dun dun dun dundundun dun
dun dun dun dundundun dun
Under pressure. Great, great bass line. Great description of the life of a goaltender. NPR released a radiolab piece on goalkeeping the other day, chronically all the great figures who have played in goal, and their respective traumas and broken dreams. Albert Camus claimed it was where he learned his greatest lessons. When your sporting activity of choice leads to a philosophy focused on clinging to small joys in the midst of a life largely mired in sadness you really ought to reconsider your priorities.
Goaltending, for me, takes most of its appeal from two sources: pressure and self-reliance. The former demands an incredible level of intellectual focus. When I stand between the sticks every moment could become mine, or none, and so I crouch and stare and wait, wound like a spring. Every opposing touch on the ball is a threat, especially in the indoor game, and my current venture into futsal puts even more emphasis here. The field is small enough that a shot could come at any second from any angle. A single slip by a teammate and the ball is lost, less than a second from the back of my net. And it is my net.
Ownership comes from that sense of standing alone. The rest of the team may casually refer to the goal as “ours” but the keeper knows it belongs to him and him alone. When the ball reaches him no one else matters; he will make a play or he will not and no one will bail him out. The radiolab piece chronicled many great goaltending blunders and the keeper’s subsequent repudiation over a single mistake, magnified beyond all reason by the position of the mistake-maker. Every other player has a back-up or a partner. Even when a clear scoring chance goes awry there is hope to make it up later. Asamoah Gyan’s missed stoppage-time penalty at the last World Cup is the closest I can come to a truly irredeemable goof, and even he was able to bury another try five minutes later in the shootout. Gyan was hugged and held and praised for his bravery after the match ended his team‘s run. England keeper Robert Green? He blew one save in the first match of the tournament and yet bore the brunt of criticism for a pitiful performance by his entire team, a team made up almost exclusively of fabulously wealthy, better-known field players. The goalie’s greatest moments are forgotten, his errors immortalized, and in this regard he is alone. No one else faces such a fool’s gamble. The best the goalie can hope for is the grim satisfaction of a clean sheet, free from blemish and forgotten.
Camus was right, though, about the brilliance of little joys in a dark world. Goalies get little credit even when they are at their best, yet the bright moments they do find shine all the brighter for it. They belong solely to the man in the gloves, a tiny victory won by dint of his own ability and no one else’s. Yes, the defense helps, but when a shot comes on goal it comes because of their lapse. Each save is precisely that: a saving action on behalf of a largely impassive team. When enough of those saving actions are strung together the goalie can single-handedly preserve a game his team fully deserves to lose. If he can somehow be flawless for the full ninety minutes, if he can make the miraculous stop at the right moment, he alone can stymie ten superior opponents unaided. He can become a rock, a wall, an impervious force of nature. In that moment light breaks in and the world comes fantastically alive.
No one else needs to see that light. His teammates may see only a good game. To them a perfect day by the man in the back is merely a stroke of luck. His opponents will see only a source of frustration. To them he is an intruder, unfairly ruining an otherwise beautiful game they ought by right to win. To the spectators he is the same, either surprise bit of fortune or symbol of bad luck. None of it matters; the light is for him alone. No one but another keeper need ever know it’s there and so, ironically, it is often the opposing goalie whose praise matters most. Whether hero or goat his handshake is the one I cherish at game’s end. My teammates are great and all but he knows my world and its harshness, its wonder before the gloaming, and has stood in both the darkness and the light. All who face the same direction as me are my teammates and I appreciate them. All who stand apart, marked by a different-colored shirt, are my brothers. It is to them that my heart goes out.
Sleep tight, Robert Green, and may Camus visit you with lovely dreams of the absurd and the sublimely beautiful.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Day 30: Babysitting
I have had occasion to co-babysit a couple of times over the past two weeks and I must say I am not ready to have kids just yet. I truly do enjoy them but do they ever eat up your time and energy. Great for an evening, not something I want to build my daily life around just yet. Even so, it was a good reminder of how sad it is to go through life never interacting with anyone younger than eighteen.
It is way to easy for me to walk around Portland and only see adults. Few of my friends have kids at this point and it strikes me as a major anomaly in human society to see this kind of segmentation. Have there been other cultures where one could go this long without taking some part in raising or teaching kids?
I want to write more on this, and better, but I have to work. Sorry I have fallen off after a month of diligence here. I intend to get back to it starting now!
It is way to easy for me to walk around Portland and only see adults. Few of my friends have kids at this point and it strikes me as a major anomaly in human society to see this kind of segmentation. Have there been other cultures where one could go this long without taking some part in raising or teaching kids?
I want to write more on this, and better, but I have to work. Sorry I have fallen off after a month of diligence here. I intend to get back to it starting now!
