Is there any sadder image in sport than the face of an older striker after scoring a goal? After scoring, young men sprint to the corner flag, their eyes ablaze, their mouths agape, and feverish plans to dance & shout & cry race through their minds. By contrast, an aging striker will pump his fist at a teammate or may wave to the crowd. His slumped head and slouched shoulder betray relief, not exuberance. After years of shaking the back of nets, they forget what it feels like to score those very first goals. Like a relief pitcher in baseball after a ground-out to end the game, they effort-fully plod to the halfway line. They know that no matter how many braces they bag, the ref’s whistle and stop-clock conspire against them.

So, Junito is playing soccer again.

But let’s not get carried away. We played a few informal street soccer games, but Real Madrid is the furthest thing from his and my mind. Hurling is still his sport of choice, in addition to riding his bicycle (no training wheels!) and he adores his eskateboard. Instead, let’s reflect on the joys of youth and lament the cruel little games Father Time plays on us…

Offensive players go through three stages during their career. First. they are young and bursting with potential. We watch them get occasional minutes, and are absolutely ecstatic when they score. Case in point: Chicharito last season. Second, they are regular starters and we are happy when they score, but if they go more than five games without a goal, we speculate as to crises of confidence, etc. Example: Ibrahimovic. And lastly, they are cagey veterans who get quality minutes in key games or at key moments – if they score, we are delightfully re-affirmed for believing in their eternal greatness. Case in point: Ryan Giggs the last decade. Del Piero the last two decades.

The preceding is odd because the rules of the game don’t change. Only two things are altered over time: the player’s physical & mental makeup and our expectations. Are we hopelessly irrational creatures? Do we take for granted what we see? Do the players take for granted their moment as the chosen ones? In large part, memory is the culprit. At least for us. We love the young players because we have no bad memories, we chastise the current players because of our grating & nagging short-term memory, and we love the old players because of nostalgia. And, yes, we are foolish for it.

But that doesn’t make the emotions we feel, or the players feel, any less genuine.

What brought on this introspection and realization was a series of absolutely amazing moments during some partiditos callejeros (street soccer games) with my son. Basically, I was taken back by his earth-shattering cry and the way his entire body shook after scoring each goal. There was no wave. There was no fist pump. Instead, there was an earthquake of magnitude 8.9 on the Richter scale inside our beloved chele chulo. And the golecitos, while well taken, were not exactly golazos.

We played against kids much older than Junito, so I parked him near the goal and used my aging legs to serve him on a silver platter. I remembered my younger days running around the canchas de futbol cinco in Buenos Aires, when I loitered at the far post and gorged myself on centros from Argie teammates during games, and bife de lomo afterwards. During this game, though, I was the waiter and Junito the patron. I would push around the teenagers and sidestep the middle-schoolers, setting up Junito for tap-ins and shouting pegale ya!

And it worked. And Junito celebrated each goal as if he had just scored the World Cup winning penalty kick, but with a difference – no weight of expectation, time, or fatigue held him down. He lifted his own spirit, nothing more After scoring a few goals, he started to float around the street. His smile could have lit up the entire block but for the apagones.

Managers talk about crises of confidence. Pundits write copy after copy about players making poor decisions, and then when that player goes two games without scoring the player is “over-thinking it.” The truth is, we often surround this wonderful game with layers upon layers of shit. Some of the shit we bring to the players, some of them bring it themselves.

But when we peel away those layers, at it’s heart the game is a game is a joyful expression of understanding between friends & family. This series came to an end not because I lost interest in sharing Junito’s exploits with you, the reader, but because I didn’t want to add another layer of shit to Junito’s not-so-distant adolescence (plus the hurling thing). I love Junito, and love him for helping remind me about what is great about the game, for helping remind me that Ryan Giggs could stand to smile and dance a bit more after scoring. And so could I.

So, in sum, Junito still loves hurling so don’t expect a return of a weekly series out of these parts. But if and when he opens my eyes, you’ll be in for a leche con chocolate flavored treat…

“Tal padre,tal hijo….pero mejor”

No, Junito has not announced a reversal on his all too premature retirement. He is still blissfully playing hurling, impervious to medium sized balls and nets draped over sticks. But this series ended without paying tribute to the olive-skinned and gorgeous woman behind the world’s future greatest player. And that is a tragedy which requires remedy.

