer through my games. For example, I learned that I would only have one of my bigger players for part of the season because he was on loan from England's Premier League.
And I started to think about that, this concept of being on loan. And the more I thought about it, the more I liked it. Because if you think about it, we're all on loan. So far my loan to this world has lasted 39 years and I would be overjoyed if I could get another 39, although of course I have little control over that: who knows when my Club decides They need me and I have to head back?
A little harder to swallow is the idea that those around me are on loan to ME. With many people, it's not such a big deal; coworkers, fellow committee members, etc. are clearly with me for a stated time and purpose. Casual friends are the same way. With close friends, with extended family, it's a bit more difficult: does time and distance really separate us? Were my hometown buddies and college roommates and aunts and uncles and cousins really just on loan to me? Does that relationship HAVE to be severed?
The immediate family is hardest. I don't WANT my dad, my brothers and sisters, Sonia, my kids, OH MY GOD MY KIDS, to be on loan. I certainly didn't want my mom to be on loan. I want to control those contracts. I wouldn't mind, necessarily, loaning them out when it's good for everyone involved, but I damn sure would love to be able to say "You're coming back" whenever I damn well please, whenever I want to make sure they're okay, whenever I want to make sure I'M okay.
But I'm not in that position. I'm the player and the coach, not Management. I don't make those decisions. Someone Else makes those decisions, Someone Else with far more power and sway than I have or can ever aspire to have.
And I guess that means that the best I can do, the ONLY thing I can do, is be the best damn player and teammate I can, and thank Management for all the players They bring me into contact with during my time on loan here.
Friday, July 8, 2016
Esta tarde veraniega
Bajo un cielo más azul que azul
Oigo
La brisa que empuja a las manzanas.
Está insistiendo
que salgan
que bajen
que rueden.
No le importa que les esté cortando
la propia vida.
Y a mí tampoco me importa,
pues
que la brisa está rica.
Entre los dedos de mis pies,
entre mis pelos que cada vez son menos,
entre los pensamientos vacíos
de una tarde veraniega.
El cielo sigue
más azul que azul.
Me da ganas de llorar y reír
a la vez.
Se me es así
aun con los ojos cerrados
mientras
Oigo (¿o Sueño con?)
La danza fina de las ramas
que desata las manzanas
que las manda a caer
que pronto les acabará
con su vida,
tal como,
Supongo,
que pronto se acabará
esta brisa tan rica y
esta tarde veraniega.
Oigo
La brisa que empuja a las manzanas.
Está insistiendo
que salgan
que bajen
que rueden.
No le importa que les esté cortando
la propia vida.
Y a mí tampoco me importa,
pues
que la brisa está rica.
Entre los dedos de mis pies,
entre mis pelos que cada vez son menos,
entre los pensamientos vacíos
de una tarde veraniega.
El cielo sigue
más azul que azul.
Me da ganas de llorar y reír
a la vez.
Se me es así
aun con los ojos cerrados
mientras
Oigo (¿o Sueño con?)
La danza fina de las ramas
que desata las manzanas
que las manda a caer
que pronto les acabará
con su vida,
tal como,
Supongo,
que pronto se acabará
esta brisa tan rica y
esta tarde veraniega.
Monday, June 27, 2016
Of baseball and real life
When I went to bed tonight, I was torn. What should I read as I settled in for sleep? Should I play around wth my baseball leagues? Or read some spirituality to reflect on as I fell asleep?
In the end it wasn't a fair contest. Baseball ALWAYS wins.
And anyway, I'm not so sure they're all that different.
*******
The boys had baseball tournaments last weekend. I coach Niko's team. Saturday morning, we were playing for a spot in the championship game. We were down 8-5 going into the bottom of the last inning. We scored a run, loaded the bases. Flyball--we sent the runner. It was gonna be 8-6!!
He didn't slide into home as the throw came in. He was safe, but he was out. Just like that, it was over. The kids, shocked. Denied a shot at the championship on a technicality. Tears. Lots of tears.