Friday, April 8, 2011
Day 29: Death Story
Woo, unfinished story! Seriously, the endings I tried were so melodramatic they'd embarrass a ninth-grader named "Raven."
The Death of old was last seen in the lobby, looking worried. Her lack of facial features made this quite an accomplishment but when what passes for your face hides perpetually beneath a dark cloak you learn to make do with body language. When she was last spotted near the fountain at the Palms that body language consisted of pacing back and forth between the front desk and the valet, hood on a swivel, trying desperately to spot something. Or, more likely, someone.
Death could track anyone on her list to any point in existence with simple thought. No physical barricade could slow her, no religious ritual stop her, no emotional plea sway her. She was a force, elemental, and even the gods showed her respect. Her normal path followed her ever-updating list exclusively and, as such, she was at something of a loss when forced now to track someone who had no need of her kiss. So she paced the lobby and tried to ignore the stares and restless feeling welling up inside.
John’s friend Kat succumbed to a lengthy battle with a rare parasite two weeks earlier on an extended vacation in Chile. Death met her in an ICU bed in Santiago and she went quietly on to the next place. John had been visiting her when she turned for the worse and stayed over an extra couple days to be with her at the hospital. Death had met many such men and women in her travels, sitting vigil in their sterile little rooms, but John had been different. When Death took Kat he did not sob or freeze, just paused, smiled, brushed back a tear, and seemed to look right at Death as if to say go on, it’s okay. I know you’re just doing your job. Please don’t mind me. Death was touched, and she’d followed John back to Kat’s home and watched him pack up her things to send back to her parents. She loved him just then.
Over the next two weeks she’d followed John when she could, stopping in at Kat’s now empty residence and following him from there into the city. His visa had time on it and he was in no hurry to return and face his friends and their questions about Kat. Still, he was beatific, and beautiful, and Death found herself wanting to know more about him each day. John, for his part, could feel her presence but seemed not to mind. This too was unique and Death began to imagine that maybe John really was different. Different enough to reveal herself to him. Different enough to see her. To love her.
That was it. Death had witnessed a million grieving widows, ten million parents lost in a flood of sorrow over a child taken “too soon,” (though Death knew there was no such thing), and while no single instance changed her the slow accumulation was beginning to show its effects. She wanted to feel like that herself, and to find someone who might feel back. She had no delusions of romantic sentiments being exchanged but, maybe, just maybe, she could find a friend. A friend like John.
When John left for the airport on his way back to Baltimore Death followed. She had no address for him, no way to find him back again if he wasn‘t on her list, and she was terrified of losing the connection she felt. When John’s flight redirected to Charleston, and did not take off again due to a bad engine, he was forced to spend the night in a hotel and wait for the next morning’s game of stand-by. Death was ready for him, but not for his sudden decision to rent a car and drive home through the night. She was away on business when he made the decision. Now he was nowhere to be found and so she paced, back and forth across the lobby, hoping he was still about, that he had stopped off for dinner in the hotel bar first, or forgotten his phone charger, or, or, anything, just not this. Not this.
The Death of old was last seen in the lobby, looking worried. Her lack of facial features made this quite an accomplishment but when what passes for your face hides perpetually beneath a dark cloak you learn to make do with body language. When she was last spotted near the fountain at the Palms that body language consisted of pacing back and forth between the front desk and the valet, hood on a swivel, trying desperately to spot something. Or, more likely, someone.
Death could track anyone on her list to any point in existence with simple thought. No physical barricade could slow her, no religious ritual stop her, no emotional plea sway her. She was a force, elemental, and even the gods showed her respect. Her normal path followed her ever-updating list exclusively and, as such, she was at something of a loss when forced now to track someone who had no need of her kiss. So she paced the lobby and tried to ignore the stares and restless feeling welling up inside.
John’s friend Kat succumbed to a lengthy battle with a rare parasite two weeks earlier on an extended vacation in Chile. Death met her in an ICU bed in Santiago and she went quietly on to the next place. John had been visiting her when she turned for the worse and stayed over an extra couple days to be with her at the hospital. Death had met many such men and women in her travels, sitting vigil in their sterile little rooms, but John had been different. When Death took Kat he did not sob or freeze, just paused, smiled, brushed back a tear, and seemed to look right at Death as if to say go on, it’s okay. I know you’re just doing your job. Please don’t mind me. Death was touched, and she’d followed John back to Kat’s home and watched him pack up her things to send back to her parents. She loved him just then.
