(The following is a rewrite of a piece originally composed, but never published, in 2010.
Time has passed.
Fortunes have changed.
The World Cup is upon us again.
I figured it was time.)
Time has passed.
Fortunes have changed.
The World Cup is upon us again.
I figured it was time.)
Sometimes there are answers that can only be seen through the eyes of a stranger. Sometimes, only through the eyes of a child.
Sometimes the solutions are right there, right there at our feet. Sometimes the answers are refreshingly simple, remarkably available. Sometimes the tools are comedically transparent, scattered all about us. Ironic iconic stumbling blocks lying there, on the ground, waiting for us to merely reach down, pick them up, and put them to use.
Sometimes it’s just a matter of kicking a ball, and sometimes it’s just a matter of watching a ball get kicked.
And sometimes it can be just a blend of both.
Depends on the ball.
Depends on the person.
Take me, for instance.
Like most people, I am someone who trudges through life, nose to the grindstone, ass in a sling, determined to be proud but often beaten down, wondering in my head, if not out loud, “ How come? Why me? When will I ever get the break? When will I ever know the point to all this? When will I ever not feel so afraid of my world? How can I ever not feel so alone?”
Well, recently, …a couple good answers rolled my way. Not exactly the “full set/Encyclopedia Britannica” versions. But a couple of good clues none-the-less.
One arrived in the early hours of a mid-week business trip when, with travel weary eyes and in a most improbable venue, I found myself included in an ad hoc audience of anxious strangers, gathered to watch a most remarkable moment in American cultural history: The 2010 World Cup match up of USA vs Algeria.
It was the Seattle airport, SeaTac, Terminal C. There, squinting through the morning’s glare with a few thousand other travelers, I found myself standing on tiptoes, ...in a bar, no less, ......awake, alert and utterly transfixed by a game of soccer.
...And it was extraordinary.
The atmosphere was electric. Every video screen in the building was tuned to one image, and every pair of eyes was upturned toward the same. As the game clock ticked down, arriving passengers sprinted from their planes, hunting the nearest scrum that indicated standing room access to a viewable screen. People just clearing security hurried along with bags and belts and shoes in their hands. Golf carts and wheel chairs pulled up, Red capped porters and white haired passengers all craned their necks for a glimpse. Viewing lanes were honored. Conversations erupted spontaneously. Total strangers spoke as if old friends. Elderly, leisurely, young, rich, poor. Enlightened, informed, impaired, ignorant, and even the just plain dumb, all seized the rare moment, and a community took shape in mere minutes, and the information flowed like wine. “No score...zero zero...just ten minutes left. Oh my God, can we do this? Can we??? Why not? Sure we can!”
Everyone believed.
Everyone but the clock.
The clock kept ticking down.
And then it happened.
A shot, a rebound, a shot, a rebound, the ball at his feet and then Landon Donovan delivered the miracle that all of us had been hoping for. The unlikely, unexpected, underestimated underdog extra effort that put a ball in a net, that crushed a preconception, and that put the world on notice...This is us. We’re Americans. We-don’t-give-up.
And if the mood in that building had been electric before, it had now become nuclear. All down the line, gate areas erupted with shouts and whoops and whistles of joy. Fists pumped the air and strangers high-fived and hugs and grins filled the room wall to wall. And for that one minute, …or ten, …or forever perhaps, most everyone in that room had become friends. And for that minute, or ten, or forever perhaps, most everyone in that room, nearly all of whom had never understood the bonding power of that particular thing the rest of the world calls “football”, now shared one joyful thought: “...Man oh man oh man, …World Cup Soccer. It doesn’t get any better than that!”
And in other times, under other circumstances, I’d probably have thought so too.
But not here.
Not this time.
Because I already knew different. Because I’d already been shown the better. With my own eyes I had seen something on a humble little soccer field in a low key little town, without a swirling graphic or beer ad or painted face or vuvuzela in sight. And it was better.
Two weeks and two days prior, an eight year old boy, a kid who had no business being able to, did something that few who knew him ever expected, something even he didn’t know he could do, something that was much, much harder and much much better. A billion times better. He’d stunned his teammates. He’d stunned his parents. He’d stunned himself.
He’d scored a goal.
After two, long, often times lonely seasons of just hoping, the boy got a break, took a shot, and scored a goal.
After two long seasons, came a random bounce, a ball at his feet, one more chance, and the courage to give it one more try. And he scored a goal.
The kid, you see, is not what you would call athletically gifted.
Not even a little.
Or at all.
A pile of laundry has more native athletic ability. And that’s assuming this kid is wearing none of it.
Which is not to say that the kid was not a valuable member of his team. He was. In fact, every kid team in every sport should have a member just like him. The kid who just wants to contribute. The kid who just wants to belong. The kid who tries so hard. The kid who doesn’t give up.
The kid scored a goal.