We played again at one, for a chance to play for third place. We didn't play well. We were down one going into the bottom of the last inning. We put a runner on and he scored. We moved another runner to third. Our batter walked, which means he got to use the tee. He drove it into right. The winning run touched the plate. I almost screamed with ecstasy but settled for a fist pump. Our kids were overjoyed. The thrill of victory.
Across the way, the other team was--literally--in tears. Hard, streaming tears. Complete devastation.
The agony of defeat.
We met at home plate. "Good game," we said. And we meant it. Three hours earlier that had been us.
********
It will be a while before we play another baseball game. But until then, pump your arms when you win. Don't be afraid to cry when you leave it all out there and you lose. And may you have more--even just a little more--of the former.
Beijinhos, Mark
In the end it wasn't a fair contest. Baseball ALWAYS wins.
And anyway, I'm not so sure they're all that different.
*******
The boys had baseball tournaments last weekend. I coach Niko's team. Saturday morning, we were playing for a spot in the championship game. We were down 8-5 going into the bottom of the last inning. We scored a run, loaded the bases. Flyball--we sent the runner. It was gonna be 8-6!!
He didn't slide into home as the throw came in. He was safe, but he was out. Just like that, it was over. The kids, shocked. Denied a shot at the championship on a technicality. Tears. Lots of tears.
We played again at one, for a chance to play for third place. We didn't play well. We were down one going into the bottom of the last inning. We put a runner on and he scored. We moved another runner to third. Our batter walked, which means he got to use the tee. He drove it into right. The winning run touched the plate. I almost screamed with ecstasy but settled for a fist pump. Our kids were overjoyed. The thrill of victory.
Across the way, the other team was--literally--in tears. Hard, streaming tears. Complete devastation.
The agony of defeat.
We met at home plate. "Good game," we said. And we meant it. Three hours earlier that had been us.
********
It will be a while before we play another baseball game. But until then, pump your arms when you win. Don't be afraid to cry when you leave it all out there and you lose. And may you have more--even just a little more--of the former.
Beijinhos, Mark
Sunday, June 19, 2016
Sample of my Translation: "Encounter"
Translated from Born in Blood and Fire by John Charles Chasteen, with permission from the author for educational purposes only.
EL
ENCUENTRO
Hubo gente
indígena que habitaba casi cada centímetro de las Américas cuando llegaron los
europeos y los africanos. Los desiertos
y los bosques no eran tan densamente poblados como los valles fértiles, pero no
hubo ninguna parte del continente que carecía de personas quienes vivían de la
tierra y se consideraban parte de ella.
El Encuentro entre los americanos nativos y los europeos constituye un
momento definitivo en la historia mundial: ni el “Viejo Mundo” ni el “Nuevo
Mundo”, como ellos apodaban a las Américas, sería igual después. Para América Latina, la conquista y la colonización
por los españoles y los portugueses creó patrones de dominación que se hicieron
de lo más natural, como las marcas permanentes y profundas del pecado original.
Los invasores
ibéricos de América no eran, en lo personal, más pecadores que cualquier. Vinieron a las Américas buscando el éxito en
los términos dictados por su sociedad: las riquezas, el privilegio de ser
servidos por otros, y una afirmación de justificación religiosa. No tiene sentido que nosotros juzguemos su
calidad moral como seres humanos porque ellos nomás vivían por la lógica del
mundo como ellos lo comprendían, igual que nosotros. El pecado original quedaba en la lógica,
justificada en términos religiosos, que asumía un derecho a conquistar y colonizar. Por una manera u otra, la lógica europea de
conquistar mal influyó el Encuentro desde México hasta Argentina. El escenario básico variaba según el ambiente
natural y la manera indígena de vivir al llegar los invasores europeos.
