Holy cannoli, T can sure wail when she feels like it.
Trying to draw a tee-shirt was she this afternoon, frustrated by her inability at first to draw its outline without crossing over inside those lines - that is to say, making a single perimeter with no transections anywhere. She threw her marker and opened her mouth wide and waaaaaaailed, eyes wide. It was such volume, such from-the-diaphragm power - Janneke and I basically just left the room. There was no reasoning with her, no talking to her - we tried. She wailed louder. Not wanting to reward her for such behavior, but knowing, as we do, that trying to impose consequences on her for continuing to act out-of-control once she's already lost control is a zero-sum game, we simply retreated, Janneke to the treadmill downstairs, I outside to put a rain gutter back on the house. (A small section had fallen away from the roof.)
I was up on the roof ten minutes later, finishing up, when I heard T's wailing sudenly get louder. I walked to the front of the house, on the roof, wondering why I could hear her now, and sure enough she had come outside from the front and was making her way to the back. I walked along the edge of the roof, silently, watching this bird's-eye-view of the top of her little head as she made her way around toward the back, where surely she would find me. She could see the end of the ladder, after all - I had to be close! So she got louder and louder.
Then she had to stop and open the gate, which was a little tricky, because it had a stone leaning against it. you have to kind of push the gate forward in order to let the latch swing, but not so much that you push the stone (which keeps Skittles in the back yard) and make it fall. Then you have to open the gate toward you (again, so as not to make the stone fall), and re-close it behind you. This whole process takes a good thirty seconds if you're five and not very big for your age. And during that whole time, the wailing ceased completely.
Only to resume once she was on the other side. Her head looked left and right, and left and right, but never up - ladders, it seems, don't quite compute totally yet. And now it became words: "Daaaaaaddy!"
I called out to her and asked what was wrong, and she explained. I told her I would be down in a moment, and I came down the ladder to total silence. Saving it up, it seems.
I turned to face her, and was hit full-force again. But I managed to fend it off this time - "T, no me podés hablar así. No es hablar, es gritarme. Cuando me puedas hablar, te ayudo. Hasta entonces, no."
Amazingly, she calmed down, allowed me to put the ladder away, and accompanied me inside for some lessons on how to draw a T-shirt outline with long sleeves and one arm bent jauntily back toward the waist. She practiced, got good at it, and then happily churned out twenty of them while I snoozed on the couch. For maybe five minutes, before we all headed out to Q's soccer game.
Q had a day-long 3 on 3 tournament yesterday. Janneke and T stayed home, and I sat and waited and watched from 8:15 to 5:15 in Great Barrington, an hour away. Q had a blast, goofing around with his friends between games and playing during them. And in the end they did very well - there were three groups of U-10 teams, and they came through group play unscathed, 3-0. Putting them into the semifinals against eventual champions Lenox, where they lost, 4-2. Q scored both goals; he had also had a game where he scored 4 of the team's 7, and another where they stopped trying to score at halftime and still wound up invoking the mercy rule at 10-0. A very respectable showing.
But Q is back to his zombie ways much of the time, and I absolutely do not understand it. In the semis, he sleepwalked through the entire first half, and most of the second. Intimidated by Lenox because he knew they had tied the other Williamstown team 5-5 in group play. And of course the other Williamstown team is better than Q's team, or so he believed. So naturally they would lose to Lenox.
Partway through the second half, Q woke up and started playing aggressively, weaving through for two lovely goals. To hear him tell it, it was because his coach told him during a break, "Stop trying to pass. Just dribble past people and score." He was charging toward his third when he was tripped from behind, resulting in a PK, which he missed (off the post!). Time expired, and their day ended.
I was guilty of some loudly-delivered encouragement on the day, and feel terrible about it. BUT! Today I redeemed myself a bit. They had another game against that same Williamstown team, made up of his friends, which Q is convinced is better in every way. And so for the first half he stood and watched everything happen, made token efforts at resistance, saw who he was up again and basically gave up on trying to dribble past them, etc. It was excruciating to watch. The other team went up 2-0 almost immediately, and I am here to tell you, both goals went right past the somnolent Q. He was always behind the play, always lagging, always half-speed and late. By halftime it was out of hand, 5-0.
And then, curiously, in the second half, when the pressure was off and the other team was basically not trying to score anymore, Q woke up. Many long, beautiful runs, several shots, one goal (on another PK after his shot was stopped in the box with a handball) - again, about 25% of the game, we saw what Q can do.
Tragic, then, when the final whistle blew, to see Q's hands go to his head, and cover his eyes, then his face, and see him wracked by sobs. And to see him wordless when greeting our hugs and questions, to see him walk dejectedly ahead to sit on a lonely park bench halfway to the car and stare, slump-shouldered, at the light rain / heavy mist, beaten. To finally coax out of him, an hour later, with a chin wiggle, "I'm sad that we lost."
Because I tell you truly, this did not have to be. That other team has a stronger overall roster, but not a man-jack of them is better than Q, and none is faster. When he's relaxed and wants to play, there is not a kid around to stop him. The best 3-on-3 team in Berkshire County had no one to stop him - he pounded through two, nearly three unanswered, in about four minutes, once he woke up. The team that came in second in his division could do nothing but fall over and flail as he fired through goal after goal - with the left, with the right, from near, from far. When Q is The One, with the fire in the belly, he is as good as absolutely any 9- or 10-year-old in this league. But he often isn't that.
And it is not my job to make him that. It is my job to hug and squeeze him, take him home and comb his hair, tickle him after supper in one of his favorite games (I give him something ALMOST impossible to guess ("I'm thinking of a mammal"), and every time he guesses wrong or needs a clue, I tickle him), smile at him over his dessert and talk about anything at all. Except his own personal performance in the game. That, now, is off limits.
I did all those things tonight. I have a wonderfully beautiful little boy asleep upstairs after a hard athletic day, where he suffered through his bouts of doubts much more painfully than any of us did, wondering why he does this more fervently and more frustratedly than anyone. But now he's dry and warm and loved, and the last three hours of his night, he spent laughing and safe. That's my job.
Anybody can coach him. Only I can be Papi.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Monday, September 21, 2009
Fighting the Good Fight
So, yeah. T in the car on the way home said, in English, "Today was the worst day of my life."
Which usually turns out to be nothing. She's said this before, on numerous occasions. But I'm not about to dismiss it - I ask, "Por qué, mi amor? Qué pasó?"
And it turns out that, in addition to another event later in the day of less consequence, this is what happened:
Sitting around their table at Kindergarten today, one little girl said, "Raise your hand if you believe in God!"
T was the only one who didn't.
And all the other girls yelled at her.
"What?! You HAVE to believe in God!" "God does so many great things for us!" "The whole world is because of God!" Etc., etc., etc.
And T said that she answered, "Well, everybody gets to make their own choices." Which sounds exactly like the sort of adult-toned speech-parroting that she's so incredibly good at.
And when they still didn't leave her alone, T went and talked to her teacher, who told her that, sometimes, when people are being mean, you just have to ignore them.
After T went to bed, Janneke and I talked, and Janneke, who's been much more on the warpath with this particular issue lately than I have, said that she wanted to talk to the teacher about it. And I think that's probably the best move. Doing nothing is not something we want to do - and talking to the parents of the other kids isn't exactly what we want to do either. But we do want to make sure that there's no anti-anti-religious pile-ons happening, either. I would love to have the teacher explain, in no uncertain terms to these kids, and if need be, to their parents, that belief in God does not make a person good, or nice, and non-belief in God does not make a person bad or mean. I find myself quite insistent on that point, suddenly: We must insist in all classes that atheists are equally valid, nice, and moral. Make that known. And if parents have a problem with it, they will have to lump it. Because this is a public school, and all beliefs, and non-belief, deserve - and will get, by thunder - equal protection.
T absolutely does not like being the odd duck. She asked, as we sat in the driveway, doors to the car open, I not quite arisen out of the driver's seat, she still buckled in in back, whether it was OK for her to believe "in the good God". I said she could believe absolutely anything she wanted. That no matter what she ever decided to believe, we would always love her, and she would always be our little Grugrita.
It concerns me - somehow, Q never got any flak. Or the flak he got was something he could bat aside. T, though, was hurt by the whole interaction. I wonder if I was sufficiently Ward Cleaver for her...Hard to say. She went to bed pretty happy, so maybe I did OK.
