9.7.14

Blitzkrieg: La Copa es cruel, Pt. 2


8 de julio de 5014
Fairfax, Virginia

La palabra alemana blitzkrieg significa 'guerra relámpago'. Esa fue la estrategia que los alemanes trajeron consigo al Estadio Mineirao de Belo Horizonte, Brasil, un día como hoy hace tres 3,000 años para su partido de semifinales contra Brasil. Nadie jamás imaginó que de perder en su propia casa, Brasil lo haría tan humillantemente.

Brasil, el famoso equipo del juego bonito y anfitrión de la Copa Mundial de Fútbol 2014, sería aniquilado por Alemania en la sala de su casa. El mito del juego bonito pasó a ser cosa del olvido desde entonces. Los futbolistas brasileños nunca supieron qué fue lo que pasó esa tarde fatal a pesar de la abundancia de testigos. Y es que los presentes, tan extremadamente confundidos y desorientados como su equipo ante el embate alemán, tampoco pudieron explicar qué fue lo que pasó. La nación entera habría preferido que ese partido nunca se hubiese jugado.

Tres mil años después nada ha cambiado. En cualquier favela, pueblo, ciudad o estado de Brasil le cambian a uno el tema porque a pesar de lo removido que nos hallamos hoy de aquel fúnebre día - nada menos que tres milenios - parece que fue ayer que los alemanes llegaron, incineraron a la Chica de Ipanema y siguieron su camino hacia su próxima campaña de destrucción a golazo limpio. Saudade.

Algunos, los más irracionales, dicen que fue la suspensión de Thiago Silva. Otros, los menos irracionales, atribuyen la debacle brasileña a la lesión espinal de Neymar. Los teóricos, expertos, economistas, filósofos, politólogos y analistas dicen que si Neymar y Thiago Silva hubiesen jugado en el partido de infamia el marcador habría terminado en 5-0 a favor de los alemanes. También añaden que si el técnico brasileño Luiz Felipe Scolari hubiese incluido a las leyendas del fútbol brasileño, Kaká y Ronaldinho, en la selección nacional, el partido habría terminado 2-0 con los alemanes adelantando a la final. ¿Se dan cuenta de por qué la negativa de discutir el tema en público en Brasil? Mejor bailemos samba. ¡Carnaval!


7.7.14

La Copa es cruel


La Copa Mundial de Fútbol no es sólo el evento deportivo más visto, más emocionante y electrizante del planeta cada cuatro años, es también sin duda el evento deportivo más cruel del planeta. Desde sus inicios a mediados de junio la Copa Mundial FIFA 2014 nos ha dado momentos inolvidables. Para mí uno de ellos lo fue el golazo de Robin van Persie, el holandés volante, en el tercer partido de la Copa. Tan pronto como vi ese gol pensé, “Ahí tenemos el gol definitivo de esta Copa.” A partir de ahí me dediqué a comparar goles esperando ver algo similar.

La Copa nos ha dado goles espectaculares. Tan sólo hace dos días en el partido de cuartos de final entre Brasil y Colombia, el brasileño David Luiz nos regaló lo que no podríamos describir de otro modo sino como un súper gol. Por supuesto que estos son jugadores extraordinarios jugando al más alto nivel de su disciplina, pero no puedo evitar preguntarme ¿cómo rayos pueden hacer cosas tan increíbles con tan sólo patear una pelota?

Que conste. No son los goles lo único que me ha impresionado en esta Copa. La ejecutoria de los porteros ha sido apoteósica y no exagero. Si lograron ver los partidos de México vieron a Memo Ochoa guillárselas de supermán contra Brasil y luego contra Holanda a pesar de la derrota (por un penal) ante estos últimos. Sería un crimen imperdonable no reconocer al gran portero de la selección estadounidense, Tim Howard, en su juego contra Bélgica. ¡Dieciséis tiros salvados! Un récord que no será roto en mucho, pero mucho tiempo.