First, a word on Junito’s sister. Her name is Angie. She is one year older. A few people asked – why not do a series on her? Was it male preference? Or, perhaps, there ‘sa unique bond between father & son? The only answer is painfully simplistic and practical – for the longest time, Angie showed no interest in soccer. She preferred dance. After a few soccer sessions, she would let out a loud gasp and say “No soy hombre, no tengo fuerza para esto.” I would correct her sexist assumption, but to no avail. I then realized it was an excuse to leave goals behind for plastic kitchen sets.

My own sister was and is a girlie girl, so I let it slide. But, to my delight, Angie has started to show an interest in soccer. I’m ecstatic. She has her mother’s natural two-footed grace. She also lives and breathes the Real Madrid-Barca rivalry, having remarked on a few occasions to her play friends that “Madrid is de oro, Barca es de inodoro.” Is a sequel possible? Possibly. Although Real would first need a female side.

The other lady in me and Junito’s life was also curiously absent from the series. With no good excuse.

I refer to Junito’s mother, the morenita bonita who shall not be named. Well, okay, Cristhian. Why was she absent from so many posts? I have no good reason. In a sense, Junito’s mamacita was the quintessential Makelele holding midfielder – she did all the little things so tirelessly, so effortlessly, and with such perfection that her contributions went beyond a pass here or goal there. Like air, she was all present, all important, and unjustly ignored. She was foundational. And nobody sits in a house and thinks on a daily basis – “Wow, what a great foundation which has steadily supported this structure for years” – but they should. And I should have.

And the morenita’s contributions went beyond the traditional role prescribed to women. In addition to being beautiful, a wonderful cook, a diligent cleaner, a great dancer, a load of laughs, and a practical intellectual counterweight to my flighty fits of fantasy and overdone alliteration, she’s just plain kick-ass. She is always a staunch defender of Junito, who has recently taken a liking to vigilante justice and hands-on-solutions to schoolyard bullying.

She was essential to the development of our beloved chele chulo. And not just in the giving-birth-to-him sense. Although that was also kind of a big deal. And painful, from the looks of it. So if Junito failed in a sense to attain the dizzying heights of greatest player ever in the history of soccer, that was his papy’s fault. His mom still deserves credit for having criado a wonderful and carinoso young boy. Whom we love, no matter where life takes him.

And who also likes an abrazote from time to time.

“Verdad que hurling es mejor que el futbol?”

I write this post with a heavy heart and trembling hands. The dream is not dead. The dream is not deferred. But young men are prone to distraction. Focus comes from experience. At only four years of age, Junito has proudly and defiantly donned the weighty expectations of millions of Real Madrid fans the world over. He is the one. He was the one. But no more.

I am sad to announce the retirement of Junito from futbol effective immediately.

This series has always been tongue-in-cheek. It started off as a satire on the media coverage of younger & younger athletes, a finger in the eye of everybody who watches sport to supplant yearnings for younger legs. We got lost in a few proud-young-father-alleyways and dabbled in sitcom irreverence. But just as sport can serve a blank slate upon which society projects its fears, joys, prejudices, and whims, this series reflected my evolving understanding of sport & the world at large. Also, the series’ star was too cute – and started to drive the plot, not vice versa.

Ironically, just as Junito’s talent has started to blossom, lady fate has cast a cruel and hideous spell on him. In my own youthful years, I abandoned futbol for an adolescence of ice hockey. I regret to inform the legions of merengues that Junito has fallen prey to a similar fate. What sport, you may ask? Well, I’ve been hiding this video for over a year, hoping and praying it was an anomaly. But it’s not….

Many will recall that last year Junito similarly gave up soccer after being enchanted by the accursed escoba! There will be no comeback this time. No Beckenbauer broken arm taped to the chest, no Willis Reed entering Madison Square Garden. Junito has fallen for a sport of intense and uncompromising romance: hurling. I, of course, blame all Irish influences on my son. And I know your thoughts – why not continue the series as a “Future Greatest Real Madrid Hurling Club Founder/Player”?