PATRONES
DE LA VIDA INDÍGENA
Los pueblos
indígenas de las Américas se habían adaptado a la tierra en varias
maneras. Algunos eran no sedentarios, una adaptación a los
ambientes difíciles como los desiertos norteños de México, el territorio de los
Chichimecas. Los pueblos no sedentarios
vivían una existencia móvil como cazadores y recogedores, y este movimiento
mantuvo a sus grupos pequeños y su organización social relativamente
sencilla. Muchos de estos grupos habitaban a las planicies
vacías. Las planicies áridas constituyen
una gran parte del interior de América del Sur, ocupada en ese entonces por
tribus de cazadores y recogedores. No
eran exactamente bosques ni praderas en el momento del Encuentro. Esta tierra era habitada por varias clases de
arbustos pequeños que, como en el área noreste de Brasil llamado el sertão, podrían tener espinas y perder
sus hojas durante la temporada seca. Los
pueblos Pampas, quienes dieron su nombre a las praderas argentinas, también
eran no sedentarios.
Otros
indígenas americanos vivían en el bosque.
El cazar era importante también para ellos, pero la abundancia de lluvia
que caracteriza a la mayoría de los bosques hizo que estas gentes podían
depender de la tierra de una manera que las gentes no sedentarias no podían,
así que estas gentes eran muchas veces semi-sedentarias. Sus prácticas agriculturas fueron adaptadas a
las tierras poco espesas tropicales. ¿Tierras
poco espesas? Sí: la vegetación exuberante de las selvas produce una impresión
errante. Los de afuera piensan en estos
bosques como “junglas”, una palabra que sugiere una fertilidad que se apodera
de todo sin parar. Así, por ejemplo, un
texto geográfico de 1949 se refiere a “la fecundad y la ferocidad todopoderosas
de la jungla”. Dicha la verdad, la
vitalidad hermosa de las selvas reside no en la tierra, sino en cosas vivas,
como los insectos, árboles, y varios epífitas de los árboles que no tienen
ningunas raíces en el suelo.
Particularmente en las grandes selvas tropicales de la cuenca del Río
Amazonas, las tierras son de una fertilidad marginal. Una vez que son despejadas para la
agricultura, estas tierras suelen rendir a niveles decepcionantes después de
unos pocos años. Por ende, los pueblos
que vivían en los bosques tropicales practicaban una “cultivación movedora”, a
veces llamada “cortar y quemar” por la manera en que despejaban a sus
jardines. Las gentes semi-sedentarias
construían aldeas, pero las movían frecuentemente, dejando que los viejos
jardines se absorbieran de nuevo por la selva, y abriendo nuevos en otro
lado. La cultivación movedora, entonces,
fue una adaptación exitosa a uno de los ambientes más fuertes del mundo. Las sociedades semi-sedentarias, como los
Tupi de los bosques de Brasil y muy conocidos, se organizaron por tribu y
papeles de sexo, pero no por clase social.
Tampoco construyeron imperios.
Finalmente,
algunas gentes indígenas eran completamente
sedentarias. El asentamiento
permanente, normalmente en mesetas altas en vez de bosques, hizo que sus
sociedades fueran más complejas, y algunas construyeron grandes imperios,
especialmente los famosos imperios Azteca, Inca y Maya. No obstante, no todos los sedentarios tenían
imperios. Lo que tenían en común todos
eran formas estacionarias y sostenibles de agricultura. Por ejemplo, la capital del Imperio
Azteca—más populosa que Madrid o Lisboa—fue alimentada por una manera bastante
ingeniosa. Tenochtitlan fue rodeada por
el agua de un lago por todos lados, y en estas aguas los habitantes de la
ciudad construyeron plataformas jardineras llamadas chinampas. Depósitos diluviales renovaba su fertilidad
en periodos regulares. Los constructores del Imperio Inca tuvieron su propia forma
elaborada de agricultura sostenible que involucraba a cuestas en terrazas, la
irrigación y el uso de los desperdicios de pájaros, llamado el guano, como fertilizante. Una base
permanente de agricultura permitía el crecimiento de conglomeraciones más
grandes y densas de personas, la construcción de ciudades, la especialización
de la labor—muchas cosas. No todas eran buenas.