But, of course, what should happen tonight before shower time but T comes up to me, smiling shyly, to show how well she's memorized the Pledge of Allegiance.
With "under God" right there in the middle of it.
I smiled and congratulated her effusively, even as Janneke and I locked eyes and grumbled.
There's fights out there, if you want to fight them. And maybe we do...but maybe T doesn't. And maybe she shouldn't have to.
Which usually turns out to be nothing. She's said this before, on numerous occasions. But I'm not about to dismiss it - I ask, "Por qué, mi amor? Qué pasó?"
And it turns out that, in addition to another event later in the day of less consequence, this is what happened:
Sitting around their table at Kindergarten today, one little girl said, "Raise your hand if you believe in God!"
T was the only one who didn't.
And all the other girls yelled at her.
"What?! You HAVE to believe in God!" "God does so many great things for us!" "The whole world is because of God!" Etc., etc., etc.
And T said that she answered, "Well, everybody gets to make their own choices." Which sounds exactly like the sort of adult-toned speech-parroting that she's so incredibly good at.
And when they still didn't leave her alone, T went and talked to her teacher, who told her that, sometimes, when people are being mean, you just have to ignore them.
After T went to bed, Janneke and I talked, and Janneke, who's been much more on the warpath with this particular issue lately than I have, said that she wanted to talk to the teacher about it. And I think that's probably the best move. Doing nothing is not something we want to do - and talking to the parents of the other kids isn't exactly what we want to do either. But we do want to make sure that there's no anti-anti-religious pile-ons happening, either. I would love to have the teacher explain, in no uncertain terms to these kids, and if need be, to their parents, that belief in God does not make a person good, or nice, and non-belief in God does not make a person bad or mean. I find myself quite insistent on that point, suddenly: We must insist in all classes that atheists are equally valid, nice, and moral. Make that known. And if parents have a problem with it, they will have to lump it. Because this is a public school, and all beliefs, and non-belief, deserve - and will get, by thunder - equal protection.
T absolutely does not like being the odd duck. She asked, as we sat in the driveway, doors to the car open, I not quite arisen out of the driver's seat, she still buckled in in back, whether it was OK for her to believe "in the good God". I said she could believe absolutely anything she wanted. That no matter what she ever decided to believe, we would always love her, and she would always be our little Grugrita.
It concerns me - somehow, Q never got any flak. Or the flak he got was something he could bat aside. T, though, was hurt by the whole interaction. I wonder if I was sufficiently Ward Cleaver for her...Hard to say. She went to bed pretty happy, so maybe I did OK.
But, of course, what should happen tonight before shower time but T comes up to me, smiling shyly, to show how well she's memorized the Pledge of Allegiance.
With "under God" right there in the middle of it.
I smiled and congratulated her effusively, even as Janneke and I locked eyes and grumbled.
There's fights out there, if you want to fight them. And maybe we do...but maybe T doesn't. And maybe she shouldn't have to.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
So, Anyway...
Like I was sayin'...I think between the new school year, Facebook (which makes me feel like I'm in touch with people, though this is illusory, I think), and Skype, I feel much more connected than I used to, and the blog business has fallen by the wayside. Making this a difficult task: Where to pick up? What details have been leapt over that would otherwise have made it into some post or other here? Tough call. Tough call.
T got off to a beautiful start in Kindergarten. (Part of her first day is in a video below.) She loves her teacher, and was a very giddy and bubbly host when she took us on a tour of her classroom at the WES Open House. She was the absolute last student there - we didn't get to her room until 7:40 or so, and the event ended at 8:00. We had been so busy, you see, being given a tour of the classroom over in Ms. Shannon's 4th-grade room, by a tour guide who had a clipboard, on which was a series of items he was required to show us. This list was thirty-five items long. So, yeah, it did take something of a while.
Q's back on the soccer pitch, and is loving it. He scored two against Berkshire Hills Black the other day, and although the team lost, 4-6, it seemed obvious to me that overall, Williamstown were the more advanced side. There are a few players on the team that are young or unskilled or both, and they tended to let some very easy shots by during their tours on defense; meanwhile, W-town had a lot of very near misses, including one that should have been a penalty shot, as you'll see in the soccer video, should you care to watch. Good game, though. There are a lot of 4th-graders who are very good, and there had been talk of having one powerhouse team and another developmental one, but there were a ton of kids out this year and they decided in the end to have three teams and divide the top-flight players up among two of them. So Q's on the field with some great players and some close friends. We've been seeing the Backiels again at games, which is great - they're a hoot, and we hadn't seen much of them since last fall, what with Q not playing baseball anymore.
I don't talk about school much here, but I have to say, I have the best AP class ever. I've decided to focus on short fiction, and have divided up the class into groups of 2 to 3. Every Thursday, one of these groups has to tell to the rest of the group a short story that they have read, and do so with all the important symbolism and such intact, so exactly that the rest of the group is capable of telling the whole story back to them by the end of the hour. Friday, all the other students get a copy of the story, and the presenters use it to anchor a discussion about the meaning and symbolism of the story, the author's intent, etc., and to teach to the rest of the group any interesting grammatical elements, turns of phrase, or expressions they picked up in the text. Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays, we all read stories together that are not the same ones as the ones the student groups present. We've gone through the cycle once, and man, it was awesome. I felt like I was in grad school again. SUCH a special group of students - I get misty when I think they're leaving this year.
But not before we go to Ecuador! That's right, this year in February we're all heading south again. I've got 90% of the trip planned and reserved. It's going to be great - 22 kids signed up so far, 6 chaperones. Can't wait.
T has also started Irish step dancing. I've not been to a lesson yet, but T came dashing into the bathroom to open the shower curtain and show me her steps when she arrived home after her first one, so it seems to have been a big hit. Believe me, I know this is going to get filmed, and soon.
Man...There's just too much to tell. Best if I start up again with the random everyday stuff, rather than give a ton of past events short shrift. It's starting to feel dull and newsy, and nobody likes that. So I'll sign off - but not before leaving you with the promised school video. You'll laugh, you'll cry. And then you'll feel really stupid.
Chao!
T'S FIRST BUS RIDE on her FIRST DAY of KINDERGARTEN
T got off to a beautiful start in Kindergarten. (Part of her first day is in a video below.) She loves her teacher, and was a very giddy and bubbly host when she took us on a tour of her classroom at the WES Open House. She was the absolute last student there - we didn't get to her room until 7:40 or so, and the event ended at 8:00. We had been so busy, you see, being given a tour of the classroom over in Ms. Shannon's 4th-grade room, by a tour guide who had a clipboard, on which was a series of items he was required to show us. This list was thirty-five items long. So, yeah, it did take something of a while.
Q's back on the soccer pitch, and is loving it. He scored two against Berkshire Hills Black the other day, and although the team lost, 4-6, it seemed obvious to me that overall, Williamstown were the more advanced side. There are a few players on the team that are young or unskilled or both, and they tended to let some very easy shots by during their tours on defense; meanwhile, W-town had a lot of very near misses, including one that should have been a penalty shot, as you'll see in the soccer video, should you care to watch. Good game, though. There are a lot of 4th-graders who are very good, and there had been talk of having one powerhouse team and another developmental one, but there were a ton of kids out this year and they decided in the end to have three teams and divide the top-flight players up among two of them. So Q's on the field with some great players and some close friends. We've been seeing the Backiels again at games, which is great - they're a hoot, and we hadn't seen much of them since last fall, what with Q not playing baseball anymore.
I don't talk about school much here, but I have to say, I have the best AP class ever. I've decided to focus on short fiction, and have divided up the class into groups of 2 to 3. Every Thursday, one of these groups has to tell to the rest of the group a short story that they have read, and do so with all the important symbolism and such intact, so exactly that the rest of the group is capable of telling the whole story back to them by the end of the hour. Friday, all the other students get a copy of the story, and the presenters use it to anchor a discussion about the meaning and symbolism of the story, the author's intent, etc., and to teach to the rest of the group any interesting grammatical elements, turns of phrase, or expressions they picked up in the text. Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays, we all read stories together that are not the same ones as the ones the student groups present. We've gone through the cycle once, and man, it was awesome. I felt like I was in grad school again. SUCH a special group of students - I get misty when I think they're leaving this year.
