sometimes reality likes to give you a nice boot in the ass

Well I did something really stupid. Which was to accept the invitation of my coworker Viny to go play soccer with him and his buddies at their soccer club in the neighborhood of Jardim somethingorother (I think Jardim Brasil), within sight of shopping Iguatemi. Granted, he’d been bugging me about it for weeks, and despite my misgivings assured me that there were enough old men and uncoordinated people (apparently one of the normal goalkeepers has some sort of physical deformity) that I wouldn’t have any problem keeping up with them. But what I was most assured by was the unlikelihood that someone like Viny, who is a very easygoing, unperturbable, taking-naps-in-the-waiting-room-in-the-middle-of-the-day-at-work kind of guy, would turn into a screaming, cursing maniac running up and down the field driven by a seemingly endless supply of energy and a passion which he shared only for bad European heavy metal.

As I waited for the bus to Pernambues (Viny’s neighborhood) I think I heard a voice way in the back of my head saying something like “OK lets recap here. You are on your way to play soccer with a bunch of Brazilians. Brazilians.” but I was somehow able to shut him up. This was in part because I was so nervous to get the right bus and find Viny’s house, which it turns out is pathetically easy but I screwed it up last time and didn’t want to have to call him again and tell him what an idiot I was, again, for not being able to find a specific place in the city, even given excellent instructions. On the bright side another volunteer who wanted to come left around the same time and never made it (hee-hee) because he caught the bus to what amounts to a dirt road at the other end of town. And still another voice in my head (I have many) said “Oh come on. What are you afraid of? It’ll be a hoot.” And I smiled and thought to myself, yeah, what am I afraid of? I had forgotten that this was the voice that, when I listened to it without question, quite often got me into situations that went horribly, horribly wrong.

I felt a pang of anxiety when the bus passed what looked like a club field, that was under lights, with guys in quick-change colored jerseys playing each other. I hope that’s not where we’re playing, I thought to myself, somewhat jokingly and laughing to myself (because, come on, that would be crazy). Viny had made the whole thing out to be very informal – I pictured a bunch of guys in shirts and skins playing on an unmarked abandoned field, or something like that. Not anything organized.

I got to Viny’s place where he lives with his aunt (Edilza) and cousin (don’t remember her name even though I’ve asked and heard it at least 10 times – I think it’s Mara). We got ice cream and hung out for a while before going to wait for Viny’s uncle (different side of the family) to come pick us up in Pernambues “Center”, which is one of those centers that’s only a center of anything because somebody put a sign there that says Center. The uncle was late but eventually picked us up, along with about 10 people (his entire family including what looked like his mom) in the back seat of a Volkswagen Rabbit or something similar. I got to sit in the front despite protesting, and Viny sat in the back after physically picking up another one of his cousins who had been sitting there, who looked about his age (18), and simply placing her on his lap.

The minute Viny’s uncle pulled away from the curb the words I had the feeling that I was riding in what could best be described as the Brazilian Millenium Falcon. In the sense that you know there’s no way we’re ever going to lightspeed and it’s loud as hell. And if Archie Bunker was driving it, because that’s who Viny’s uncle most reminded me of. He never smiled until he dropped me off at home at the end of the night (we were both happy for that), and even though I know he was wearing a tank top team jersey and bermuda shorts he still sticks in my mind as having worn a wifebeater and boxers with black socks, with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth even though I never saw him smoke. His expression was exactly like Tom Cruise’s in Minority Report when he injects his face with a chemical that makes all the muscles go dead. And luckily, I didn’t feel comfortable enough with my Portuguese to say “Should I get out and push?” My guess is that they would have failed to see the humor.

So we drive up to the field under lights that I passed in the bus on the way there and my heart jumps to my throat … but then we pass it. Only to pull into a different field under lights. Son of a bitch, I say to myself. Actually, I’m a little better with Portuguese now. Filho da puta.

I get thrown a red jersey which lands in my face since the game’s already started and we jump on the field. And immediately I don’t have any idea of what the fuck I’m doing.

Ever have that dream where the pilot of your 747 flight dies from a heart attack and you’re thrown into the pilot’s seat and have to land the plane? Come to think of it, me neither. But about 15 minutes into the game 2 thoughts came to my mind: 1) how fucking long is this game, and 2) I think (I’m not sure, but I think) I am way out of my league here, so to speak.

Let me tell you why I … suck. I’ve noticed, after having been beaten over the head with practical advice on participating in sports and still somehow been able to absorb almost none of it, that a lot of people say, when they’re complimenting an outstanding player, that “S/he really knows how to move without the ball.” Isn’t that nice. Unfortunately for me, I’m one of those people who has no idea how to a) move without the ball, or b) what it means to move without the ball. If is supposed to be running in one direction, I'm at a full sprint in the other direction. If the best thing to do at a certain moment is to cut around in front of the goal, you can be sure that I'm standing with hands on hips right behind the guy with the ball. Needless to say, this kind of behavior doesn't go over well with a bunch of Brazilians who are out for blood, club league or no.

And of course there wasn’t any time to explain that I have a bit of a handicap when it comes to understanding colloquial, adrenaline-fueled, swear-ridden Portuguese. There is one very bad word that is most commonly used as an exclamation, that can best be described as an equivalent to fuck in terms of potency, but the latter seems to be a little more versatile as different parts of speech. I heard this word yelled once every 30 seconds, and more than once it was in reference to something I had done or had failed to do. And it wasn’t like “, that guy (me) scored another goal!”, it was more like “, you’re on the blue team, you stupid idiot!”

So, after an excruciatingly long hour and a half, the buzzer went off and the lights went out, and since I have been on this continent I have never breathed a more deep sigh of relief than I did then. Everybody headed back to the clubhouse to get drinks, and that’s where Viny said, “You played good.” My initial response was, “I’m sorry, were we at the same game?” And he was like, “No, for the first time, you played well.” And I’m thinking to myself, So other people have come here, done worse, and they decided to come back? Not likely.

I know he’s going to ask me to play again next weekend, because that’s just the type of hospitality I’ve been offered here very consistently from day one. And although I’m inclined to give some unbelievably lame excuse for not being able to make it, I’m not exactly sure what I’m going to say. Maybe the whole team will get in a big truck accident and will resort to having to play in wheelchairs, in which case I might have a chance of playing at their level.