Representando a Centroamérica, el gran Keylor Navas de Costa Rica, dejó a los holandeses en cero en el tiempo de regulación y el tiempo extra. Holanda cuenta con uno de los ataques ofensivos más feroces de todo este Mundial. Navas resistió el embate naranja con nada más que Pura Vida, mi gente. El portero belga, Thibaut Courtois, se enfrentó al gran Lionel Messi en un uno contra uno que nos detuvo momentáneamente la respiración y el corazón en el juego de Bélgica contra Argentina en los cuartos de final.

¿Se nos queda algo que recordar? ¡Por supuesto! ¿Cómo olvidarlo? La Copa es cruel, amigos, pero la crueldad a la que me refiero aquí no es la infligida por Suárez. Suárez tiene problemas muy serios que resolver, pero el fútbol no es uno de ellos. Ojalá encuentre un buen terapeuta que lo ayude a superar sus demonios psicológicos. El hombre es verdadera prueba de que no siempre se tiene mente sana en cuerpo sano. Como diríamos en mi patria, “Bendito.”

Sí, la Copa es cruel, muy cruel. Un equipo puede mostrarse como el mejor contendiente en todo el partido y perder por culpa de un dichoso penal. México. Un equipo puede mostrarse tan contendiente por la Copa como su contrincante en la regulación y en el tiempo extra, y perder en penales. Costa Rica. Esta es la cruel realidad de la Copa y duele mucho.

Mi esposa y yo vimos el juego de Costa Rica contra Holanda. Ambos quedamos desgarrados cuando Costa Rica perdió. De hecho, tuve que alejarme de ella ya que se convirtió momentáneamente en una llamarada de fuego cuando se acabó el partido.

El juego no se decidió en regulación ni en tiempo extra. Los ticos se jugaron el todo por el todo en el terreno de juego contra los holandeses. Ambos equipos mostraron el metal del que están hechos. Ninguno cedió su terreno. Keylor Navas, arquero tico, enfrentó un fuerte ataque holandés con temple y gracia. Ningún gol entró en la portería tica. Lo mismo con Jasper Cillessen, el arquero holandés. Este fue un juego digno de la Copa Mundial. Ambos equipos se enfrentaron en cuartos de final por sus méritos en el campo de juego. Nadie les dio un pase. Ambos mostraron desesperación por anotar y acabar el partido hasta el mismo final. Y fue ahí, justo antes de acabarse el tiempo extra, que el técnico holandés hizo una sustitución para la historia - cambió al arquero.

Tim Krul, el portero sustituto de Holanda, resultó ser el factor determinante en la victoria de Holanda sobre Costa Rica en tiempo de penales. Pareciera ser una movida sucia o injusta por parte de Van Gaal, técnico holandés, pero en realidad fue una movida estratégicamente genial.

La meta de Van Gaal fue hacer todo lo que estuviera a su alcance para que Holanda avanzara a la semifinal. Krul llegó a la Copa como el especialista contra penales de Holanda y lo demostró con creces cuando la oportunidad tocó a sus puertas. Nos resultó increíble y doloroso ver cómo detuvo inequívocamente dos goles ticos sellando así la victoria de Holanda.

¿Por qué no dejar al portero inicial en el juego? Porque el riesgo de aumentar las posibilidades de la victoria, según Van Gaal, era uno que merecía correrse. Esta es la Copa Mundial y para ganar hay que utilizar todas las armas en el arsenal.

No deja de indignarme que, a mi parecer, el terreno de juego de desniveló entre los equipos al entrar un arquero completamente fresco cuya única acción serían los penales y cuya única misión sería detenerlos. Nada de tiempo de regulación para Krul. Apenas unos segundos de acción en el tiempo extra.

Navas, por su parte, tendría todo su corazón, enfoque y empeño en detener los mismos penales, pero el arquero tico se enfrentó a estos penales luego de 122 minutos de un juego que resultó ser intenso y extenuante hasta el ñame. De algún modo hay alguna desventaja en ello, pero en realidad nada injusto. La sustitución del arquero se hizo al amparo de las reglas de la FIFA. No hay nada inmoral por mucho que lo pareciera. Simplemente, un técnico aplicó una táctica a su estrategia de juego que le ayudó a alcanzar el resultado deseado. Van Gaal cambió su algoritmo y logró lo que quería. ¿Se le puede culpar por hacer bien su trabajo? No. La Copa Mundial de Fútbol es simplemente cruel. Los demás técnicos de seguro prestarán atención.