Mientras las gentes no sedentarias o semi-sedentarias tendían a ser
sociedades igualitarias, donde las personas más destacadas se hacían líderes
por sus cualidades personales, los grupos completamente sedentarias eran
fuertemente estratificadas por clases.
Los Aztecas, Incas y Mayas tenían todos noblezas hereditarias cuya
especialidad era la guerra.
Es importante
notar que los nombres Azteca e Inca se refieren a imperios y no, estrictamente hablando, a sus habitantes. Los que
reinaban al Imperio Azteca era una gente llamada las Mexicas, quienes dieron su
nombre a México. Las Mexicas guerreras
vinieron relativamente tarde al valle fértil donde construyeron su asombrosa
ciudad, Tenochtitlan, por un lago en la sombra de grandes volcanes, pero
heredaron una civilización que había desarrollado en las tierras altas
centrales de México por miles de años.
Por ejemplo, la gigantesca Pirámide del Sol, la pirámide más grande de
la Tierra, se construyó mucho antes de que llegaran las Mexicas. Temprano en los años 1400, las Mexicas eran
tan sólo uno entre muchos grupos quienes hablaban náhuatl, la lengua común
entre las ciudades-estados de la región.
Pero conquistaron una gran parte de México central durante los próximos
cien años. Tenochtitlan, la capital imperial, era un complejo vasto y repleto
de torres, palacios y pirámides que, según el español estupefacto Bernal Díaz,
subían como un espejismo de las aguas del lago que lo rodeaba, vinculado a
tierra firme por una serie de derechos y anivelados pasos elevados. “Estuvimos
sorprendidos y dijimos que estas cosas parecían encantos de un libro de
aventura,” escribió Díaz, describiendo la primera vista de Tenochtitlan de los
españoles.
Desde una
imponente ciudad capital en un valle alta andina lejos hacia al sur, el aún más
grande Imperio Inca había crecido tan rápido y recién como el Imperio
Azteca. La capital Inca se llamaba
Cusco, que significa “el ombligo del universo”.
Hoy en día se habla de “los Incas”, pero el nombre Inca en realidad se
refería a sólo el emperador y su imperio.
Étnicamente, la gente de Cusco eran hablantes del quechua, y ellos
también procedían de una larga historia de evolución cultural en los
Andes. Las maravillas arquitecturales del
Cusco—paredes resistentes a los terremotos con piedras conectadores—eran una
técnica vieja entre los constructores andinos.
Herederos de civilizaciones antiguas, los imperios Azteca e Inca eran
más nuevos y frágiles de lo que parecían.
Los Maya no
eran tan inclinados al imperio.
Comenzando mucho más antes que Tenochtitlan y Cusco, varios
ciudades-estados con imponentes centros ceremoniales controlaban a
Centroamérica: Tikal, Copán, Tulum, Uxmal.
Sus logros culturales en el arte, arquitectura y astronomía, entre
otros, eran entre los más impresionantes en toda América. Pero los Mayas no crearon un imperio que
fuera rival al de los Incas o Aztecas. Y
si se puede decir que hubo un punto alto en el Imperio Maya, fue muchos siglos
antes de la llegada de los europeos, así que no figurará mucho en nuestro
cuento.
En el momento
del Encuentro, entonces, la mayoría de Latinoamérica era habitada por gente no
sedentaria o semi-sedentaria, como los Pampas de Argentina o los Tupis de
Brasil. Hoy, no quedan muchos de sus
descendientes; las grandes poblaciones indígenas de Latinoamérica se han
descendido de los granjeros sedentarios, entre los cuales muchos vivían bajo el
reino Azteca, Maya o Inca hasta que llegaron los europeos. ¿Por qué sobrevivían ellos mientras los demás
murieron? La respuesta es compleja, pero
explica mucho sobre Latinoamérica.
Requiere, primero, algo de información de fondo sobre España y Portugal,
juntos bajo el nombre geográfico Iberia.