I appreciate the idea, but no such compromise can be made. It’s bad enough to have my heart ripped out of my chest by hurling, but to have to look at it every Thursday? No gracias. We should just be content to have witnessed the moments that have passed. From Junito’s first steps, to his first goal, to his breathtaking cuauhteminas. We can also take solace in the fact that Junito’s left-foot is a thousand times more technical than that hapless poser Ben Aguero. Although Robin Van Persie’s son has displayed some skill.

I’m depressed, but at least this series has come full circle. I started off by wanting to cynically mock adults that foolishly cling at young athletes as a means to clasp youth. Now I realize its much more than that. Or it can be. Youth and sports can represent a positive attitude and fun, not necessarily a desire to turn back the clock. As the saying goes, you don’t stop playing when you grow old, you grow old when you stop playing. While Junito has stopped playing futbol, as long as he plays sport with passion, fun, and guile, I’ll be happy. I can accept that. Even if I was planning on him scoring me sweet seats at the Bernabeu for home games in a decade or so.

We had a lot of fun, and I know that some of the cutest Junito pics got melted in the latest WP database transfer. Thus, I leave you one last parting gift of Junito’s greatness. Shed a tear for the unexpected loss of potential, just like when Marco Van Basten retired and Ron Artest seriously considered a full-time rap career. But also shed a few tears of joy. We had fun. A lot of fun. And wherever he may be, know that the chele chulo is sipping on leche con chocolate and having a ball. Or a hurl.

“Junito aka Bebesaltamontes, Real Madrid Legend, 2009-11″

Video credit: Real Madrid FC

Song credits: Spoon -”Believing is Art”, Eddie Santiago -”Tu Me Haces Falta”

Children have superpowers. They have the capacity to unflinchingly tell the truth. And no, their tongue does not match the hurtful loose lips of sarcastic & insecure adolescents. Rather, unblinkingly, they can cut through the smoke of “fluff” to get to the grain of matters. When I asked Junito if Real Madrid could win before last Tuesday, he said “No.” But he also said Madrid was “muy bueno.” Thus represents the paradox of Mourinho’s rebuilding year: a very good team that is still second best.

Mourinho has cast a spell on everybody. We watch the Pepe-Alves foul replay. We see the Busquets mono-mouth on youtube. But these obnoxious details were known well before the wave of clasicos. What is undisputed is the noticeable improvement in the defense and garra of Madrid. Two draws and a win in four games vs. Barca is a nice pull. And the team that played last year in the Nou Camp vs. this CL second leg were miles apart in coordination, fitness, and organization.

Still. Something is not right.

Even a four year old can give credit where it is due. Junito frequently spars with next door neighbor Tony. Tony is older and has a serious height advantage. Yet Junito duly plays goalie and tries to parry Tony’s shots. Tony scores goals, but Junito also exclaims “Tony marco goles hoy pero manana ganare” (Tony scored goals today but tomorrow I will win). We all feel the pressure to win now. But we must never forget about tomorrow.

Barcelona similarly deserved to win the Champions League tie. Will Real compete more closely next year? I believe so. Yet the bitter trail of denial by Mourinho scars the entire enterprise. Only by acknowledging faults can one advance. Junito’s goalie play increased ten-fold when he learned to bend his knees, keep his legs close enough to prevent a nutmeg, and focus on low shots. Conspiracies can deflect honest internal appraisal. Similarly, from a global perspective, Madrid must eat the low-hanging fruit of paltry La Liga teams next season. From an individual perspective, the team needs a qualitative boost in subs. Barcelona is superior, conspiracy aside. But Madrid can compete. And can improve.

And, of course, one can never forget about one’s legacy. Against Manchester United, ex-Madrileno Raul put on a show in determination & dignity. For all his faults, especially in the later years, Raul rarely criticized the referee. If Junito begins to blame the (lack of a) referee on his losses to Tony, his growth could forever be stunted. Yes, his jaw muscles may develop, but little else.