Hay un elemento de suerte en el fútbol. Hay goles que no se anotarían de no ser por pura suerte, pero lo cierto es que en el Mundial de Fútbol no se gana por suerte. Se gana porque los que han cualificado para contender por la Copa se han preparado de la mejor manera posible, aun si están conscientes de que hay factores que no están bajo su control en el terreno de juego. Si bien no los elimina, la preparación minimiza esos factores.

En el juego de Holanda vs Costa Rica, no sólo resultó ser Tim Krul el mejor arquero, y reitero que a pesar de no haber nada injusto en la sustitución se hubiese visto mucho mejor (nuevamente a mi parecer) si Cillessen, el primer arquero holandés, permaneciera en el juego. Van Gaal resultó ser el mejor estratega. Por lo general, los mejores estrategas salen vencedores. La Copa no discrimina. Todos juegan bajo las mismas reglas y condiciones. Sin embargo, ahí mismo radica su crueldad. La derrota sufrida por un equipo que ha demostrado tener el calibre de ganar tanto o más que otros te deja un sinsabor y dolor adentro que no se te va por días. Es irónico. Junto a la belleza, la emoción y la celebración del juego bonito nos topamos con la fría crueldad de la derrota. Te provoca muchas lágrimas y para muchos el consuelo sólo llega con una nueva oportunidad dentro de cuatro años. 

La Copa siempre ha sido maravillosa, pero nunca ha dejado de ser cruel.


27.6.14

I will wait


Who writes a song about 'waiting' nowadays? Really? And a hit song at that? Waiting and its corollary virtue, patience, do not form part of the thematic canon of pop culture music. In fact, waiting as a topic and practice is anathema to any self-respecting contemporary pop music artist. Just about every song I can think of deals in some form or another with the "rare" theme of instant gratification in its infinite diversity. Roar! Everyone wants to get there fast and make it faster. 'Cause we're up all night to get some, we're up all night to get lucky. That's why it was such an uncommon surprise when I found myself listening to a song titled I will wait by Mumford & Sons. It was pretty much an act of divine grace.

I was driving home that day absorbed in unknown deep thoughts when all of a sudden I happened to snap out of my solemn absentmindedness due to the catchy tune coming out of the radio. I'm telling you, it was quite catchy, but it wasn't your typical pop music spewing out of the speakers. It was more folk than anything else and while the music caught my attention, it was really the lyrics that delivered.

I will wait, I will wait for you. I will wait, I will wait for you.

There's even more. The singer, the Mumford guy, sounded different too. That may sound trite, but what I mean is that there was a gravity to his voice as if he truly meant what he was singing. The joy of singing a catchy tune seemed secondary to him. He wanted to let it be emphatically known that he was saying something true. At least, that's how it hit me when I heard the song that first time. This was not a party song. Why was the singer singing that and why was he singing it like that? This song was different from the second I realized I was listening to it. I was drawn into it mysteriously and when that happened my ears made every effort to grasp every word in it.

I will wait, I will wait for you. I will wait, I will wait for you.

There was a heavy cadence to the chorus of the song and the feeling was deeply-rooted. The singer was not shy about this sentiment pouring himself into it. You could hear between the lines, "I'm going to do this. I want you to hear it. No matter how long,

I will wait, I will wait for you. I will wait, I will wait for you.

I've listened to 'I will wait' many times since. I can't help but think how a song can have such a gripping effect on our mind and hearts. Especially the heart. This a love train of a song after all.

Well I came home like a stone and I fell heavy into your arms...