But not before we go to Ecuador! That's right, this year in February we're all heading south again. I've got 90% of the trip planned and reserved. It's going to be great - 22 kids signed up so far, 6 chaperones. Can't wait.
T has also started Irish step dancing. I've not been to a lesson yet, but T came dashing into the bathroom to open the shower curtain and show me her steps when she arrived home after her first one, so it seems to have been a big hit. Believe me, I know this is going to get filmed, and soon.
Man...There's just too much to tell. Best if I start up again with the random everyday stuff, rather than give a ton of past events short shrift. It's starting to feel dull and newsy, and nobody likes that. So I'll sign off - but not before leaving you with the promised school video. You'll laugh, you'll cry. And then you'll feel really stupid.
Chao!
T'S FIRST BUS RIDE on her FIRST DAY of KINDERGARTEN
Long Time, No Screed
Hey, man - How the hell are you! Sorry I ain't rapped at you for a while, but the Man here's been busy. Kids are well, as you'll soon see; wifey's fine, my own health's good. Summer ended, school started, and T became a kindergartener! It's all been very exciting, and I swear, I'll be telling you most of what's worth telling in the coming hours. But first, let's just pop the latest in video memories at you here. Now, this isn't much - a long video about T's first soccer practice and Q's first game of the fall season. No big deal. But they're the only one I can put up right now - my time video-wise has been taken up principally with a movie about last April's trip to Gays Mills. It's about an hour long, and is absolutely epic. Train travel! 4-wheelin'! Train travel...! And not that much else, really. But there's a lot of each of those things.
All right, with no further ado, here's Part 1 and Part 2 of the soccer video. Batten down the hatches.
All right, with no further ado, here's Part 1 and Part 2 of the soccer video. Batten down the hatches.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Epistles
Hey, folks...Much to report, little energy with which to do it. But I'll try anyway.
T had a play date with a friend who's a year younger today, and guided her around the house and the yard with one hand in the small of her back, offering her something to drink ("Would you like hot water or cold water?"), laughing in a disturbingly adult way - that is to say, a laugh that was phony - when she didn't understand a joke, but didn't want the teller to feel bad...Spooky to watch, and cool. She might honestly be more mature than I am right now.
She also received a letter from her future teacher today, and wrote a reply. She told me what she wanted to say, I told her how to spell the words, and she wrote it out. Reads like this:
"Dear Miss Johnson,
"I really liked the letter.
"I'm really excited that I'm going to Kindergarden.
"Love,
"T"
A cuter thing was never done.
(Baby donkeys notwithstanding.)
I have a writing assignment for tomorrow: Q's fourth-grade teacher has solicited input. "I invite each of you to take a moment to write to me about your child. What are the things you are aware of that would be important for me to know? What are your child's interests? What do you see as your child's strengths and weaknesses, both academic and social?"
(Just pausing to say that the fact that she said "academic and social" instead of "academically and socially" right there made her stock shoot up through the roof, and I still haven't even met her. (Though Janneke informs me that she's the lady we often see in our neighborhood walking an utterly adorable little black collie mix.))
"What are your goals for your child this year?"
She obviously didn't know what she was asking for, or whom she was asking. Because I'll guarantee, I'm going to spend an hour on this.
One of the things to touch on is going to be his nascent personality shift, and the fact that while it may entail some things that of course we can never condone, we want her to tamp them down, if need be, very gently, without extinguishing the fire completely. Because there is some fire there, and we are liking it.
Up at Windsor Lake the other day, Janneke said she saw Q out in the water near another kid, about his size. The other kid splashed Q, in a way that, Janneke said, seemed friendly. Or maybe not. Q cringed momentarily, then told him to quit it. The kid splashed him again; Q repeated his earlier invective, louder. And then Q started two-hand machine-gun splashing the kid until he turned and waded away. And then Q went back to whatever he was doing. No running to us, no backing down, no crying. And no informing of us afterward, either - he walked back to our blanket some time later and said not one word, unaware that Janneke had been watching.
Nice.
Q had his second real day of soccer practice for the fall - there's a tournament Labor Day weekend, and they've "invited" ten of the stronger U-10 players from town to play on it. Q is among them. He got new cleats - White! His choice! - the other day, and has been rarin' to go. Practice was from 5:00 to 6:15, and I drove over about 5:30 to watch the tail end of it before the end.
There were only six kids at this particular practice, and when I got there they were doing 3-on-3. I only saw the very end, where Q was coming up the right side, feet moving very fast, poking the ball out ahead but keeping his options open, daring the defender to come closer. And when he finally committed totally to Q, he fired a cross to the other side of the goal, where another (much weaker) player put it effortlessly over the line. Much jubilation from Q, and his teammates.
And then a game where the goals are close together, and a one kid stands in each, taking turns firing shots on the other. If you're scored on, you're out, and another kid from your side takes over; if you shoot and miss the goal, you're out. First side to 10 goals wins.
Q's side in this, as in the scrimmage, was him and two weak players, against 3 strong ones. They lost, 10-9, and the last goal was given up by Q - who was bouncing on his toes, in a half-squat, hands spread wide, focused like a laser beam, just before the shot was taken. He dove to the right and got a hand on it, but not enough of one, and it bounced off the post and in. He stood up and kicked the ball into the back of the net again, then turned, looking fierce, and walked to the water bottles. A few seconds later, he was fine, joking with the guy who'd scored.
After the practice, as I helped the volunteer coach, a former Williams soccer player, pull the goals off the field so it could be mown, I asked, "So how are the troops looking?"
He chuckled and searched for words for a moment, then said this: "Q, boy, I tell you - He just looks like a little soccer player out there. He's obviously been watching the pros. He knows what the game is supposed to look like, and he does everything he can to make it look like that. It's really something. He looks older than his years."
Nice.
Q and I were arguing, because he'd done something I thought was wrong, and he wasn't agreeing that it was wrong. And I interrupted him. "Papi!" he said, very firmly. I kept talking. "PAPI! No me interrumpas! Vos me interrumpiste, asi que yo voy a hablar hasta que vos no hables mas, porque no es justo que vos me digas que YO no te interrrumpa a VOS, pero entonces VOS me interrumpis a MI! Asi que no voy a dejar de hablar...Bueno. Ahora, me vas a escuchar?"
Nice.
Q and I were shooting baskets, and he wanted to play 1-on-1. I said it wouldn't be fair, and he said "That's OK. How about, you can't do lay-ups?" Seemed good. Off we went. Every time he left the ball where I could poke it away, I did - and after maybe three times, he never left it there again. When he got me turned around and could get around me, he would sometimes hesitate - wanting to draw he game out, it seemed - and I told him not to. "If you see an opening, you take it, before it goes away. It's just like soccer." So he started going around me the nanosecond he could.
His lay-ups have become 100%, or close to it. He knows just how to do it now, can do it without thinking. He beat me, 8-4.
I told him how impressed I was with his lay-up prowess - something he did not have during basketball camp. "Q, imagine if you had known how to do a lay-up in basketball camp. You would have scored in every game, I'll bet." (Scoring for Q was a pretty rare thing - I think he made one basket in a game.) "You could always drive to the hole, but it rarely went in."
He shrugged, and smiled, half to himself. "Next year," he said, and pulled up to shoot a jumper.
Swish.
Nice.
I like this swagger - it's something he historically has not had. And he is a nice kid, so it's not like he's going to start making fun of anyone or bullying anyone. And it's not like I'll ask his teacher to let him get away with unkindness. But if there's a squabble between peers, and Q holds his own and doesn't back down, and insists on getting his way, even if it means a conflict, all the way to raised voices and pushing, I want her to know that this is new, that this is something that, if anything, he has not done enough of up to now. He's been easy to bully, easy to take advantage of. Those days appear to be ending, and Q seems to be thinking, "I have as much right to that ball / pencil / place in line / spot in the lake / conversational politeness as anyone, and I'm going to fight for it." It's OK to fight for what's right; that fight isn't something to be feared. He's just learning that.
So, if you have to curb it at all...Please be gentle about it. He's a nice kid - don't fear that it's going to turn into over-aggressiveness or bullying. It won't. Quite the opposite - He's going to use his powers for good. You'll see.
Dang. I may already have written this thing.
