Day 33 (Mon., Oct. 3)

Futbol!

That's right. Tonight was time to remember all the good old days when I would go watch my dad play night-time soccer at the local parks. Today was a lot like those days because of the importance of the game. Two of the top adult league teams in the area matched up for the league's title. The setting was very familiar as I grew up watching my dad play on numerous championship games and being crowned the league's leading scorer at the completion of almost every season. My dad is quite the soccer player and because of futbol politics in Mexico, he was never able to make it to the big show. He did, however, train w/ some of the top players of his time and schooled them.

I remember nights at Delano Park in Van Nuys, California. That's where dad and his team would rack up wins en route to the championship game. I remember the day the game came down to penalty kicks. My dad might have been a great soccer player and could bring the crowd to an awe as he performed his greatest trick: the bicycle kick. But there was a time where he had trouble scoring penalty kicks. He missed a few of those in key games, and that night he was due to kick third as everything laid on the line. I watched him smoke three cigarettes as the kicking order was chosen and as players took their turn with their kicks. After finishing his third ceegee, he took center stage and went to work. Luckily, he scored. And it was now all on the hands of his teammates. I remember laughing because I was the only one in the place that knew he was struggling w/ the kicks yet I knew he would do fine. I was the least nervous person in the place because I had confidence this would be the time he would break the slump in which he missed kicks on his Sunday league games and at other places he played during that short span. So he was missing a lot of PKs for quite a while and very frequently. But that night he was successful. He scored. His teammates came through and a few weeks later a first-place trophy was in our living room. A bright, metallic blue trophy that was taller than any of my baseball and football trophies.

Ahhh. Those are the good old days. The days when people would think my dad, who is just 17 years older than I am, and I were brothers because we looked exactly alike. The nights when I would laugh as he rolled around on the ground after a slidetackle. I laughed because he was the greatest injury faker I have ever seen. Many players would get ejected because my dad's acts were worthy of an Oscar.

Tonight was fun. As the game was coming close to an end, the frustration by the losing team was becoming very apparent. So, on a controversial hit, members of both teams told each other what to day as you can see in the photo above.

That reminded me of a few times when soccer fields in my childhood looked more like a free-for-all slug fest. I will never forget that night when a hackler kept on saying all the mean things in the world toward my dad as my dad engaged in a game. I was 16 years old then. I stood there listening to every insult in the vocabulary of people from El Salvador. Next, the guy jumped the fence and started running toward my dad. Of course, the coward jumped when my dad wasn't looking. I called out to my dad to watch out as I raced toward the guy, whose name was appropriately "Perro" ("Dog"). I still don't know what got in me, but it must have been all those tackling lessons on the football team that made me run towards the guy and tackling him down. I remember jumping on top of him and giving him a doze of constant punches to the face. "You don't mess w/ my dad," I said as I took care of him. Meanwhile, my dad was using those talented kicks and giving him something to remember us by. Funny thing is that on one of those kick attempts my dad missed and I was kicked right on the chest. The adrenaline must have shielded it off because it didn't hurt until after the fracas was over. Then I realized why my dad was such a great soccer player, he had a kick made out of steel. I remember being kept away from that soccer field because my dad feared the guy would seek revenge. Instead, the guy made a formal apology the following week as he still sported two bruised up eyes.

Now, I don't think fighting is the best way to solve a problem, but when the guy tried to hurt my dad, he was bound for the beating. I would do it all over again. That's my father you're messing w/. That's sacred to me.

In all, today was just a day to remember those days. I miss going to my dad's soccer games. He is still a living legend in our hometown in Mexico. When I visit, people always tell me how great my dad was on the soccer field. Then they ask me how good I am and I say "I don't know... I was raised in a place where soccer wasn't the only sport you can play. Dividing your attention between running, soccer, football, track and baseball it's hard."

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