Still, I understand the emotional aspect. That is the nature of sport & competition. Junito constantly unleashes a torrent of fits whenever Tony scores a goal. But as Junito’s dives and outstretched manitos get inches closer to each incoming shot, we have to reflect on things other than resultados for now. Madrid may have won the Copa del Rey, but their away leg draw at the Nou Camp was their best performance of the season. In one year’s time, anything is possible.

The moral? Sometimes, life unexpectedly kicks you in the butt. But all that’s left is to dust off the polvo, lift yourself up, and climb the resbaladero again. And again. And again.

“Mi pipita pega mas fuerte que Pepe!”

Junito, I’m sad to say, was born a politician. Or a Manuel Pellegrini. But definitely not a decisive and partisan political talk show host. Conspiracy theorists be damned, Junito is no Glenn Beck. Why am I so sure?

Well, in the Turner household, a raging debate fumes. On the one hand, as a Mexican American, I was raised to love Real Madrid by their association with Hugol Sanchez. However, the little lady does not share this passion. As a gorgeous morenita bonita raised and reared in Nicaragua, she rejects abundance for that which was scarce: white males, known as cheles. What player leads the Barca flock? Leo Messi, a prototypical mullet-laden Argentine of epic chele proportions.

Che may mean “friend” in Argentine Spanish, but the tensions threaten household hospitality on game days. And Junito sadly sits on the fence.

Just to make a point clear – I will love Junito no matter where life takes him. Terrorist? You mean insurrectionist. Murderer? It was self-defense! Cule? Umm, no lawsuit to terminate parental rights is pending. That’s as good as it gets. I would not set foot in the Nou Camp, but I also wouldn’t wish him to be in reality as harmed as Dani Alves simulates. Not that I’m worried about Junito joining La Masia anytime soon – I would never permit such heresy. But his answers to questions have troubled me as of late.

For example, I asked him in front of his madre – “Junito, con que equipo vas?” And he said Real Madrid. But then his adorable almond eyes looked at his mother, and he said “pero Barcelona me gusta tambien.” I also heard from his sister that while riding the school bus, she overheard Junito talking bad about Real Madrid. But this leads to another problem: the hazy land of truth and fiction.

As a middle child, I am familiar with sibling rivalries and disputes. Yet Angie and Junito take the cake for barely credible denials. If Angie pushes Junito, she claims he fell over his own feet. If Junito punches Angie, he asserts she grabbed his hand and hit herself, attempting a clever set-up. Frequently, rather than sift through mountains of hearsay, we punish both children in case of disputes. When factual clarity melts into molten lava, little option remains.

While the recent Real Madrid loss to Barcelona was fully deserved – Pepe really is a walking red card, even if that foul was not – the oft repeated and classic Cule “Franco” arguments in the face of defeat remind me of my toddlers. The recent Copa del Rey response was no exception. Here are my grievances. First, even assuming such a link, blaming current fans & players for the sins of the past undercuts reconciliation and tosses the innocent newcomer under a bus.

Second, the historical “facts” asserted by Cules don’t necessarily add up. While I won’t go as far as Mario Gomez and call them “lies,” the inconsistencies in the Barcelona version of the Di Stefano signing and the Copa del Rey Remontada raise the eyebrow. Rather, I envision a reversal of cause & effect. Real Madrid started to have success, so General Franco latched onto the team because of their popularity. Currently, de facto Dictator Daniel Ortega has done similar spin jobs with Nicaraguan boxers. Yet nobody accuses him of rigging matches.

More importantly, Barcelona fans fall into two circular discourses. First, their plodding version of possession football is the only beautiful thing. If you don’t play it, you are ugly. If you beat them, you are ugly. Second, if Real Madrid wins, then jump into a cloudy land of historical hearsay to vilify contemporary fans & players with no ties to General Franco whatsoever. So long as the mainstream media unblinkingly and uncritically accepts these assumptions as stone cold fact, Madrid can never “win” in terms of morality. Only on the pitch. And even that has become a rare occasion.