LAS
ORÍGENES DE UNA MENTALIDAD CONQUISTADORA
En los 1490,
cuando los europeos salieron de sus naves pequeños para ver por primera vez a
los americanos indígenas, la pregunta más grande era como cada uno se
reaccionaría al otro. Éste sí que fue un
verdadero encuentro cultural, un choque de valores y actitudes. El punto de vista de los españoles y
portugueses, al igual que su retórica conquistadora, se había formado por la
historia de la península Ibérica.
Thursday, April 28, 2016
Inbox
Son las 2:00 de la madrugada, y no he podido dormir, Me levanté a tomar leche y sin siquiera darme cuenta estaba revisando emails. Emails que escribí dos años atrás. Emails que me hacían recordar qué éramos, si es que fuimos algo.
Ahora tú estás en tus cosas y yo en las mías. Y no quiero que haya malentendido: soy feliz, y veo que tú también lo eres.
Pero tal vez, como soy ser humano, no me late sólo ser feliz. Quiero ser feliz, más ver tu nombre en mi Inbox. Quiero saber que leeré algo y me reiré. Quiero sentirme que soy parte de tu vida una vez más, aunque sólo sea por la pantalla.
Ojalá y estés dormida, rica, al lado del hombre que quieres. A la distancia, un viejo amigo no te ha olvidado, y anhela el día que tu nombre esté una vez (o varias, mejor todavía) en mi Inbox.
Descansa.
Ahora tú estás en tus cosas y yo en las mías. Y no quiero que haya malentendido: soy feliz, y veo que tú también lo eres.
Pero tal vez, como soy ser humano, no me late sólo ser feliz. Quiero ser feliz, más ver tu nombre en mi Inbox. Quiero saber que leeré algo y me reiré. Quiero sentirme que soy parte de tu vida una vez más, aunque sólo sea por la pantalla.
Ojalá y estés dormida, rica, al lado del hombre que quieres. A la distancia, un viejo amigo no te ha olvidado, y anhela el día que tu nombre esté una vez (o varias, mejor todavía) en mi Inbox.
Descansa.
arrancada
Eras apenas una joven. Una mujer, sin lugar a dudas. Pero una joven.
::::::
Viéndote en las fotos. Impotencia y incrédulo. Cómo pasa el tiempo.
::::::
Allá, en aquella. La de abajo, de la izquierda. Así te veías cuando te conocí. Hermosa. La niña a tu lado. Una sonrisa que tardaba en brotar pero cuando lo hacía era un rayo de sol.
;;;;;;
Éramos una pareja. Eras mi pareja. En muchas formas mi primera pareja.
::::::
No funcionamos. Así es la vida. A veces las cosas no funcionan. Fue contigo que aprendí que la vida no es lo que uno quiera que sea, sino que uno acepte lo que le dé la vida.
::::::
Aunque no funcionamos, no te dejé de querer. Te quise nomás de otra forma. Te sigo queriendo en un bolsillito de mi corazón.
::::::
Te nos fuiste, así de joven. Carajo, eras joven. Así es la vida. A veces le dejan a uno las persona, de joven y todo. Como la vida te da también te quita. No es bueno. Pero lo es.
::::::
Por lo menos, te vemos en las fotos. Por lo menos, te concíamos. Por muy poco que sea, a eso tenemos. La vida no puede quitarnos eso.
::::::
Viéndote en las fotos. Impotencia y incrédulo. Cómo pasa el tiempo.
::::::
Allá, en aquella. La de abajo, de la izquierda. Así te veías cuando te conocí. Hermosa. La niña a tu lado. Una sonrisa que tardaba en brotar pero cuando lo hacía era un rayo de sol.
;;;;;;
Éramos una pareja. Eras mi pareja. En muchas formas mi primera pareja.
::::::
No funcionamos. Así es la vida. A veces las cosas no funcionan. Fue contigo que aprendí que la vida no es lo que uno quiera que sea, sino que uno acepte lo que le dé la vida.
