Lunchtime Stories #3: Empty Net

My dad bought me my first hockey stick when I was five. I can still remember the rows and rows of neatly lined-up sticks at Woolco in the Dufferin Mall—it was the largest selection of a single product I had ever seen. Up until that day, every hockey stick I had ever played with was made out of plastic, and plastic sticks came in two options: blue and red. But these sticks were wood, they had slick logos and splendid grains of all hues. I settled on a Sher-Wood stick. It was a brand I’d seen a lot of other kids playing with, and more importantly it had a hockey player’s signature on it (Charbonneau, Devereux? Definitely an “oh” sound at the end). The signature was essential; it elevated my stick from mere implement to mighty totem. The car ride home was filled with visions of the brilliance I was going to unleash on the streets with my new stick. But when we got home, I realized there were some problems.

I’m left-handed. My stick was made for right-handers. That this dichotomy existed had never occurred to me because I was five. That it never occurred to my father was because he grew up in Chile and knew nothing about hockey.¹ Also, at five, I was probably just over three feet tall. My stick was about four and half feet tall. The stick’s size was fixable with a saw, my left-handedness was not. Still, with time, me and my stick got along fine. I embraced my oppositional blade and became a back-hand specialist.²

Then one day I noticed a new trend: black rubber stoppers on the ends of everyone’s sticks. Ostensibly, they were meant to keep your top hand from sliding off the end of the stick. It wasn’t a problem I ever remember having. But from the moment I saw those caps, I knew it was a problem I was going to have if I didn’t get a little rubber stopper on my stick.

At dinner, I told my father about my dire need for a rubber stopper and the terrible effects on my game, confidence and posture that its negation would have. He looked at me, with what I remember as sincere empathy, “Rodri, no hay plata.”

“No hay plata,” doesn’t mean, “there’s no money for that.” It means, “there’s no money.” It meant buying a rubber stopper was taking food out of the pantry. It was the one argument with no rebuttal.

The next day I went to the porch and grabbed my stick. At the end of it was a piece of white rubber. I looked at it closer. It was the shoe of one of my sister’s old dolls. My father had attached it with electrical tape.

I dropped the stick, ran inside, hugged my father and started to cry.

That was the day I knew my father loved me.

That was also the day I knew I’d have to figure out how to be a Canadian on my own.

1. This would set the pattern for subsequent sports purchases. My first baseball glove was for right-handers, and I didn’t know brand-new hockey skates needed sharpening until I was in my twenties. I was, predictably, a poor skater.

2. Actually, I would go out of my way to make back-hand shots, spinning into position at the most inopportune moments and practically playing backwards all the time.

Lunchtime Stories #2: White Lines

Ilich liked a lot of things in life, but he only loved two: beisbol and chapulines*. It wasn’t unusual for a Oaxacan boy to love beisbol, all Oaxacan boys love beisbol, but it was unusual for a young boy to love chapulines.

It was for this reason that one morning his grandfather, Israel, woke Ilich up and invited him to join the adults in the chapulin harvest. “Vamos, niño,” his grandfather said as he tossed him a net. Ilich, not used to waking up so early, opened his eyes just in time to see the net before it landed on his face.

There is only one way to catch chapulines, and that is to catch them while they sleep, so Ilich and his grandfather hurried through the forest to get to their milpa before the field became a tangle of tiny flying bodies. When they arrived, they found their neighbours, and supposed co-harvesters, talking quietly and staring at the ground.

“Que pasa?” whispered Israel, not forgetting the slumbering chapulines. Before the men could answer, Israel and Ilich saw that in the middle of their milpa, between the stalks of maize, lay a very large burlap sack.

As the eldest, Israel took it upon himself to open the bag. He loosened the knot, pulled the top apart, put his right hand in, and then quickly pulled his hand out. Ilich’s grandfather’s hand, which was dark brown a moment ago, was now white. “Talco,” said Israel. He then closed the sack back up, threw it over his shoulder, and started walking home. “Vamos niño,” he said, with one foot already in the forest.

Israel ran through the forest, slapping branches and leaves with one arm and holding the sack with the other, and Ilich, fast as he was, struggled to keep up. When they had almost made it back home, Israel made an unexpected turn, but Ilich knew this route—they were going to the beisbol field.

When they arrived at the field, Israel walked to home plate, put the sack on its side, took out his knife, and cut one of the bottom corners. Then, with his back facing the outfield, Israel squatted over the sack, lifted it, walked backwards and started drawing the right foul line. After walking about 200 feet, Israel picked up the sack and walked back to home plate. “Agua,” Israel said to his grandson as he squatted on the other side of home. Ilich ran off.