And what few people knew is that from the start the kid had the odds stacked against him, stacked in ways that are hard for most people to understand. If he was blind they could see it, if he were deaf they’d be all ears. If he was deformed or diseased or lame, they’d could at least have some reference, a tangible touchstone to gauge the difference between themselves and the boy. But Aspergers, particularly at the borderline end of the spectrum, can be insidious in that regard. A complex and variable condition, it is culturally camouflaged and difficult to discern. There are few clear indications, no black and white signs flashing “HERE” to point out the unseeable neural paths that spiral to frustrating dead ends. Visible only are the ambiguous indicators that more closely resemble hints than symptoms. Look for the clumsy kid, the one who cannot coordinate the neural messages necessary to catch a ball, swing a bat, or ride a bike. Look for the isolated kid, the one who struggles to perceive, let alone process, social cues, and employ, let alone finesse, social skills. The one who cannot make eye contact. The one who wants to, but cannot figure out a way to join in. The one who knows only the outside. The one who goes through an entire school year invited only to one birthday party, and knows it. The one who can count on one hand the classmates who accept the invitation to his.
The one you look at from the outside, and you know, there’s more in there than just a boy being shy.
That kid.
That kid kicked a soccer ball into a net, and he scored his first goal. That kid stopped, trapped, turned, and kicked a ball into the net, ...and he scored his very first goal. A purposeful, intentional, indisputable, didn’t just bounce off the back of his head, well aimed and well delivered shot on goal that went directly from foot, through air, into net.
And then there he stood for one long, sweet, frozen, delicious, wonderfully focused moment, until his arms shot straight up in the air, extending it seemed, all the way into space as if reaching to contain his soaring hopes. And he whirled in place, dark blue eyes grinning and laughing and searching the crowd, scanning the sidelines for the one whose eyes he knew had cared most, the eyes that he knew had most wanted to see.
And there he found them, as big as his and a thousand times full the pride. The luckiest eyes on the planet. His Dad’s.
Along the sidelines teammates and other parents erupted in cheer, the goal’s significance in no way lost on those veteran attendees who had so generously shared two years of patience and support and encouragement, politely and quietly wishing that the poor kid could just catch a break. Just one break.
They knew the feeling. They were parents. They loved their kids, too. They knew the what, even if they didn’t really know the why.
And so with a good swift kick, a few things became clearer and a few reassuring answers were found on both of those days, and the lessons re-learned, the best ones, the simple ones, the most gratifying ones, were re-learned best, by me.
...That we’re rarely as alone as we think.
...That the enormity of an accomplishment doesn’t depend on the enormity of it’s audience.
...That community exists all around us, connected by common needs and desires, not the least being the basic need to share a little hope.
...That the biggest returns come from the things we wish for others.
...That the things we believe will affect us, inspire us, direct us, ...the things we struggle to learn and the people we struggle to meet, often times provide fewer rewards than the things we stumble over everyday. The simple things that are lying there before us.
Lying there, ...right at our feet.
© 2010 J. Mark Rast
Sometimes the solutions are right there, right there at our feet. Sometimes the answers are refreshingly simple, remarkably available. Sometimes the tools are comedically transparent, scattered all about us. Ironic iconic stumbling blocks lying there, on the ground, waiting for us to merely reach down, pick them up, and put them to use.
Sometimes it’s just a matter of kicking a ball, and sometimes it’s just a matter of watching a ball get kicked.
And sometimes it can be just a blend of both.
Depends on the ball.
Depends on the person.
Take me, for instance.
Like most people, I am someone who trudges through life, nose to the grindstone, ass in a sling, determined to be proud but often beaten down, wondering in my head, if not out loud, “ How come? Why me? When will I ever get the break? When will I ever know the point to all this? When will I ever not feel so afraid of my world? How can I ever not feel so alone?”
Well, recently, …a couple good answers rolled my way. Not exactly the “full set/Encyclopedia Britannica” versions. But a couple of good clues none-the-less.
One arrived in the early hours of a mid-week business trip when, with travel weary eyes and in a most improbable venue, I found myself included in an ad hoc audience of anxious strangers, gathered to watch a most remarkable moment in American cultural history: The 2010 World Cup match up of USA vs Algeria.
It was the Seattle airport, SeaTac, Terminal C. There, squinting through the morning’s glare with a few thousand other travelers, I found myself standing on tiptoes, ...in a bar, no less, ......awake, alert and utterly transfixed by a game of soccer.
...And it was extraordinary.
The atmosphere was electric. Every video screen in the building was tuned to one image, and every pair of eyes was upturned toward the same. As the game clock ticked down, arriving passengers sprinted from their planes, hunting the nearest scrum that indicated standing room access to a viewable screen. People just clearing security hurried along with bags and belts and shoes in their hands. Golf carts and wheel chairs pulled up, Red capped porters and white haired passengers all craned their necks for a glimpse. Viewing lanes were honored. Conversations erupted spontaneously. Total strangers spoke as if old friends. Elderly, leisurely, young, rich, poor. Enlightened, informed, impaired, ignorant, and even the just plain dumb, all seized the rare moment, and a community took shape in mere minutes, and the information flowed like wine. “No score...zero zero...just ten minutes left. Oh my God, can we do this? Can we??? Why not? Sure we can!”
Everyone believed.
Everyone but the clock.
The clock kept ticking down.
And then it happened.
