Christmas time has descended upon my chaotic household like mist upon  a port city. Good cheer pervades every rincon despite the SAD-inducing perpetual overcast. We have casted away the false idols of Rudolph, Frosty, and the kinda creepy Keebler Elf. Instead, we have focused hardcore on the big man behind the Roman Catholic faith. No, not the Pope. He is important; the other Guy.

Accordingly, the acquisition and distribution of material items has taken a backseat. But I have a dilemma – are my dreams of Junito’s footballing career a tangible and thus sinful delight? Or are they a sign that the Holy Spirit has forever bonded us in a way beyond questions of clasicos and blanquillos?

I’ve taken a break from the whole greatest Madrid-player-ever universe that I was constructing for Junito. Yes, he has been begging for a Cristiano Ronaldo jersey for Christmas, but I am trying to teach him the joy of sharing. The other day, his sister formally requested a short-term loan of the now infamous toy hammer. Junito’s response? Yet another threatening gesture followed by a series of angry grunts.

Like Arsene Wenger, I prefer to let my team pick the penalty-kick takers ie sort their own things out. Micro-management is malevolently inefficient, but the repeated hammer threats required intervention. A proportional intervention, mind you. After a brief skirmish I obtained the toy hammer and placed it on top of the refrigerator, within view but out of reach. Harsh? Perchance, but symbolically so.

A few minutes later, I heard a loud thump from the living room and returned to the kitchen. Junito, in all his tender years, had managed to move a chair and stack it up against the fridge. Did my eyes roll over in ire? Did my fists tremble in anger? Ha! A belly laugh escaped my lips – I had not seen such creativity since Di Stefano’s 14th minute slaloming goal in the 1956 European cup final! I thought Junito was striker, but did I have an enganche in my nest?

This was indefinitely the work of the Holy Spirit. But I hadn’t seen anything yet.

Christmas morning, Junito and his older sister Angie opened a gigantic cardboard box of gifts from uncles and aunts and cousins and friends who pawn themselves off as blood relatives. Were they distracted by the run of the mill Fisher Price drivel? The Walt Disney limited edition doll? No. Not for a minute.

Genius is simple: the creation of brilliance from the mundane, the concoction of the extraordinary from the common. A Puskas strike of the ball, a Cruyff turn, a Zizou slide-rule pass – anyone can kick a soccer ball, anyone can pivot, but something sets these players apart. Something sets these moments apart. What makes them brilliant?

Is it merely timing? Technique? Confidence? No. Something else compels us to watch such stunning acts of simplicity. Another force guides the feet and minds of the gifted. I’m pretty sure I have a creative mid on my hands, a magician capable of weaving spells from moments of regularity. Why? Well, Junito is not afraid to think outside the box, even if…

“To think – Zlatan Ibrahimovic sleeps like this every night”

Related posts:

1. Junito: Sons Kill Their Dad One Day, Everyday
2. Junito: The Soccer Ninja & A Painful Execution
3. Junito: The Importance of Ambi-dexterity