T had a play date with a friend who's a year younger today, and guided her around the house and the yard with one hand in the small of her back, offering her something to drink ("Would you like hot water or cold water?"), laughing in a disturbingly adult way - that is to say, a laugh that was phony - when she didn't understand a joke, but didn't want the teller to feel bad...Spooky to watch, and cool. She might honestly be more mature than I am right now.
She also received a letter from her future teacher today, and wrote a reply. She told me what she wanted to say, I told her how to spell the words, and she wrote it out. Reads like this:
"Dear Miss Johnson,
"I really liked the letter.
"I'm really excited that I'm going to Kindergarden.
"Love,
"T"
A cuter thing was never done.
(Baby donkeys notwithstanding.)
I have a writing assignment for tomorrow: Q's fourth-grade teacher has solicited input. "I invite each of you to take a moment to write to me about your child. What are the things you are aware of that would be important for me to know? What are your child's interests? What do you see as your child's strengths and weaknesses, both academic and social?"
(Just pausing to say that the fact that she said "academic and social" instead of "academically and socially" right there made her stock shoot up through the roof, and I still haven't even met her. (Though Janneke informs me that she's the lady we often see in our neighborhood walking an utterly adorable little black collie mix.))
"What are your goals for your child this year?"
She obviously didn't know what she was asking for, or whom she was asking. Because I'll guarantee, I'm going to spend an hour on this.
One of the things to touch on is going to be his nascent personality shift, and the fact that while it may entail some things that of course we can never condone, we want her to tamp them down, if need be, very gently, without extinguishing the fire completely. Because there is some fire there, and we are liking it.
Up at Windsor Lake the other day, Janneke said she saw Q out in the water near another kid, about his size. The other kid splashed Q, in a way that, Janneke said, seemed friendly. Or maybe not. Q cringed momentarily, then told him to quit it. The kid splashed him again; Q repeated his earlier invective, louder. And then Q started two-hand machine-gun splashing the kid until he turned and waded away. And then Q went back to whatever he was doing. No running to us, no backing down, no crying. And no informing of us afterward, either - he walked back to our blanket some time later and said not one word, unaware that Janneke had been watching.
Nice.
Q had his second real day of soccer practice for the fall - there's a tournament Labor Day weekend, and they've "invited" ten of the stronger U-10 players from town to play on it. Q is among them. He got new cleats - White! His choice! - the other day, and has been rarin' to go. Practice was from 5:00 to 6:15, and I drove over about 5:30 to watch the tail end of it before the end.
There were only six kids at this particular practice, and when I got there they were doing 3-on-3. I only saw the very end, where Q was coming up the right side, feet moving very fast, poking the ball out ahead but keeping his options open, daring the defender to come closer. And when he finally committed totally to Q, he fired a cross to the other side of the goal, where another (much weaker) player put it effortlessly over the line. Much jubilation from Q, and his teammates.
And then a game where the goals are close together, and a one kid stands in each, taking turns firing shots on the other. If you're scored on, you're out, and another kid from your side takes over; if you shoot and miss the goal, you're out. First side to 10 goals wins.
Q's side in this, as in the scrimmage, was him and two weak players, against 3 strong ones. They lost, 10-9, and the last goal was given up by Q - who was bouncing on his toes, in a half-squat, hands spread wide, focused like a laser beam, just before the shot was taken. He dove to the right and got a hand on it, but not enough of one, and it bounced off the post and in. He stood up and kicked the ball into the back of the net again, then turned, looking fierce, and walked to the water bottles. A few seconds later, he was fine, joking with the guy who'd scored.
After the practice, as I helped the volunteer coach, a former Williams soccer player, pull the goals off the field so it could be mown, I asked, "So how are the troops looking?"
He chuckled and searched for words for a moment, then said this: "Q, boy, I tell you - He just looks like a little soccer player out there. He's obviously been watching the pros. He knows what the game is supposed to look like, and he does everything he can to make it look like that. It's really something. He looks older than his years."
Nice.
Q and I were arguing, because he'd done something I thought was wrong, and he wasn't agreeing that it was wrong. And I interrupted him. "Papi!" he said, very firmly. I kept talking. "PAPI! No me interrumpas! Vos me interrumpiste, asi que yo voy a hablar hasta que vos no hables mas, porque no es justo que vos me digas que YO no te interrrumpa a VOS, pero entonces VOS me interrumpis a MI! Asi que no voy a dejar de hablar...Bueno. Ahora, me vas a escuchar?"
Nice.
Q and I were shooting baskets, and he wanted to play 1-on-1. I said it wouldn't be fair, and he said "That's OK. How about, you can't do lay-ups?" Seemed good. Off we went. Every time he left the ball where I could poke it away, I did - and after maybe three times, he never left it there again. When he got me turned around and could get around me, he would sometimes hesitate - wanting to draw he game out, it seemed - and I told him not to. "If you see an opening, you take it, before it goes away. It's just like soccer." So he started going around me the nanosecond he could.
His lay-ups have become 100%, or close to it. He knows just how to do it now, can do it without thinking. He beat me, 8-4.
I told him how impressed I was with his lay-up prowess - something he did not have during basketball camp. "Q, imagine if you had known how to do a lay-up in basketball camp. You would have scored in every game, I'll bet." (Scoring for Q was a pretty rare thing - I think he made one basket in a game.) "You could always drive to the hole, but it rarely went in."
He shrugged, and smiled, half to himself. "Next year," he said, and pulled up to shoot a jumper.
Swish.
Nice.
I like this swagger - it's something he historically has not had. And he is a nice kid, so it's not like he's going to start making fun of anyone or bullying anyone. And it's not like I'll ask his teacher to let him get away with unkindness. But if there's a squabble between peers, and Q holds his own and doesn't back down, and insists on getting his way, even if it means a conflict, all the way to raised voices and pushing, I want her to know that this is new, that this is something that, if anything, he has not done enough of up to now. He's been easy to bully, easy to take advantage of. Those days appear to be ending, and Q seems to be thinking, "I have as much right to that ball / pencil / place in line / spot in the lake / conversational politeness as anyone, and I'm going to fight for it." It's OK to fight for what's right; that fight isn't something to be feared. He's just learning that.
So, if you have to curb it at all...Please be gentle about it. He's a nice kid - don't fear that it's going to turn into over-aggressiveness or bullying. It won't. Quite the opposite - He's going to use his powers for good. You'll see.
Dang. I may already have written this thing.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Revs vs Galaxy: Aftermath
The game ended, and Q and I stood there a long time, waiting for the aisles to empty out, not bothering to try to muscle our way up through the crowd. Besides which, we're yokels from the Berkshires - there's still plenty for us to gawk at even when the game is over. And after ten minutes or so, a couple of the Revs players came over to the sidelines to talk to and shake hands with the fans. We were all of fifty feet away, so Q started working his way down, Sharpie in hand, to see if he could get the players to sign his France national team jersey. The players were Steve Ralston:
and Taylor Twellman -
- the latter in street clothes, apparently injured. But both evaporated before Q could work his way down, and we headed to the exits to make our way toward Autograph Alley.
This was where three or four Revs would be made available after the game for autographs. We had been there just as we got to the stadium, but now they had moved the barriers to make a long corridor for the players to walk in, allowing the fans all along the barriers to reach across and have them sign their soccer balls or pennants or what have you. Q wriggled his way in and held out his shirt to Amaechi Igwe:
- who looked perplexed, but signed it in the middle of the back, up between the shoulders. And then Q found his way to Sainey Nyassi -
- and held out his sleeve (he'd since put his jersey back on), which the Gambian midfielder quietly signed.
Q was thrilled, and I said I thought we should try to work our way around the stadium to where the visiting team would board its bus, and see if we could get any of them to sign an autograph. I thought the odds were low, but what the heck - they were a lot better then than they would ever be again, probably. So Q, somewhat reluctantly, came along. He really wanted to go back to the hotel and swim - but he really wanted autographs, too, so I had to guide him through the logical process that showed that, no, swimming could happen regardless whether we did this now or not. So it was best to do this.