A shot, a rebound, a shot, a rebound, the ball at his feet and then Landon Donovan delivered the miracle that all of us had been hoping for. The unlikely, unexpected, underestimated underdog extra effort that put a ball in a net, that crushed a preconception, and that put the world on notice...This is us. We’re Americans. We-don’t-give-up.
And if the mood in that building had been electric before, it had now become nuclear. All down the line, gate areas erupted with shouts and whoops and whistles of joy. Fists pumped the air and strangers high-fived and hugs and grins filled the room wall to wall. And for that one minute, …or ten, …or forever perhaps, most everyone in that room had become friends. And for that minute, or ten, or forever perhaps, most everyone in that room, nearly all of whom had never understood the bonding power of that particular thing the rest of the world calls “football”, now shared one joyful thought: “...Man oh man oh man, …World Cup Soccer. It doesn’t get any better than that!”
And in other times, under other circumstances, I’d probably have thought so too.
But not here.
Not this time.
Because I already knew different. Because I’d already been shown the better. With my own eyes I had seen something on a humble little soccer field in a low key little town, without a swirling graphic or beer ad or painted face or vuvuzela in sight. And it was better.
Two weeks and two days prior, an eight year old boy, a kid who had no business being able to, did something that few who knew him ever expected, something even he didn’t know he could do, something that was much, much harder and much much better. A billion times better. He’d stunned his teammates. He’d stunned his parents. He’d stunned himself.
He’d scored a goal.
After two, long, often times lonely seasons of just hoping, the boy got a break, took a shot, and scored a goal.
After two long seasons, came a random bounce, a ball at his feet, one more chance, and the courage to give it one more try. And he scored a goal.
The kid, you see, is not what you would call athletically gifted.
Not even a little.
Or at all.
A pile of laundry has more native athletic ability. And that’s assuming this kid is wearing none of it.
Which is not to say that the kid was not a valuable member of his team. He was. In fact, every kid team in every sport should have a member just like him. The kid who just wants to contribute. The kid who just wants to belong. The kid who tries so hard. The kid who doesn’t give up.
The kid scored a goal.
And what few people knew is that from the start the kid had the odds stacked against him, stacked in ways that are hard for most people to understand. If he was blind they could see it, if he were deaf they’d be all ears. If he was deformed or diseased or lame, they’d could at least have some reference, a tangible touchstone to gauge the difference between themselves and the boy. But Aspergers, particularly at the borderline end of the spectrum, can be insidious in that regard. A complex and variable condition, it is culturally camouflaged and difficult to discern. There are few clear indications, no black and white signs flashing “HERE” to point out the unseeable neural paths that spiral to frustrating dead ends. Visible only are the ambiguous indicators that more closely resemble hints than symptoms. Look for the clumsy kid, the one who cannot coordinate the neural messages necessary to catch a ball, swing a bat, or ride a bike. Look for the isolated kid, the one who struggles to perceive, let alone process, social cues, and employ, let alone finesse, social skills. The one who cannot make eye contact. The one who wants to, but cannot figure out a way to join in. The one who knows only the outside. The one who goes through an entire school year invited only to one birthday party, and knows it. The one who can count on one hand the classmates who accept the invitation to his.
The one you look at from the outside, and you know, there’s more in there than just a boy being shy.
That kid.
That kid kicked a soccer ball into a net, and he scored his first goal. That kid stopped, trapped, turned, and kicked a ball into the net, ...and he scored his very first goal. A purposeful, intentional, indisputable, didn’t just bounce off the back of his head, well aimed and well delivered shot on goal that went directly from foot, through air, into net.
And then there he stood for one long, sweet, frozen, delicious, wonderfully focused moment, until his arms shot straight up in the air, extending it seemed, all the way into space as if reaching to contain his soaring hopes. And he whirled in place, dark blue eyes grinning and laughing and searching the crowd, scanning the sidelines for the one whose eyes he knew had cared most, the eyes that he knew had most wanted to see.
And there he found them, as big as his and a thousand times full the pride. The luckiest eyes on the planet. His Dad’s.
Along the sidelines teammates and other parents erupted in cheer, the goal’s significance in no way lost on those veteran attendees who had so generously shared two years of patience and support and encouragement, politely and quietly wishing that the poor kid could just catch a break. Just one break.
They knew the feeling. They were parents. They loved their kids, too. They knew the what, even if they didn’t really know the why.
And so with a good swift kick, a few things became clearer and a few reassuring answers were found on both of those days, and the lessons re-learned, the best ones, the simple ones, the most gratifying ones, were re-learned best, by me.
...That we’re rarely as alone as we think.
...That the enormity of an accomplishment doesn’t depend on the enormity of it’s audience.
...That community exists all around us, connected by common needs and desires, not the least being the basic need to share a little hope.
...That the biggest returns come from the things we wish for others.
...That the things we believe will affect us, inspire us, direct us, ...the things we struggle to learn and the people we struggle to meet, often times provide fewer rewards than the things we stumble over everyday. The simple things that are lying there before us.
Lying there, ...right at our feet.
© 2010 J. Mark Rast
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