While Junito’s analytical style may mirror the Cules, I am a bit embarrassed that my chele chulo sits on the fence. Conversely, my angelic daughter Angie has shown a closely proclivity to the merengue cause. Up until this point she has insisted on being a girlie girl (despite my gifts of soccer equipment), but who knows? If the feminine La Liga can get their financial house in order without selling compromising calendars, then Angie may be the Saeta Morochita of the lady Real Madrid team.

Until then, I can only read and re-read and re-read Pastorcito Mentiroso to my chavos and implore them to not cry “conspiracy”, “limit of violence,” or “Francooo” without a wolf in sight.

“Papy Elliott, verdad que Franco fue entrenador de Madrid?”

This may shock you, but not all celebrities are great role models. Especially not celebrity athletes. Yet our judgment of these players deserves equal scrutiny. While I may do my best to defend the indefensible Balotelli and use Sergio Ramos‘ prison philanthropy to sarcastically mock overly simplistic moralization of sport, some people are just d-bags. Including us. And I don’t want my young and impressionable Junito to pick up bad habits.

So yes, the bebe saltamontes is out of his cast and bobbing around the house like a frog on amphetamines. But when he sat down to watch a bit of soccer with his old man, I quickly had to change the channel. Why? No, not a Wayne Rooney celebration. The culprit(s)? Rafael Van Der Vaart. Ibrahimovic. Even my beloved Mesut Ozil!

They are the kings of the potty mouth.

We live in a universe where the freedom of expression is under attack. Sir Alex criticizes refs and gets a touch line ban. Rooney celebrates by uttering vulgarities and also gets a ban. Yet, to the terror of toddlers’ parents everywhere, Ibrahimovic, Van der Vaart, and Ozil can juggle recently chewed gum with no repercussions. Not even a fine. What example are we setting for our youth? What example should we set? These questions raced through my mind as I pondered the eminent clasico-a-thon. And the Champions League.

So yeah, the bebe-saltamontes and I watched the emotion-less Spurs vs. Real Madrid game. On the one hand, part of me expected Gareth Bale to do something. But he didn’t. Which kinda makes me think that Maicon is no longer the world’s best right back. It kinda makes me think that European and World Champion right back Sergio Ramos may not be so bad. Perchance? Perhaps? Pearl of a signing? Yes. And a premonition.

In the last decade of the Barcelona-Madrid rivalry, I’ve noticed an important correlation – the signing of a wingback from Sevilla precedes a period of sustained dominance. When Madrid signed Sergio Ramos from Sevilla, everybody thought Deco-Etoo-Dinho would win the Champions League back-to-back-to-back. But under Capello’s guidance, the Dutch trifecta plus Sergio won some La Ligas. Not bad.

But then Barcelona went and signed Daniel Alves. I am not one to rip directly on players. So let’s pretend that a scarecrow exists which embodies the spiritual entity of Dani Alves. I hate this scarecrow. Not because the scarecrow lacks talent, not because the scarecrow commits fouls, but solely because the scarecrow is a right-footed Roberto Carlos who signed for the wrong team. Everybody prepares the Messi Hall of Fame speech while counting Xavi’s passes and Iniesta’s game winning goals, yet the Brazilian wingback preceded this recent Barcelona hiccup of dominance.

Junito also dislikes Dani Alves. Yet Junito, at four years of age, has this belief while being impervious to the historical facts articulated above. Why did Junito dislike him? Because Dani Alves looks sinister. “Papy Elliott, verdad que es feo?” exclaimed my chele chulo. Si, I nodded. Yet how often do superficial reactions feed the spinning wheel of pretext-posing and excuse-spitting arguments? Did I also really, deep down, dislike Dani Scarecrow for the same reason?

The snap judgments we make on players based on appearances can create self-fulfilling narratives. This blinds us to the truth.  Sir Alex the “tough as nails” Scot from Glasgow criticizes a decision-maker. Rooney the Scouser secondary school drop-out says a bad word. Off with their heads! Yet don’t the dirty gum chewing antics of Ozil, Ibra, and Van der Vaart set a similarly bad example? Where are the oral hygiene police? Children cannot curse at cameras, yet they should stick kicked-gum in their mouths?