We walked past an open barricade that said "No Public Access", since the area was thinly populated by people in Revs jerseys, kids, pickup soccer games. Seemed no one was being excluded. And soon we were in front of a glassed-in lobby area, and looking in, I saw Twellman again. I pointed it out to Q - and soon we spotted a number of other players. We probably could have simply walked in there - no one was guarding the door, and it wasn't locked. But that seemed like a bit much to me, and soon they started to filter out anyway. Mostly, they seemed happy to have their pictures taken with people (though Twellman insisted on no flash), and the long and the short of it is that Q also got autographs from Twellman, Jeff Larentowicz:
and Jay Heaps:
After that, Q had had enough, and I wasn't about to make him stand around, or walk another half mile all told to see if we could get close to the Galaxy. His French national jersey is now signed by five New England Revolution players. Fitting, in a way, since the jersey was a gift from his grandmother for his birthday, and the ticket was a gift from his aunt.
Back to the hotel, swimming and hot tub, bed, sleep, home. Man, this has been a lot of writing - a very memorable trip, all in all. For both of us. And we're damn likely to do it again.
and Taylor Twellman -
- the latter in street clothes, apparently injured. But both evaporated before Q could work his way down, and we headed to the exits to make our way toward Autograph Alley.
This was where three or four Revs would be made available after the game for autographs. We had been there just as we got to the stadium, but now they had moved the barriers to make a long corridor for the players to walk in, allowing the fans all along the barriers to reach across and have them sign their soccer balls or pennants or what have you. Q wriggled his way in and held out his shirt to Amaechi Igwe:
- who looked perplexed, but signed it in the middle of the back, up between the shoulders. And then Q found his way to Sainey Nyassi -
- and held out his sleeve (he'd since put his jersey back on), which the Gambian midfielder quietly signed.
Q was thrilled, and I said I thought we should try to work our way around the stadium to where the visiting team would board its bus, and see if we could get any of them to sign an autograph. I thought the odds were low, but what the heck - they were a lot better then than they would ever be again, probably. So Q, somewhat reluctantly, came along. He really wanted to go back to the hotel and swim - but he really wanted autographs, too, so I had to guide him through the logical process that showed that, no, swimming could happen regardless whether we did this now or not. So it was best to do this.
We walked past an open barricade that said "No Public Access", since the area was thinly populated by people in Revs jerseys, kids, pickup soccer games. Seemed no one was being excluded. And soon we were in front of a glassed-in lobby area, and looking in, I saw Twellman again. I pointed it out to Q - and soon we spotted a number of other players. We probably could have simply walked in there - no one was guarding the door, and it wasn't locked. But that seemed like a bit much to me, and soon they started to filter out anyway. Mostly, they seemed happy to have their pictures taken with people (though Twellman insisted on no flash), and the long and the short of it is that Q also got autographs from Twellman, Jeff Larentowicz:
and Jay Heaps:
After that, Q had had enough, and I wasn't about to make him stand around, or walk another half mile all told to see if we could get close to the Galaxy. His French national jersey is now signed by five New England Revolution players. Fitting, in a way, since the jersey was a gift from his grandmother for his birthday, and the ticket was a gift from his aunt.
Back to the hotel, swimming and hot tub, bed, sleep, home. Man, this has been a lot of writing - a very memorable trip, all in all. For both of us. And we're damn likely to do it again.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
David Beckham: Man Crush
Everybody's back! T and Janneke returned from gay Paris, where T took the world by storm. She now claims she wants to live there, and open a restaurant with Q. It's something they play at a lot - Q is constantly asking me about five-star restaurants (something of a mythic beast, really, given our family's finances, but one that he'll some day get a gander of), wondering how well owners of McDonald's franchises do, wondering whether you make more money as the owner of one five-star restaurant, or five one-star restaurants, etc. And then the other day, at the McDonald's in a rest area as we drove home from the airport, T had a brilliant idea: Restaurant bathrooms - one for women, one for men, one for boys, and one for girls. It's fresh, it's new, it's exciting, it's never been done. Expect big things from this budding tycoon.
Honestly, the ladies weren't home long before another adventure beckoned. Auntie Jayne's birthday gift to Q of a ticket to a New England Revolution soccer match was cashed in just yesterday. Q and I departed for Foxboro, home of the Patriots, at noon on Saturday, checked into our hotel not four miles from the stadium, and then headed for the game.
I don't get to many professional games of any sort, and I really enjoy myself when I do go. The excitement, the crowds, the gorgeous weather (luckily) - it was a very electric atmosphere. And not least because this was to be the Revolution vs the Los Angeles Galaxy - and their erstwhile captain, David Beckham.
You may have heard of David Beckham. Just to keep you interested if you haven't, this is him:
I mean, goodness. If that's not eye candy, you don't have eyes. And he's also very good - former captain of the English national team, played for Manchester United at the age of 17, on and on. Excellent player, who's made a big splash by coming to play in the US.
Now, granted, he's done so at the age of 34, when his skills are in decline. And a lot of the money he makes here, he makes because of who he is, not what he does on the field - he's an automatic draw for fans, not just to the stadium in LA, but all round the country. I mean, I chose this game specifically because of him. It's very unusual for a top European player to decide to play here - so unusual, in fact, that it's unheard of. There's so little prestige here compared to Europe - almost anywhere in Europe. Less exposure, less money, less respect, etc. If they can play in Europe, they do. And frankly, every one of the players in the MLS teams stateside would drop MLS like a bad habit if they could go to Europe. No question.
And yet he's here. It might have been hubris - the US is the only market in the world he hasn't conquered, and perhaps he saw dollar signs in the possibility of capping his legacy by becoming a top draw in this gigantic money machine of a country. TV, movies, his own team, etc.
'Course, last year, he had second thoughts, and tried to break out of his contract to go and play in Europe again, for AC Milan. In addition, according to a recent article and book quoting / written by Landon Donovan, the US' best player and Beckham's teammate, Beckham wasn't really putting his all into his new team in LA. Seemed to be sleepwalking through it, wasn't quite as devoted to his teammates, the schedule, training, as he should have been. Donovan, who had been the captain, was strongarmed into giving the armband over to Beckham, and Beckham didn't do a damn thing with it. No leadership, etc. Then Beckham tried to jump ship, making every accusation of being half-hearted about the US ring all the truer. The Italian league is top-notch, and they wanted Beckham at AC Milan. But the Galaxy said no, and now he's playing out his contract here. Reluctantly, perhaps. Donovan is the captain again, and Beckham either plays stateside, or he doesn't play. So there's plenty of drama.
The Revolution, on the other hand, apparently are another team, and have a lot of players, and appear to have won the championship last year.
So the stage was set.
Q and I had watched the Galaxy play a friendly against Barcelona on TV recently, so we knew something about them. Barcelona was last year's European championship team and is widely held to be the best team on Earth, with the planet's best player, Lionel Messi, an Argentine. Q is crazy about Messi, and we had really enjoyed watching that game. Which Barcelona won, 2-1 - the one goal for LA coming on a set piece, a free kick that Beckham took. He is world-renowned for his free kick prowess - the movie, you may recall, "Bend It Like Beckham", deals tangentially with this particular gift of his. And he lived up to the hype - he bent the shot right, around the wall of defenders, and all the way back left to the left side of the net and in. Holy cow. Q and I were very excited indeed to get to go see him play.
Q talked for days before we drove to Foxboro about the possibility of getting Beckham's autograph. I didn't throw any cold water on the notion, although I knew full well that our chances of getting close to Beckham were close to nil. But even so, I was very glad that we'd decided to book a hotel room there and thus not have to worry about driving back after the game. We'd have time, if he wanted to try, for autograph-hunting.
Q had also seen US vs Brasil, where Landon Donovan had scored two goals and the Americans had taken an early lead; and he had also seen the US beat Spain, 2-0, so he was very familiar with Donovan as well. Fast, fast player, is Donovan, with supreme skills, and not necessarily that big, to be generous. (Putting him close to Q's heart, along with Messi - and making Donovan's autograph and Beckham's pretty much equally valuable.)
Thus setting the stage even further.
Q wore his France national jersey - it's red, white, and blue, so he blended into the crowd. We decided we would be cheering for the Galaxy, since we like Donovan and Beckham, and entered the stadium.
We caught sight of the teams warming up and stood there, watching; I had this strange, morbid fear that for some reason Beckham wouldn't play, and so easily convinced myself that the blonde man stretching there at the corner of the field wasn't him. But the binoculars, trained on his back, confirmed it: There was the signature tattoo on the back of his neck, wings spreading out toward his ears. And then he turned my way and smiled:
Ka-bam. I mean, jeepers. I'm very firmly and comfortably in the "Hetero" aisle at the "Preferences" market, but it just plain leaves you speechless. Like when I see a buck step out of the brush in the woods unexpectedly. I am awed at the beauty of the thing, its majesty - I feel like I'm in the presence of something pure and perfect. Do I want to kiss the buck? No. No, I do not. In fact, I want to shoot it, and when I'm lucky, I do. But I get weak-kneed nonetheless because I'm in the presence of something so gloriously perfect. Similar with Mr. Beckham - Ka, bam.