When Ilich returned, his older brother Alejandro was standing at home plate, and his grandfather was finishing up the batter’s boxes. Ilich gave his grandfather his water and took off to run the bases. Israel, exhausted from his labours, passed the empty burlap sack to Alejandro, stepped over his newly finished foul line, sat on the grass, and drank.

Alejandro turned the sack around a few times and then tossed it aside. Alejandro’s hands were now white, just like his grandfather’s. He carefully brought his right hand up to his face and gave his index finger a little lick. Alejandro’s eyes grew big, he turned to his grandfather, “Cocaina?”

Israel smiled. Ilich was rounding second.

*Grasshoppers

Lunchtime Stories: So Much Sole

The Saturday before Super Bowl Sunday I decided to buy some fish. I even announced it on twitter. “I’m changing the Super Bowl diet to fish and kale.” There were no retweets.

I’d been eyeing the meat and fish section at my local organic grocer ever since my first visit, but never ventured to that side of the store. The store caters to the vegan and vegetarian crowd, I’m neither, but out of respect, and in search of acceptance, I act like one while I’m there. The fish and meat section is separated from the rest of the store by a busy little café area that serves up vegetarian dishes; you have to cross these tables to get to the meat. It’s a terrible walk; I imagine each individual judgment, “Omnivore!” “Meat-eater!” “Seal Clubber!” “Murderer.”

The meat is radiant. The beef is bright red, the lamb is burgundy, the chicken is yellow, (Chicken is yellow, I know that because I once ate organic chicken in Cuba.) the cuts are small. Organic meat is expensive, so they keep the weights down to keep the prices manageable. Salmon fillets are $10 each, tuna even more.  Then I see the Sole. Two fillets are less than six dollars. The description on the label says, “Fresh Wild-Caught Sole.” I imagine a solitary man on a small boat in a large lake surrounded by mountains: he caught my fish. I buy it.

Super Bowl Sunday comes. I do not cook my sole. My brother-in-law scoffs at the idea, “Dude, it’s the Super Bowl, we have to eat pizza.” We eat a lot of pizza. I lied to my twitterites.

Two more days pass and I know my sole is going bad in the fridge: I have to cook it tonight.

According to The Joy of Cooking, sole is flounder. Flounder are a flat fish. Both of their eyes are on the same side of their heads. They are bottom feeders. They’re from the ocean. My fisherman is replaced by fishermen. They have boots and nets and the sole flops about on a large deck. Their scales are a muddy beige; they look like giant skipping rocks.

My sole is white. I tear the cellophane and smell the sole. Not good, but not all the way bad either. Edible. There aren’t any sole specific recipes in The Joy of Cooking so I decide to marinate mine in olive oil, pepper, salt and garlic.

While the sole marinates on the kitchen counter I play video games against my brother-in-law in the living room. Then I start smelling the sole. “Do you smell that? It stinks like fish,” I tell him. “Unh? I don’t really smell it,” he says. This gives me confidence.

The sole sits on the counter for an hour before it hits the hot grill. Then the smell asserts itself, carried by the steam and sizzle. I remember what I learned in organic chemistry: those are the amines. This is all I remember about organic chemistry, but every time I smell that “fishy” smell, I say “amines” to myself.

When my wife gets home I serve her the sole, with kale. She wants to watch American Idol, but we’re still playing video games, so she goes downstairs to watch TV.

Twenty minutes later she comes back upstairs. “How was the fish?” I ask. “It was good,” she tells me,  “But as soon as I sat next to my dad he said, ‘why are you eating rotten fish?’”

La Pobla logotype

Ta-da! Here’s the logotype that La Pobla resident, lifelong friend, and wicked artist(e), Roberto Cortez, designed. It takes its inspiration from Chilean political art of the ’70s with a particular nod to the Juventud Socialista (Socialist Youth).

The meaning of “La Pobla”

You’re going to read the words “La Pobla” a lot in the coming months (years?), so I thought I’d give a brief definition.

“La Pobla” is short for “la poblacion,” they both mean “the populace” or “the people.” The term is also used to mean “barrio” or “neighbourhood.” In the context of the book I’m writing it means both. Ha.

But most importantly it’s the name we gave to the co-op I grew up in. Rodrigo “Negro” Clavero is the one credited for its use and popularity. He even had a little song for it:

La Pobla

La Pobla

Big it up, big it up!

Sometimes we’d be in a bar or a club and someone would start chanting it and everyone would join in. It was hilarious. Especially since half the people doing it didn’t even grow up there. Such was the allure of the co-op.

Welcome to my home

I’m still getting over my fear of writing on the internet (i.e. without an editor or time barrier to avoid embarrassment) so this is all very experimental. The hypothesis is unclear, but my hope is to discover the following:

1. Where does self-indulgence begin?

2. What is interesting?

3. Who cares?

4. Do blogs have value?

I’ll stop, you can see where this is going.