::::::
Aunque no funcionamos, no te dejé de querer. Te quise nomás de otra forma. Te sigo queriendo en un bolsillito de mi corazón.
::::::
Te nos fuiste, así de joven. Carajo, eras joven. Así es la vida. A veces le dejan a uno las persona, de joven y todo. Como la vida te da también te quita. No es bueno. Pero lo es.
::::::
Por lo menos, te vemos en las fotos. Por lo menos, te concíamos. Por muy poco que sea, a eso tenemos. La vida no puede quitarnos eso.
Tuesday, February 9, 2016
New Hampshire: Two soapboxes and a kind word for a Republican (no, really!)
SOAPBOX #1 - I am so freaking sick of people comparing Donald Trump's popularity to Bernie Sanders because they are both "outside the establishment".
Trump is a bombastic real estate developer who truly is an outsider. He has no serious policy proposals, just vague thoughts about "making America great". He is at best politically incorrect and at worst just an asshole. He plays on Americans' economic insecurity to produce fear and anger at disadvantaged populations.
(Disclaimer: I actually do not mind Trump as much as many people do. It's refreshing to hear someone say in real words what much of the Republican base actually thinks).
Bernie Sanders has been in elected office for over forty years, He has often been described as pragmatic rather than ideological. He has a specific list of issues which he considers as damaging to our society and has specific goals that he wants people to aspire to. He has some ideas which may be "pie in the sky" but they are a direction to move in, not necessarily a goal to be reached. He provides a viable alternative to centrist Democratic politics a la Hillary Clinton.
In short, Donald Trump really is an outsider, and a spectacle at that. Bernie Sanders has been fighting the same fights for nearly five decades; the only way he is an "outsider" is that he is outside the Hillary machine that the mainstream media was ready to serve to her on a silver platter.
SOAPBOX #2 - What's up with some feminists saying women who don't vote for Hillary are "traitors"? Are male supporters of Hillary traitors to Bernie? Hillary and Bernie have two clearly different visions of the direction of the Democratic party. You may prefer Hillary's vision to Bernie's, but shouldn't authentic feminism trust women to pick the candidate they see as the best option for their party, whatever their chromosomes might be?
JOHN KASICH - A Republican who is actually using the same facts as the rest of the world. I could see, in some extremely weird messed up situation, actually voting for this man. I'm glad he's doing well in N.H.
Trump is a bombastic real estate developer who truly is an outsider. He has no serious policy proposals, just vague thoughts about "making America great". He is at best politically incorrect and at worst just an asshole. He plays on Americans' economic insecurity to produce fear and anger at disadvantaged populations.
(Disclaimer: I actually do not mind Trump as much as many people do. It's refreshing to hear someone say in real words what much of the Republican base actually thinks).
Bernie Sanders has been in elected office for over forty years, He has often been described as pragmatic rather than ideological. He has a specific list of issues which he considers as damaging to our society and has specific goals that he wants people to aspire to. He has some ideas which may be "pie in the sky" but they are a direction to move in, not necessarily a goal to be reached. He provides a viable alternative to centrist Democratic politics a la Hillary Clinton.
In short, Donald Trump really is an outsider, and a spectacle at that. Bernie Sanders has been fighting the same fights for nearly five decades; the only way he is an "outsider" is that he is outside the Hillary machine that the mainstream media was ready to serve to her on a silver platter.
SOAPBOX #2 - What's up with some feminists saying women who don't vote for Hillary are "traitors"? Are male supporters of Hillary traitors to Bernie? Hillary and Bernie have two clearly different visions of the direction of the Democratic party. You may prefer Hillary's vision to Bernie's, but shouldn't authentic feminism trust women to pick the candidate they see as the best option for their party, whatever their chromosomes might be?
JOHN KASICH - A Republican who is actually using the same facts as the rest of the world. I could see, in some extremely weird messed up situation, actually voting for this man. I'm glad he's doing well in N.H.