(And, for the record: I did not have the slightest urge to shoot him.)
The warm-ups were cool, because they looked like any old team warming up - drills, jogging, goofing around, pinnies, etc. Same as anyone. Despite being David Beckham and Landon Donovan. They're just people, we found. Something we who don't deal with fame or with famous people sometimes forget. We found our way to our seats (which were excellent - Row 14 of the main section, near midfield, right on the aisle), got us some beverages (one adult, one less so), listened to the National Anthem, and settled in to take in some damn soccer.
Watching Q play his games over the years, and taking him to soccer events because of his interest, I have come to have a VERY rudimentary understanding of what works and what doesn't in soccer. I watch the high school games my students play in, the occasional Williams game, men's or women's, and then, more lately, I watch more and more of it on TV, thanks to Q's interest and our newfound cable access to the Fox Soccer Channel. And here's what I've noticed, in general, about the top levels of soccer: There is an innate feel, a higher-level command of the field, that certain teams have that transcends individual brilliance. It's a fluidity and a sense of common purpose among the whole team, all 11 on the pitch, that's unsaid, or seems to be - a bone-level soccer tune-in. Many teams at the high levels don't have it - the US national team, for example. We watched them beat Spain, largely due to a couple of very lucky pounces on dangerous situations, and due to the individual skills of the right player, at the right time. But then later in the game, as Spain was trying desperately to come back, there was no doubt as to which team was better. Spain was a hive mind - each individual did what the whole needed done, knowing he could count on the other parts of the whole to do the same. And they had the US pinned back on their end the entire time, because the US could so rarely break up, completely, what the Spanish were trying to do. They couldn't get close enough to the ball to interfere - Spain would effortlessly, wordlessly, bounce away as one, passing and passing and never losing the ball, moving and probing for an opening. And then when the US was at the other end of the field, their own attacks would evaporate almost as soon as they'd begun. They just didn't appear to have a sense of purpose. Donovan was brilliant a time or two, individual defenders were valiant and very skilled, and the US won. But they are not better.
Same against Brazil. The US went ahead 2-0 on the sheer power and speed of Donovan - but thereafter, they were helpless against Brazil's hive-mind. The US was playing checkers, and the Brazilians were playing chess, and Brazil put three (four, really, but one was called a non-goal) over in the second half and won, deservedly. It made me sad, but you had to admit: Brazil was just better.
It was a similar thing to watch the LA Galaxy and the Revolution play. Donovan should be playing in Europe - he's just super-skilled, aggressive, knowledgeable, and ridiculously fast. And Beckham, playing midfield, was the glue that held everything together. Between the two of them, they so elevated LA's game that the Revolution looked like children - or like the US did against Brazil. Outclassed.
Donovan and Beckham communicated wordlessly all game long, weaving past each other and laying passes to where the other ought to soon be, confident that the other would not fail to be there when the pass arrived. And 90% of the time, that's exactly what happened. When other players on the Galaxy were called upon, they looked herky-jerky, clunky, compared to those two - they were George W Bush reading a prepared text, and Beckham and Donovan were Barack Obama. Just no comparison at all.
The Galaxy were up 1-0 at halftime on a brilliant, lightning-strike of a goal by Donovan, who took a cross out of the air with his left foot and bent it some 30 yards around the outstretched hands of the goal keeper and into the left side. Wow. I actually felt on a couple of occasions that he was a titch selfish - he would approach from the right side and Beckham, at the precise moment, when the man marking Donovan would trend inside to prevent Donovan from charging straight to the goal, would blaze around behind Donovan and head for the right corner - all but unmarked, as everyone on defense was still afraid of Donovan toward the center. And it seemed that the universe wanted Donovan to send it toward the space where Beckham would soon be. He did do so a few times, but on what was certainly the best opportunity, Donovan instead shot, and it ricocheted off a Revs player and harmlessly into another, who cleared it. I looked to Beckham to see if he would throw up his hands in frustration.
He absolutely did not. I have to say, watching Beckham play, and that's all I got to see him do, I feel like I got a certain amount of information about him as a person. I'll tell you a few reasons why - One was this refusal to complain about his teammates' play. Even when the obviously junior-varsity Galaxy players would blow something, his only reaction was perhaps a slow-motion, hands-pressing-earthward, "Calm down", reassurance-type of gesture, even as he bounced and trotted to the right spot to make up for the mistake his teammate had committed. He seemed like a very mature player, unselfish and generous.
With the opposition, there was a certain amount of jawing going on - Beckham has set himself up for it with his actions last year, and the Revolution players were letting him have it. Their midfielder, a big, braided-hair guy named Shalrie Joseph (here he is:)
- was continually talking to Beckham. At first it seemed very friendly - Beckham would approach and listen and give a handshake, smiling, and once turned away, laughing, tossing they guy's hand away in either a "You-big-palooka" kind of way or a "F--k you" kind of way - hard to tell, what with the joy in his smile.
(For reference:)
But in the second half, as the frustration and desperation on the part of the Revs grew (it was 2-0 by now), the tackles on Beckham got harder and harder, and he would come up jawing with the players. "That's just stupid," I lip-read once; he would approach in a confrontational way, as if to fight, but would turn it into an "I'm-just-trying-to-help-the-guy" stance at the last second. He's very good at playing the "I'm-not-the-bad-guy" game, the subtle art of provoking without getting a card yourself, that's so maddening to watch in European and South American players. He's brilliant at it.
But eventually the over-aggressiveness and the personal nature of the tackling got to be too much for him. The paper reported that the biggest incident came about because Beckham got an elbow to the head, but from what I could see, he appeared to be upset about an elbow that was thrown against one of his teammates going up for a header. It was on the opposite sideline, but Beckham got right in the Revs player's face, no subtlety anymore, and eventually they were separated. Donovan came over and pulled Beckham away, and Joseph came in and talked to Beckham - playing Beckham's game, approaching in a peacemaker stance, and then saying something nasty, which got Beckham riled again. That ended with Joseph jabbing Beckham in the chest with a finger, and Beckham realizing that he'd get carded soon if he didn't pull out, so he turned and dismissively walked off. In the end, Beckham and the player who threw the elbow got yellow cards, and play resumed. By the way, Beckham was booed thunderously throughout - although, from my vantage point, he looked perfectly justified, and much more the gentleman than the Revs.
Not five minutes later, the player who'd thrown the elbow (I assume) was up against the sideline around midfield, in a bit of a pickle, and Beckham absolutely pounced. It was a very rough challenge and scramble for the ball - nothing overtly intended to harm, no punches or elbows, but a distinct ratcheting-up of the urgency, of the level of violence, which left a few players on the ground. A primadonna, Beckham, unequivocally, is not.
The Galaxy were going left-to-right in the first half, and Beckham tended to stray right, so we got our best looks at him in the first half, when I saw him do a couple of throw-ins. Both times, the ball had bounced just off the field and into the privileged seats that are right there behind the barriers - themselves only three to three and a half feet high - such that someone in the seats there would be able to hand the ball to whichever player came to do the throw. Both times that I saw (or remember), the ball was given to him by a child. The first time, it was a kid I remember as being almost a baby - maybe two or three, given the ball by an adult and then held out toward Beckham to hand it to him. And Beckham's face went fully into Dad mode - a big, exaggerated "Hi!" grin, wide-eyed, with that surprised "Goodness!" look that I've felt myself give to tiny kids, which disarms, delights and reassures them at the same time. In fact, at the pool the other day, I gave it to a one-year-old as he looked at me over his mother's shoulder, and she turned to see me and smiled, saying, "They can always find the dads in the crowd." I laughed and said, "Well, we help them by giving the 'Dad' look." And that's exactly what Beckham gave this kid. It was just perfect - and I suddenly remembered that he is a Dad, of quite young kids. Just that little moment, and I was pretty well sure: Not just a Dad, but a devoted one.