Only a real lover knows the meaning of the word home. Only one who's left home knows its true value. This is why the opening words of this song are so rapturing. We don't know if this lover left home easily. We don't know if his heart was broken. What we do know is that he came back with the full weight of an exile longing for the most desired place in God's wide earth, the arms of the beloved. Home is where the heart is, they say. Mumford has come to grips with that reality and came home like a stone... heavy.

But love is a two edge sword. He has come home and now he has to wait for her. Maybe her heart was left broken when he left. So she was the one waiting until her beloved came back. She was the one longing for home. Nobody likes to wait, not even true lovers. But true lovers put up with the waiting because waiting is part of love. Because love is patient and love is kind it also dares to forgive.

This song not just applies to the once estranged love between two lovers. It also applies to the love a parent has for a wayward child. I can very clearly hear that father or mother say,

I will wait, I wait for you.

Ultimately, I hear God saying those words because he is the ultimate lover. He will wait, He will wait for you and you will have no recourse but to come home and fall heavy into His arms.

He will wait, He will wait for you.

29.5.14

Sterling and Silver


In late April 2014, Donald Sterling unwittingly unleashed one of most riveting moments in sports history. It has come to be known as, well, you can call it whatever you like, but what it truly is at heart is one of most recent iterations of racism in our sophisticated “first world” culture.

On April 25, in a recording made public by entertainment news outlet TMZ, Donald Sterling, owner of NBA team the Los Angeles Clippers, wore his racism as a badge of honor for all the world to hear. Some laughed, some cried, most people were outraged. His vitriolic statements, originally made on September 2013, were intended to be part of a private phone argument with his girlfriend at the time, V. Stiviano. Stiviano, whose real name is María Vanessa Pérez, was recording the conversation and is believed to have leaked it to the press, in spite of her denying so.

The recording of Sterling’s racist tirade overcame the media like wildfire. Had Sterling been just your regular Joe spewing his daily bigotry in the comfort of his ignorance just as many a Joe does, nobody would have cared. Bigots gotta hate. But Sterling is a high profile multi-billionaire lawyer and businessman with multi-billion dollar interests in the higher profile brand of the NBA. It would have been a worse crime to let his comments go unnoticed since due to their nature a considerable amount of his employees on and off the court where direct targets.

Once Sterling’s comments went public the outcry from the Clippers themselves, however subdued, did not make itself wait. They protested with finesse during a playoff series against the Golden State Warriors by throwing their warmup jerseys on the center of the court floor and wearing their Clippers t-shirts inside out. Each player in the Clippers basketball team was saying to Sterling, “You may own this franchise, but you don’t own me, bastard!”

NBA authorities got to work fast and furious under the leadership of Adam Silver, Commissioner of the National Basketball Association. What did they do? They asked the right questions making sure without a shadow of a doubt that the voice on the recording was indeed Donald Sterling’s. Once the facts were confirmed, Adam Silver swiftly banned Donald Sterling for life from any association with the team he owns, the Clippers, and any association with the NBA. The hatchet came down hard. Figuratively speaking, we could see the head rolling down. Anything less would not have sufficed.

So where does this leave us? Well let’s begin by stating the obvious: Donald Sterling is sound proof that racism is alive and well in the US of A. There is no question that race relations in the US have changed for the better in the course of the last 50 years. A review of our history will not allow us to forget that it has taken a horrific Civil War and a more than bold Civil Rights movement to fight and keep the evil tide of racism and self-servient bigotry in our society at bay. There have been ample gains in race relations thanks to the determination of leaders with the necessary moral backbone (sometimes it's just plain political expediency) to lobby, propose and enact legislation seeking a more leveled playing field for minorities and peoples of color in our country.

We need to be grateful for the sacrifices and risks many before my generation have made and taken so that we who came after could breath easier and not have to seat at the back of the bus because we simply look different. Thanks to their efforts it is a crime today to discriminate against a person based on the color of their skin. Donald Sterling, however, is our most recent and sobering alert that it is yet to be seen if what ultimately matters most in human nature is the content of our character.