Society too often punishes for the wrong reasons. In sport, the middle class fan can latch onto typically “lower class” behavior to point the finger and laugh. Class-based socialization and norms look hysterical until we hold up a mirror. Dani Alves is a devil until we ask ourselves – why? What instinct in our bodies paints him in this dark light, forcing our mind to rationalize (in the Freudian sense) our prejudices and, perhaps, fears? If Alves was white and Sir Alex was black, what would the universe smell like? Different, that’s how.

So, upon reflection, I told my chele chulo that Dani Alves was neither a devil nor feo. Chewing gum is okay. Chewing gum kicked by a foot is never okay, even if you are a rags-to-riches child of immigrants that raised yourself from poverty with preposterous foot-skills. And if you are an anglo-saxon that does not meet exacting norms of social behavior, you should not be singled out. Your privilege does not render you an easy effigy.

Junito kinda got the message, but will probably hit college before it starts to sink in. If he hits college. For now, he gladly mixes his chocolate with white leche while I blabber about.

“Papy Elliott…verdad q eso no se mete a la boca?”

Junito’s ankle is on the mend. While my little bebe saltamontes did not need crutches, he does have to wear a cast. He also had to miss a week of la escuela, confined to couches and camitas before he could put weight on his right foot. After a few days, he grew restless, and the sound of him hopping on one foot echoed throughout the house. He also began to beg and plead for a return to school. Yes, a four year old male that actually wants to go to school. I find it equally odd.

But, of course, he probably missed his lady love, Mariela Gabriela la pequena, right? WRONG. Junito informed me that he and Mariela were no longer on speaking terms.

And I suspected the worst.

Mere coincidence that Junito sustains his first career threatening injury and this little hussy high-tails out of town? I think not. So, in a sense, this is a very important lesson to Junito – the closer you get to the flame, the more moths surround you. This is a baby step in learning how to deal with gold-digging acquaintances of questionable morals.  I’m sure that once Junito starts regularly for Real Madrid, a quarter of the population of Managua will clamor for his email, swearing they are a long lost cousin in need of some cash. Sure you are. Sure you are.

Junito, always the gentleman, refused to discuss the matter in great detail. However, his older sister, soploncita, spilled the beans. While it remains unclear who ended what, apparently Mariela Gabriela la pequena pulled Junito’s hair during recreo and, from that point on, Junito refuses to speak with her. I, of course, support Junito in his decision to leave this physically abusive relationship. After all, if this no good hussy is pulling hair at four, who knows what she’ll be capable of at six? Or even seven!

So Junito did not clamor to return to school to see Mariela. So why the rush? Well, Junito thought his flesh wounds were cool and wanted to show them off to his friends. Of course, such macho showboating is quite common among the under six crowd, but I’m not exactly sure how puss & scabs merit so much attention. But they do. And Junito has returned with a backlog of never-ending tareas.

In light of the doctor’s orders, Junito has not trained at all. Tony, despondent, walks by our house, yearning for a companero with whom to play pelota. Due to the massive amounts of homework (by five year old standards), we also have limited the blackboard sessions to successful counterattacks on set pieces. We also have focused heavily on scouting potential adversaries. While Junito loses little sleep over Ben Aguero’s lack of a left foot, Robin Van Persie’s son has shown flashes of brilliance.

Still, unless Robin reproduced with an armadillo, I will be eager to see how fitness and injury affect little Van Persie’s career prospects. After all, after only one week, my bebe saltamontes is hopping around the house begging for a return to the starting eleven school bus. Will little VP show similar perseverance? Or will glass ankles be his Achilles’ heel? Or will his Achilles heel be his Achilles heel?

We also used the down time to partially solve the riddle of our family pet, the hermaphrodite rabbit, Lola. Spring is in the air and the kids clamored for baby bunnies. Can you blame them? So, we worked out an arrangement with a neighbor that had a male rabbit to, ahem, consummate a mutually beneficial bit of bunny procreation. Or so we thought. While Lola definitely has at least one superficially visible “lump,” even a veternarian could not discern her gender. We assumed she was a she. But we had another thing coming.