Wednesday, January 20, 2016
Towards Mother's Womb
This was originally written in late January of 2014 in Spanish. It can be found at http://gocho-gringo.blogspot.com/2014/01/hacia-el-vientre-de-mama.html
This is a real translation, not Google.
Every day I eat lunch with my coworkers. It’s an absolutely incredible group, fun but dedicated, cynical but optimistic at the same time, vapid yet profound. We talk about everything and we talk about nothing, about our dreams and our lunch, about the future of education and the meaning of selfies. I know, from my wife, that not all jobs are like this, and every day I thank God that He has surrounded me with such a group of people.
The other day my coworker was talking about her conversations with her sister and I asked her how frequently they talked. She said they texted each other several times a day, exchanging pictures of their kids and whatnot. Then she said that it wasn’t like that with her brother, and she thought that was strange: when they were young, they were super close but now not so much. I laughed and I assured her that it was just a guy thing, that I didn’t talk much with my family either even though I consider us to be close.
“Yeah, I get it,” she said, “and for me, it isn’t that big a deal, but it drives my mom nuts. She’s always calling my sister and me asking about him, if he’s okay, asking why he doesn’t call her back. Poor woman.”
*********
My mom died on January 20, 1996, a sunny but cold Saturday, that fucking cold that we’ve had recently. She’d gone to play racquetball and collapsed during the game. My little sister, 13, saw her fall. They did CPR and all that shit but nothing, after an hour she was dead. My sister called us all hysterical and we went down to the hospital and I still remember my dad’s reaction when the doctor told him they couldn’t do anything more. My dad broke down crying, something I had never seen before; I wasn’t crying right then, but many tears were in my future.
The first hours were blurry, the following days, surreal, the nights unbearable. Everybody came to help: cousins, aunts and uncles, friends, acquaintances, even strangers. But the person I most wanted there wasn’t.
********
My brothers and sisters are very good about remembering the date. I am not, for some reason. And it’s not because I don’t know it’s January 20; I can write the date down 100 times during the day and not think twice about it. This year it wasn’t until I read something my sister had written on Facebook that I remembered what happened 18 years ago. Upon realizing this, my reaction was more of curiosity than sadness, something that made me question my humanity. I don’t know if it means that I’ve recovered completely from that huge blow we suffered, or if it means that I need the rest of my life, maybe longer, to do so.
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My mom was the best of all of them. I know everyone says it, and it’s true every time: For every person Mom is the one that really understands you, who knows all your strengths and weaknesses, who knows immediately when you’re lying and when you aren’t, when you’re really happy and when you’re just putting on a mask so that the world can’t see your pain. With Mom there are no secrets, or if there are, you just think there are: your Mom knows the truth somehow. Every time I put on that mask, my mom took it off immediately. Since my mommy left, I don’t let anyone, not my brothers or sisters, or my dad, or my wife, not even myself, take that mask off.
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I often ask myself what my life would have been like the last eighteen years if she were still with us. She didn’t want me to go to the University of Iowa, and I went. When I told my dad I wanted to live in South America at age 19, he didn’t bat an eye: “Go,” he said. I’m pretty sure Mom would have felt differently. Thinking about that conversation I had with my coworker, I realize I talk with my dad about once a month, two at the most; I don’t think we’d know what to discuss if we talked more. My dad has been good about that: he never tried to be our Mom, even when Mom had gone. He knew it was impossible.
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18 years with her, eighteen years without her. Wonderful symmetry, huh? My mom saw me grow taller, go to school, learn to read, play baseball (Moms are always the best fans, right?), get good grades, start thinking about girls, drive, have my first girlfriend, shave. My mom didn’t see me graduate from either high school or college, dance salsa, speak Spanish, teach, grow wider, buy a house, get married, become a father.
But the thing that really sticks out is that as I live without her, I realize that while I enjoy my life and I live it as well as I can, I don’t live it how I could if she would have stayed with us a few more years, a few more months, a few more days. Because the thing is, that I’ve had this goddamn mask on for eighteen years and I don’t know how it will ever come off, until one day I am again at her side, in her arms, in her womb.
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