And so, racism in America is not going anywhere any time soon. Hate groups of all kinds, especially white supremacist groups, are on the rise. Don't’ believe me? Fine. They may be small pockets dispersed throughout the country, but they are many more today than in decades past. Most people acknowledge that there should be no place for these attitudes and prejudices in the 21st century, but the passage of time, progressiveness, the Enlightenment, what-have-you, have seldom been good or even valid arguments to combat or even stem racism in any given age.

The root causes of racism cut deep within the human heart. They lie beyond the measure of time progression. They are ingrained attitudes, part of the human DNA. We have picked them up, subtly or not, since before childbirth and they come to define us post-partum. Like weeds, racism and bigotry are difficult to extract and even harder to eradicate. Bigotry is no respecter of time or age. It’s not the domain of just old white people wishing away the colored man. Most hate groups are full of young white folk who would prefer to go back to Jim Crow if they could help it. I ask myself how exactly would that help them, going back to a racially oppressive and segregated society. That’s how mind-boggling racism is.

Intellectually, we know discrimination is wrong, that bigotry is hatred, that racism should have no place in our society, but we fumble the praxis. We all fall short on these counts, but when someone like Donald Sterling comes around and makes outrageous statements, we are rightfully scandalized and angered. We should be cautious at our outrage even when it is justifiable. Our shock at Sterling’s comments cannot naively pretend that this kind of hatred is a dying breed and has just resurfaced in a desperate attempt to call our attention gasping to us “I’m still here!” It has always been here and it will always be.

Donald Sterling is a violent reminder that human nature is more than ugly. The irony is that human nature also gives birth to the highest expressions of kindness and beauty imaginable. What gives then? How come can this ugliness and beauty coexist in one and the very same person? We’re broken human beings.

An irony that shouldn’t be lost on us in this whole Sterlingate drama is that Sterling’s girlfriend is not white. V. Stiviano is both Latino and Black. She obviously had to put up with some amount of bigotry dished out her way, however sophisticated. Maybe the trade off was worth it in her own eyes. You know, don’t bite the hand that feeds you. But that’s a high price to pay; nothing short of selling your soul. It is precisely because we’re broken human beings that we do such things. Bigotry dehumanizes both victim and victimizer.

However, the irony that has stuck with me lies in the very names that have been pitted against each other in this affair, Sterling v. Silver. At face value, we might think these are just two different names for the same metal, but that’s wrong. It’s been proven that sterling silver is about 92.5% silver. While commercial silver is at least 99.9% pure. They may look the same, but they’re not. One of them is actually the real thing. The other one only comes close. They may give you just about the same shine when rightly polished, but we all know that Donald Sterling lacks any light of his own others could appreciate.

In less than three months since being named Commissioner of the NBA, Adam Silver was thrown into the hornet's racial nest. He came out of it shining so bright many of us just want his light to rub off on us.

3.4.14

Mr. Robinson and me

Mr. Eric Robinson just turned 90 a few weeks back. He was born in England on 8 March 1924. He's a World War II veteran having served in the British Royal Navy during the 1940s. He's seen a thing or two.

He is the father of four children, has many grandchildren and great-grandchildren. He hopes to get to see his great great-grandchildren. He is married to Victoria and they live in Northern Virginia, but he travels every year during the summer months to his beloved homeland to see his children. While his children and his children's children live across the pond they remain extremely close.

For a man his age, Mr. Robinson keeps extremely well. He enjoys the blessings of health in spirit, mind and body. He'd tell you his memory is not the same. I remember telling him over a cup of coffee little over a year ago that I'd wish to have half his memory if I get to live to 89. He said that I didn't understand the problem of memory loss. I'm young, he said. When you get to live to old age you realize how the years rob you (ever so slightly in my estimation of his case) of the mental prowess you once prided yourself to have. You'll see, he said. I don’t want to believe him, but I know it’s true.

Mr. Robinson was a college professor of history for many years retiring from UMass in Boston in the 1980s. He's a distinguished scholar having written quite a few books and published a zillion academic articles and papers. He's the prime authority on John Clare, an 19th century British poet.

