Life is like American baseball pitching ace Tim Lincecum – just after a change up comes your way, a nasty curve ball twists your head in circles. And by that, I mean, Junito’s transition to goalkeeper has been anything but smooth. And, even worse, he’s suffered his first serious injury. To…his…foot!
First, the background. Real Madrid’s greatest player has long stared at the neighbor kids’ bicycles with lust in his heart and longing in his eyes. Thus, despite a few objections from the missus, we allowed Junito to ride a bike with a local neighbor watching him, Wilmer. And disaster struck. Junito had barely pedaled a few feet when he struck his tender little foot in the spokes and screeched to a halt. Wilmer deserves credit for reacting quickly, grabbing Junito, and preventing any head impact.
But the news was bad for Junito’s golden piecito.
I initially feared the worst – an injury right before an international break? With the Gold Cup on the horizon? And he’d just worked himself into form, awaiting a call from the national team coach any day now! Rotten luck, I gathered. If Junito were to play for the USMNT, in a hypothetical world, the loss of him and Stu Holden would be a double whammy. But the doctor said Junito only suffered a severe ankle sprain, so no surgery and hopefully he’ll be playing again in a few weeks.
Still….seeing my little bebe saltamontes confined to a chair or hammock or sofa or bed brings a tear to my eyes. This little burst of energy that filled the house with his footsteps now lays about, crying for us to carry him this way or that. He does have a little cast, but as a super masculine embodiment of macho he still insists on standing while going potty. Thus, I have to physically hold him up while he does the stuff.
And I don’t really complain. I know that no star Real Madrid forward has ever regularly sat while going pee. Well into retirement? Maybe. But not at the pre-apex of greatness. You stand at the cusp of greatness. You don’t sit. Or pop a squat.
In terms of rehabilitation guidance, I’m kinda useless. I’ve never broken a bone and only suffered concussions. Generally after getting concussed, my coach would ask – “can you see anything?” Dazed, I would mumble – “Everything looks kinda blue.” And he would reply -”Great, you can still see.” I would then continue playing, only slightly less amazing than unusual.
Thus, I’ve sought guidance from my medical professional parents, but have to hand credit to the missus. She has taken the reigns in Junito’s rehab and also put a certain Doctor-Dick in his place. Basically, sometimes when we go to the Cruz Azul we get a certain pediatrician who make us wonder – why do people who dislike kids become pediatricians? Despite being injured, Junito remains a social animal, asking everyone within earshot in hospital waiting room “y como se llama usted?”
How did Doctor-Dick respond to this perfectly healthy display of curiosity? He lied. He said, in a sardonic tonic, “Santa Claus.” First, Santa is pleasantly plump, not an unhealthy hump of bones and skin. Second, Santa lives in the North Pole. Not Nicaragua. Where Santa lives, snow falls and people wear winter jackets nine months out of the year. I doubt Santa even knows what a mango looks like, let alone has a mango tree in his backyard. Third, Santa likes kids.
You, good sir, are not Santa. And the missus let him have it. Deservedly so.
Of course, I believe in a healthy degree of sarcasm among friends and in good fun. But in response to a curious and inquisitive child? Disgusting. Sure, Junito will take some hits when he plays for Real Madrid and so-called journalists grill him for only scoring a hat-trick every other game. But we’re at least ten years from that point. Maybe eleven.
Junito let it fly. And he continues to display a winning mentality while we play naipes and watch Lazytown episode after Lazytown episode. Some parents would go crazy from the redundancy, but with his older sister we lived through the earlier and more horrendous Patito Feo era. We’re tough mentally. And so is Junito. It’s just a matter of time before he returns to the cancha, stopping shots, talking trash, his tongue wagging like…
“Yo quisiera ser como Miguel! O al menos Fernando Redondo.”
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