Over the next two weeks she’d followed John when she could, stopping in at Kat’s now empty residence and following him from there into the city. His visa had time on it and he was in no hurry to return and face his friends and their questions about Kat. Still, he was beatific, and beautiful, and Death found herself wanting to know more about him each day. John, for his part, could feel her presence but seemed not to mind. This too was unique and Death began to imagine that maybe John really was different. Different enough to reveal herself to him. Different enough to see her. To love her.
That was it. Death had witnessed a million grieving widows, ten million parents lost in a flood of sorrow over a child taken “too soon,” (though Death knew there was no such thing), and while no single instance changed her the slow accumulation was beginning to show its effects. She wanted to feel like that herself, and to find someone who might feel back. She had no delusions of romantic sentiments being exchanged but, maybe, just maybe, she could find a friend. A friend like John.
When John left for the airport on his way back to Baltimore Death followed. She had no address for him, no way to find him back again if he wasn‘t on her list, and she was terrified of losing the connection she felt. When John’s flight redirected to Charleston, and did not take off again due to a bad engine, he was forced to spend the night in a hotel and wait for the next morning’s game of stand-by. Death was ready for him, but not for his sudden decision to rent a car and drive home through the night. She was away on business when he made the decision. Now he was nowhere to be found and so she paced, back and forth across the lobby, hoping he was still about, that he had stopped off for dinner in the hotel bar first, or forgotten his phone charger, or, or, anything, just not this. Not this.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Day 28: Grammar
A confession: I proofread my text messages.
Another: I will judge yours if you don’t.
I’m pretty sure this is a character fault. Many people write well and take pride in their own clarity of communication without needing to judge a friend who has just been so kind as to “invite u out fr beers 2nite!” Yet here I sit, quietly offended that this individual, who was kind enough to invite me out for good company and might even offer to buy the first round, did not think enough of me to take the time to check her spelling. Is there a less gracious response? Well, yes, but not by much.
I am a Dutch Midwesterner. I was raised among people who do things in good order and mind their P’s and Q’s. When someone fails to live up to the expectations I set for myself I invariably take note and attribute a cause. Maybe they weren’t raised to know better. Maybe they’re lazy. Maybe the just don’t care about me. This is narcissism writ small.
I will try to show you grace, world, since you seem to be moving away from formal rules and careful prose. I will miss the old ways and attempt to keep them alive in my own work and perhaps in the ways I teach my children. I ask in return for your greater grace, that you might forgive this madness inside of me.
Another: I will judge yours if you don’t.
I’m pretty sure this is a character fault. Many people write well and take pride in their own clarity of communication without needing to judge a friend who has just been so kind as to “invite u out fr beers 2nite!” Yet here I sit, quietly offended that this individual, who was kind enough to invite me out for good company and might even offer to buy the first round, did not think enough of me to take the time to check her spelling. Is there a less gracious response? Well, yes, but not by much.
I am a Dutch Midwesterner. I was raised among people who do things in good order and mind their P’s and Q’s. When someone fails to live up to the expectations I set for myself I invariably take note and attribute a cause. Maybe they weren’t raised to know better. Maybe they’re lazy. Maybe the just don’t care about me. This is narcissism writ small.
I will try to show you grace, world, since you seem to be moving away from formal rules and careful prose. I will miss the old ways and attempt to keep them alive in my own work and perhaps in the ways I teach my children. I ask in return for your greater grace, that you might forgive this madness inside of me.
Day 27: Food
Over the years I have come to love the art of cooking. Human beings have very few true, physical needs: air, water, food and shelter come to mind. A little heat to warm the shelter, maybe, but that’s about it. There is not much room for creativity there. Air is plentiful and free and pretty close to the same everywhere. Even when we catch a new note, the cleanliness of a mountain breeze or the dampness of a Midwestern summer, we quickly become accustomed to the new wrinkle. Each breath subdues the magic a little more until it’s just one more thing to take for granted. Water is the same; we can dress it up, but as soon as it becomes more than water I start to lump it in with food. Beer straddles this line nicely.
Shelter offers a little more variety. Here we can try something different, if we have the means, dressing up our surroundings with color and shape. Each home has its own architecture, in most neighborhoods, or else an apartment complex at least has its own layout, different from that of one’s friends or families. Within each our design can really take hold. Every item placed changes the environment and art and light complete it. Even our homes, though, soon become common to their residents. Another’s home might still surprise us on each visit but our own quickly becomes taken for granted.
Food is another story. Every meal is made anew, every dish a chance to add in some wrinkle, some variation on an old theme. Food is like music that way. Some prefer to play the old standards and play them right. Others like to throw in a new note, or bend an old one, each time through. Either way every meal is an act of creation. It’s the closest most of us will come to daily art short of taking on a forty-day writing challenge.