When I used to work at a church in Falls Church, VA, I sometimes went to the local library on my days off. We'd run into each other every now and then. He'd be doing research! I’d be researching Piña Coladas and Mai Tais in all their variations if I’m fortunate enough to reach my 80s.

Mr. Robinson and I recently met again for our usual coffee and catch up convo. When I called him he didn't recognize me over the phone at first. After he did, we set up an appt. to meet, but he asked me to let his wife know about our meeting appointment because he'd forget, he said. Victoria would drop him at Panera on Broad St at the accorded time. I told her I'd bring him home.

Usually, I'm the one treating him to coffee and pastries or bagels when we meet, but this time he didn't let me pay. I realized at his matter of fact mention of "I'll pay for it" that it was going to be futile to dissuade him from paying so I enjoyed the treat gladly. We had a great time catching up and remembering the "old" times.
Mr. Robinson and I met when I became the pastor of a Hispanic congregation in Northern Virginia. This congregation belonged to a larger English speaking Anglican church in the area. Being a faithful Anglican, Mr. R worshipped at this Anglican congregation until the Hispanic congregation got started. He decided he'd teach English to the Hispanic parishioners who spoke little to none. So despite the fact that he himself didn't speak any Spanish he became a regular attendee at our Spanish services in order to get to know us.

Think about it for a second. Would you be willing to become part of a community that worships not just in a language that is not your own, but worse, a language you don't understand? Would you be willing to suffer being ignored even dismissed by people because you can't speak their own language? I saw how people who called themselves brothers and sisters would give a cold shoulder to a brother who actually enjoyed our company, who wanted to be with us and worship with us because he actually came to love us. Mr. R endured it all. Granted, it wasn't like that every Sunday or even most Sundays, but one Sunday of that kind of treatment is enough to go to greener pastures. Yet, there he was faithfully Sunday after Sunday at a congregation with whom he had little in common culturally, linguistically and even racially.

When I think of my friendship with Mr. R, I end up giving thanks to God that I know him. There's no particular reason why we should have met. There's a truth in this. Friendship is a gift from God and a true friend is the greatest of gifts. I read somewhere sometime ago a saying that goes like this, "Make new friends because they're silver. Keep your old friends because they're gold." Ain't that the truth? How often can a much younger person count a 90 yr old as a friend, a real friend? True friendship requires a strong will and resilience against the pull of the self to be enclosed within a border fence. We all erect those at some point or another, but our God in his tenderness decides to send Mr. Robinsons our way to try those fences and to tear them down.

While it lasted, Mr. R's presence among us Latinos remained a mystery to me. He actually taught little English to us. Sometimes he'd be engaged with those of us who could hold a conversation with him during the reception after our services. Other times he'd seat by himself until somebody gave him a ride home. It is embarrassing to admit that he appreciated us far more than we did him. This speaks greatly about the kind of person he is. Truly, a man of fortitude and grace.

I believe he was a gift from God to us as a Latino (Spanish-speaking) congregation, he certainly remains a gift to me. God deals in mystery. Some things can't be comprehended in their entirety because it's impossible. They must be embraced for what they are, pure gifts. And Mr. R was that gift from God to us, an angel among us.

How sad it is if one happens to realize a gift like this after the fact, after it has passed and is no more. Perhaps the failure to acknowledge a true gift is a malady of our frantic times. We always have more blessings than we can count, always, but somehow we lack the capacity to count them on a constant basis.

I take it as point of pride to honor a man who sought us Latinos when he didn't have to or need to. Such men are indeed rare. God actually puts them in our way to reveal His own love for us. And so, Mr. R happens to be a type, a pointer to a higher, more perfect reality than the heartbreaking reality wrought among us humans. This 90 year old man for whom I give thanks points me to Christ and his mad love for a mad humanity.

I'm fortunate indeed to count among my most precious memories and experiences of my life in Virginia one Mr. Eric Robinson, a messenger from God to help me appreciate all that is good in life and keep me humble. Gracias, Mr. Robinson. My life has been enriched by simply knowing you.