Observe:
The second time, the kid in question was probably nine or ten, and Beckham was in a hurry, so he took the ball from the kid poliltely, with a "Thanks" that I could plainly see, definitely said, but said quickly. Then, though, as he was about to throw, it became clear that his teammates weren't ready - he'd have to wait a few seconds. So he quickly turned back to the kid, stuck out his hand, and gave him a low-five. Fully aware, of course, that he's just made that kid's day - hell, year. Childhood, maybe. Also aware that he was in the middle of a game, and had to keep concentrating - but that this kid's world was also big and important, and that he had the ability to quickly make that world much more fun and memorable, the opportunity, and of course took it, despite the fact that it won him absolutely nothing, other than that kid's happiness. I don't mean to go on about such a small thing, and perhaps I'm not conveying what I found great about the moment - I mean, I saw so many other players that day take the ball from a fan, turn back to the field, and say nothing to the fan. Not one word. "Thanks" would have cost them absolutely nothing, not even time, but it was too much to ask. And that's of course somewhat natural - they're concentrating, after all. But Beckham, despite being far and away the best overall player there, the most focused, the most famous, didn't turn up his nose at the chance to quickly make a fan (of the opposing team) very, very happy. That's important, he believes, so he does it.
I got the feeling that he appreciates all the game has done for him, and earnestly, honestly wants to give back. In just a quick glimpse, sure - but I've seen so many star athletes act like spoiled children, and to see the one active athlete who, world-wide, inspires probably the most fan shrieking and adulation, who's more photographed than any other athlete alive - to see him go those extra three feet, despite there being no obligation, was a very pleasantly surprising thing to see. He has time, even when he doesn't have time. He has the emotional space to keep it up. He's had more demands on him from fans than anybody, anybody - and he's still got more to give, in a hostile stadium, for fans who've been booing him all day and hold signs that malign his heart and his skills.
Yep. I have a man crush.
Honestly, the ladies weren't home long before another adventure beckoned. Auntie Jayne's birthday gift to Q of a ticket to a New England Revolution soccer match was cashed in just yesterday. Q and I departed for Foxboro, home of the Patriots, at noon on Saturday, checked into our hotel not four miles from the stadium, and then headed for the game.
I don't get to many professional games of any sort, and I really enjoy myself when I do go. The excitement, the crowds, the gorgeous weather (luckily) - it was a very electric atmosphere. And not least because this was to be the Revolution vs the Los Angeles Galaxy - and their erstwhile captain, David Beckham.
You may have heard of David Beckham. Just to keep you interested if you haven't, this is him:
I mean, goodness. If that's not eye candy, you don't have eyes. And he's also very good - former captain of the English national team, played for Manchester United at the age of 17, on and on. Excellent player, who's made a big splash by coming to play in the US.
Now, granted, he's done so at the age of 34, when his skills are in decline. And a lot of the money he makes here, he makes because of who he is, not what he does on the field - he's an automatic draw for fans, not just to the stadium in LA, but all round the country. I mean, I chose this game specifically because of him. It's very unusual for a top European player to decide to play here - so unusual, in fact, that it's unheard of. There's so little prestige here compared to Europe - almost anywhere in Europe. Less exposure, less money, less respect, etc. If they can play in Europe, they do. And frankly, every one of the players in the MLS teams stateside would drop MLS like a bad habit if they could go to Europe. No question.
And yet he's here. It might have been hubris - the US is the only market in the world he hasn't conquered, and perhaps he saw dollar signs in the possibility of capping his legacy by becoming a top draw in this gigantic money machine of a country. TV, movies, his own team, etc.
'Course, last year, he had second thoughts, and tried to break out of his contract to go and play in Europe again, for AC Milan. In addition, according to a recent article and book quoting / written by Landon Donovan, the US' best player and Beckham's teammate, Beckham wasn't really putting his all into his new team in LA. Seemed to be sleepwalking through it, wasn't quite as devoted to his teammates, the schedule, training, as he should have been. Donovan, who had been the captain, was strongarmed into giving the armband over to Beckham, and Beckham didn't do a damn thing with it. No leadership, etc. Then Beckham tried to jump ship, making every accusation of being half-hearted about the US ring all the truer. The Italian league is top-notch, and they wanted Beckham at AC Milan. But the Galaxy said no, and now he's playing out his contract here. Reluctantly, perhaps. Donovan is the captain again, and Beckham either plays stateside, or he doesn't play. So there's plenty of drama.
The Revolution, on the other hand, apparently are another team, and have a lot of players, and appear to have won the championship last year.
So the stage was set.
Q and I had watched the Galaxy play a friendly against Barcelona on TV recently, so we knew something about them. Barcelona was last year's European championship team and is widely held to be the best team on Earth, with the planet's best player, Lionel Messi, an Argentine. Q is crazy about Messi, and we had really enjoyed watching that game. Which Barcelona won, 2-1 - the one goal for LA coming on a set piece, a free kick that Beckham took. He is world-renowned for his free kick prowess - the movie, you may recall, "Bend It Like Beckham", deals tangentially with this particular gift of his. And he lived up to the hype - he bent the shot right, around the wall of defenders, and all the way back left to the left side of the net and in. Holy cow. Q and I were very excited indeed to get to go see him play.
Q talked for days before we drove to Foxboro about the possibility of getting Beckham's autograph. I didn't throw any cold water on the notion, although I knew full well that our chances of getting close to Beckham were close to nil. But even so, I was very glad that we'd decided to book a hotel room there and thus not have to worry about driving back after the game. We'd have time, if he wanted to try, for autograph-hunting.
Q had also seen US vs Brasil, where Landon Donovan had scored two goals and the Americans had taken an early lead; and he had also seen the US beat Spain, 2-0, so he was very familiar with Donovan as well. Fast, fast player, is Donovan, with supreme skills, and not necessarily that big, to be generous. (Putting him close to Q's heart, along with Messi - and making Donovan's autograph and Beckham's pretty much equally valuable.)
Thus setting the stage even further.
Q wore his France national jersey - it's red, white, and blue, so he blended into the crowd. We decided we would be cheering for the Galaxy, since we like Donovan and Beckham, and entered the stadium.
We caught sight of the teams warming up and stood there, watching; I had this strange, morbid fear that for some reason Beckham wouldn't play, and so easily convinced myself that the blonde man stretching there at the corner of the field wasn't him. But the binoculars, trained on his back, confirmed it: There was the signature tattoo on the back of his neck, wings spreading out toward his ears. And then he turned my way and smiled:
Ka-bam. I mean, jeepers. I'm very firmly and comfortably in the "Hetero" aisle at the "Preferences" market, but it just plain leaves you speechless. Like when I see a buck step out of the brush in the woods unexpectedly. I am awed at the beauty of the thing, its majesty - I feel like I'm in the presence of something pure and perfect. Do I want to kiss the buck? No. No, I do not. In fact, I want to shoot it, and when I'm lucky, I do. But I get weak-kneed nonetheless because I'm in the presence of something so gloriously perfect. Similar with Mr. Beckham - Ka, bam.
(And, for the record: I did not have the slightest urge to shoot him.)
The warm-ups were cool, because they looked like any old team warming up - drills, jogging, goofing around, pinnies, etc. Same as anyone. Despite being David Beckham and Landon Donovan. They're just people, we found. Something we who don't deal with fame or with famous people sometimes forget. We found our way to our seats (which were excellent - Row 14 of the main section, near midfield, right on the aisle), got us some beverages (one adult, one less so), listened to the National Anthem, and settled in to take in some damn soccer.
Watching Q play his games over the years, and taking him to soccer events because of his interest, I have come to have a VERY rudimentary understanding of what works and what doesn't in soccer. I watch the high school games my students play in, the occasional Williams game, men's or women's, and then, more lately, I watch more and more of it on TV, thanks to Q's interest and our newfound cable access to the Fox Soccer Channel. And here's what I've noticed, in general, about the top levels of soccer: There is an innate feel, a higher-level command of the field, that certain teams have that transcends individual brilliance. It's a fluidity and a sense of common purpose among the whole team, all 11 on the pitch, that's unsaid, or seems to be - a bone-level soccer tune-in. Many teams at the high levels don't have it - the US national team, for example. We watched them beat Spain, largely due to a couple of very lucky pounces on dangerous situations, and due to the individual skills of the right player, at the right time. But then later in the game, as Spain was trying desperately to come back, there was no doubt as to which team was better. Spain was a hive mind - each individual did what the whole needed done, knowing he could count on the other parts of the whole to do the same. And they had the US pinned back on their end the entire time, because the US could so rarely break up, completely, what the Spanish were trying to do. They couldn't get close enough to the ball to interfere - Spain would effortlessly, wordlessly, bounce away as one, passing and passing and never losing the ball, moving and probing for an opening. And then when the US was at the other end of the field, their own attacks would evaporate almost as soon as they'd begun. They just didn't appear to have a sense of purpose. Donovan was brilliant a time or two, individual defenders were valiant and very skilled, and the US won. But they are not better.