My cooking tends towards new challenges. I don’t have a ready audience most nights so when I do I try to make the meal something special. Somehow “special” has morphed in my brain to mean “brand new” and the challenge is on. This is great. Each new dish is a battle to try and achieve a vision of what the meal should be. I am a rampant perfectionist in this area, but it’s not out of a need to be right. Rather, I simply want to get better, to learn the art at a deeper level, and to do my guests the honor of something wondrous. And it is wondrous, this act of giving another person energy and life. It’s stunning that we so casually pass off this duty to the drive-through workers of our land. There are times when such quick and convenient fare is fine but there is still something about making that contract, an agreement to let someone else’s cheap calories enter your own body, and that sits ill with me.
Maybe that’s just the Taco Bell.
Shelter offers a little more variety. Here we can try something different, if we have the means, dressing up our surroundings with color and shape. Each home has its own architecture, in most neighborhoods, or else an apartment complex at least has its own layout, different from that of one’s friends or families. Within each our design can really take hold. Every item placed changes the environment and art and light complete it. Even our homes, though, soon become common to their residents. Another’s home might still surprise us on each visit but our own quickly becomes taken for granted.
Food is another story. Every meal is made anew, every dish a chance to add in some wrinkle, some variation on an old theme. Food is like music that way. Some prefer to play the old standards and play them right. Others like to throw in a new note, or bend an old one, each time through. Either way every meal is an act of creation. It’s the closest most of us will come to daily art short of taking on a forty-day writing challenge.
My cooking tends towards new challenges. I don’t have a ready audience most nights so when I do I try to make the meal something special. Somehow “special” has morphed in my brain to mean “brand new” and the challenge is on. This is great. Each new dish is a battle to try and achieve a vision of what the meal should be. I am a rampant perfectionist in this area, but it’s not out of a need to be right. Rather, I simply want to get better, to learn the art at a deeper level, and to do my guests the honor of something wondrous. And it is wondrous, this act of giving another person energy and life. It’s stunning that we so casually pass off this duty to the drive-through workers of our land. There are times when such quick and convenient fare is fine but there is still something about making that contract, an agreement to let someone else’s cheap calories enter your own body, and that sits ill with me.
Maybe that’s just the Taco Bell.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Day 26: Somebody Ate a Bug
I watched a teenager for whom I was responsible eat an ant today. The situation was simple. Ants were on the counter. Someone found one in his soup. I joked that they were a great source of protein and that I’d heard they tasted like nuts. So another young man looked at me, at the ants, back at me, then promptly grabbed/smeared a couple of them on his finger and ate them. He confusedly said, in a low voice, that they just tasted salty. Then he returned to his own soup.
For the record, I am not in any way grossed out by the concept of eating insects (the practice may be another matter) because many, many human cultures do it. I’m not worried about this young man’s health as a result of eating a couple smushed ants. I am, however, worried about my own judgment in suggesting it. I should not turn thirty any time soon and you should definitely not entrust your children to my care.
Unless, of course, you come from an insectivore community. Just pack your own lunch- the ants here are way too salty.
For the record, I am not in any way grossed out by the concept of eating insects (the practice may be another matter) because many, many human cultures do it. I’m not worried about this young man’s health as a result of eating a couple smushed ants. I am, however, worried about my own judgment in suggesting it. I should not turn thirty any time soon and you should definitely not entrust your children to my care.
Unless, of course, you come from an insectivore community. Just pack your own lunch- the ants here are way too salty.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Day 25: Thirty
Today is my college roommate’s thirtieth birthday. How did this happen? Nothing feels different yet I keep hearing that it is.
I’m not really sure how much aging actually happens after twenty-three. Up until that point I was highly developmental, a beta-testing adult with too little common sense. I might still lack common sense at times but I no longer feel like I’m changing much, at least not on the inside. Most of my friends seemed to plateau around the same point a few years back. Thirty is supposed to be a big deal but I’m not altogether sure why, other than it makes one consider how quickly the remaining years might fly by. True, responsibilities pile up over the years, and people get entrenched in careers and patterns and parenting, but I no longer see much shift in my friends’ personalities. I am not sure how to feel about this.
Are we boring?
I’m not really sure how much aging actually happens after twenty-three. Up until that point I was highly developmental, a beta-testing adult with too little common sense. I might still lack common sense at times but I no longer feel like I’m changing much, at least not on the inside. Most of my friends seemed to plateau around the same point a few years back. Thirty is supposed to be a big deal but I’m not altogether sure why, other than it makes one consider how quickly the remaining years might fly by. True, responsibilities pile up over the years, and people get entrenched in careers and patterns and parenting, but I no longer see much shift in my friends’ personalities. I am not sure how to feel about this.
Are we boring?
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)