Same against Brazil. The US went ahead 2-0 on the sheer power and speed of Donovan - but thereafter, they were helpless against Brazil's hive-mind. The US was playing checkers, and the Brazilians were playing chess, and Brazil put three (four, really, but one was called a non-goal) over in the second half and won, deservedly. It made me sad, but you had to admit: Brazil was just better.
It was a similar thing to watch the LA Galaxy and the Revolution play. Donovan should be playing in Europe - he's just super-skilled, aggressive, knowledgeable, and ridiculously fast. And Beckham, playing midfield, was the glue that held everything together. Between the two of them, they so elevated LA's game that the Revolution looked like children - or like the US did against Brazil. Outclassed.
Donovan and Beckham communicated wordlessly all game long, weaving past each other and laying passes to where the other ought to soon be, confident that the other would not fail to be there when the pass arrived. And 90% of the time, that's exactly what happened. When other players on the Galaxy were called upon, they looked herky-jerky, clunky, compared to those two - they were George W Bush reading a prepared text, and Beckham and Donovan were Barack Obama. Just no comparison at all.
The Galaxy were up 1-0 at halftime on a brilliant, lightning-strike of a goal by Donovan, who took a cross out of the air with his left foot and bent it some 30 yards around the outstretched hands of the goal keeper and into the left side. Wow. I actually felt on a couple of occasions that he was a titch selfish - he would approach from the right side and Beckham, at the precise moment, when the man marking Donovan would trend inside to prevent Donovan from charging straight to the goal, would blaze around behind Donovan and head for the right corner - all but unmarked, as everyone on defense was still afraid of Donovan toward the center. And it seemed that the universe wanted Donovan to send it toward the space where Beckham would soon be. He did do so a few times, but on what was certainly the best opportunity, Donovan instead shot, and it ricocheted off a Revs player and harmlessly into another, who cleared it. I looked to Beckham to see if he would throw up his hands in frustration.
He absolutely did not. I have to say, watching Beckham play, and that's all I got to see him do, I feel like I got a certain amount of information about him as a person. I'll tell you a few reasons why - One was this refusal to complain about his teammates' play. Even when the obviously junior-varsity Galaxy players would blow something, his only reaction was perhaps a slow-motion, hands-pressing-earthward, "Calm down", reassurance-type of gesture, even as he bounced and trotted to the right spot to make up for the mistake his teammate had committed. He seemed like a very mature player, unselfish and generous.
With the opposition, there was a certain amount of jawing going on - Beckham has set himself up for it with his actions last year, and the Revolution players were letting him have it. Their midfielder, a big, braided-hair guy named Shalrie Joseph (here he is:)
- was continually talking to Beckham. At first it seemed very friendly - Beckham would approach and listen and give a handshake, smiling, and once turned away, laughing, tossing they guy's hand away in either a "You-big-palooka" kind of way or a "F--k you" kind of way - hard to tell, what with the joy in his smile.
(For reference:)
But in the second half, as the frustration and desperation on the part of the Revs grew (it was 2-0 by now), the tackles on Beckham got harder and harder, and he would come up jawing with the players. "That's just stupid," I lip-read once; he would approach in a confrontational way, as if to fight, but would turn it into an "I'm-just-trying-to-help-the-guy" stance at the last second. He's very good at playing the "I'm-not-the-bad-guy" game, the subtle art of provoking without getting a card yourself, that's so maddening to watch in European and South American players. He's brilliant at it.
But eventually the over-aggressiveness and the personal nature of the tackling got to be too much for him. The paper reported that the biggest incident came about because Beckham got an elbow to the head, but from what I could see, he appeared to be upset about an elbow that was thrown against one of his teammates going up for a header. It was on the opposite sideline, but Beckham got right in the Revs player's face, no subtlety anymore, and eventually they were separated. Donovan came over and pulled Beckham away, and Joseph came in and talked to Beckham - playing Beckham's game, approaching in a peacemaker stance, and then saying something nasty, which got Beckham riled again. That ended with Joseph jabbing Beckham in the chest with a finger, and Beckham realizing that he'd get carded soon if he didn't pull out, so he turned and dismissively walked off. In the end, Beckham and the player who threw the elbow got yellow cards, and play resumed. By the way, Beckham was booed thunderously throughout - although, from my vantage point, he looked perfectly justified, and much more the gentleman than the Revs.
Not five minutes later, the player who'd thrown the elbow (I assume) was up against the sideline around midfield, in a bit of a pickle, and Beckham absolutely pounced. It was a very rough challenge and scramble for the ball - nothing overtly intended to harm, no punches or elbows, but a distinct ratcheting-up of the urgency, of the level of violence, which left a few players on the ground. A primadonna, Beckham, unequivocally, is not.
The Galaxy were going left-to-right in the first half, and Beckham tended to stray right, so we got our best looks at him in the first half, when I saw him do a couple of throw-ins. Both times, the ball had bounced just off the field and into the privileged seats that are right there behind the barriers - themselves only three to three and a half feet high - such that someone in the seats there would be able to hand the ball to whichever player came to do the throw. Both times that I saw (or remember), the ball was given to him by a child. The first time, it was a kid I remember as being almost a baby - maybe two or three, given the ball by an adult and then held out toward Beckham to hand it to him. And Beckham's face went fully into Dad mode - a big, exaggerated "Hi!" grin, wide-eyed, with that surprised "Goodness!" look that I've felt myself give to tiny kids, which disarms, delights and reassures them at the same time. In fact, at the pool the other day, I gave it to a one-year-old as he looked at me over his mother's shoulder, and she turned to see me and smiled, saying, "They can always find the dads in the crowd." I laughed and said, "Well, we help them by giving the 'Dad' look." And that's exactly what Beckham gave this kid. It was just perfect - and I suddenly remembered that he is a Dad, of quite young kids. Just that little moment, and I was pretty well sure: Not just a Dad, but a devoted one.
Observe:
The second time, the kid in question was probably nine or ten, and Beckham was in a hurry, so he took the ball from the kid poliltely, with a "Thanks" that I could plainly see, definitely said, but said quickly. Then, though, as he was about to throw, it became clear that his teammates weren't ready - he'd have to wait a few seconds. So he quickly turned back to the kid, stuck out his hand, and gave him a low-five. Fully aware, of course, that he's just made that kid's day - hell, year. Childhood, maybe. Also aware that he was in the middle of a game, and had to keep concentrating - but that this kid's world was also big and important, and that he had the ability to quickly make that world much more fun and memorable, the opportunity, and of course took it, despite the fact that it won him absolutely nothing, other than that kid's happiness. I don't mean to go on about such a small thing, and perhaps I'm not conveying what I found great about the moment - I mean, I saw so many other players that day take the ball from a fan, turn back to the field, and say nothing to the fan. Not one word. "Thanks" would have cost them absolutely nothing, not even time, but it was too much to ask. And that's of course somewhat natural - they're concentrating, after all. But Beckham, despite being far and away the best overall player there, the most focused, the most famous, didn't turn up his nose at the chance to quickly make a fan (of the opposing team) very, very happy. That's important, he believes, so he does it.
I got the feeling that he appreciates all the game has done for him, and earnestly, honestly wants to give back. In just a quick glimpse, sure - but I've seen so many star athletes act like spoiled children, and to see the one active athlete who, world-wide, inspires probably the most fan shrieking and adulation, who's more photographed than any other athlete alive - to see him go those extra three feet, despite there being no obligation, was a very pleasantly surprising thing to see. He has time, even when he doesn't have time. He has the emotional space to keep it up. He's had more demands on him from fans than anybody, anybody - and he's still got more to give, in a hostile stadium, for fans who've been booing him all day and hold signs that malign his heart and his skills.
Yep. I have a man crush.
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