Just so you know, Lola is voluptuous. She is a bit big boned, but we figured that would only assist with wider birthing hips. Conversely, our neighbor’s male rabbit lacked a bit in stature but made up for it in charm. They were very Nicole Kidman-Tom Cruise. And the combination similarly ended in disaster. Lola pinned this little male rabbit to the ground and reenacted the scenes from Oz that were edited due to American television censorship laws. The rabbit is still trembling and, claro, our neighbor friend was angry and rescued him in a flash.

At least we learned that Lola, regardless of biological questions, displays the gender of a male and does not plan on bearing bunines anytime soon. Sometimes, for a reason or another, relationships don’t work out. And I just hope that Lola, like Junito, can sort through the heartbreak and failures to find Mr., Mrs., or hermaphrodite bunny/rabbit right.

“Ya no me duele el tobillo…..pero el corazoncito si.”

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.”

We would like to believe that in an open and democratic society, with an abundance of resources, that clannish tribes would cease to exist. Yet sports fuel the local association, the desire to exclude the other and thereby improve self-worth.

I’ve never had reason to hate Barcelona. True, they are the eternal rival of my beloved Madrid, but I never wish them harm or worse than second place. The tyranny of geography and birth restrict my nativist tendencies. Yet have I betrayed the faith of the blanquillo?

In regards to my family, have I kept too loose a grip? Am I raising a snake to someday bite  my hand? I ask because….the other day Junito said good things about Barcelona.

First, the background context to the quote. The little lady is a huge Leo Messi fan. I even bought her an Argentina jersey bearing his last name. But, of course, not the Barca jersey. The Catalan crest has no place in the Turner household. Like all Mexican-Americans, we believe in the lottery, the Rosary, and the awesome, redeeming power of a furled Hugo Sanchez eyebrow.

But I’ve lost my way.

My men’s league team voted unanimously to don Barcelona’s hideous lime green jerseys. My only option to avoid this cruel cosmic punishment was to become goalie. Not. Happening. More importantly, cable TV now graces the living room. And frequently, the little lady watches her Argentine footy inspiration. While playing for the accursed Cule-bras.

We’ve butted heads and tossed Junito in the cross hairs. I ask him, “M’ijo, eres fanatico de Madrid y te gusta Cristiano Ronaldo, no?” Junito smiles and nods his head. However, then the morenita bonita asks him: “Pero tambien te gusta Messi? Y juega para Barcelona?” Junito smiles and nods his head. Then, seeing both of his parents upset, my four year old toddler tries to split the baby (himself). “Los dos equipos son buenos.”

If politics is dodging questions, then sport is passion. Can you imagine such a soundbite coming up in a potential job interview? Or Junito getting ambushed by some sleazy journalist in a no-holds-barred interview? Yes, Junito could stick to the lowly sub-category of sports bloggers known as “softball-questions-pillowcase-journalists”, but eventually the Guardian will come knocking. Or Marca. Or AS. And they will want venom, not gumdrops.

In the interest of disclosure, I revealed the above factoid so that when Junito redeems himself by setting a Barcelona jersey on fire and burning an effigy of Cruyff, all will be well. His initiation attained. After all, to be a cult legend, sometimes you have to crack some eggs and jump through some hoops. But convincing him is another matter. And I have trouble convincing myself.

Not so long ago, Schneijder drilled free kicks, Ruud headed goals, and Robben danced down the sidelines. But the Dutch nucleus withered away. Xavi soon stopped coughing up balls against Chelsea. Iniesta found his killer instinct. And Puyol transformed from prodigy to pillar. The current Madrid squad is a star striker and left back from truly competing, but why did this dry spell have to coincide with Junito’s formative years?

I can only craft so many arguments as the Cule-bras collect trophy after trophy. I know that all teams experience peaks and valleys, but the drought deters talent. If Junito has shifted his preferences, imagine his potential future teammates that have less dedicated fathers? While I’m not worried about Enzo Zidane, I can feel our chances of signing (Junito backup) Ben Aguero to a pre-Kingergarden pre-contract slipping into the night.

And, of course, other unforeseen bumps in the road have emerged. We are all familiar with Junito’s nose for goal and mad foot skills, but…but….the Di Stefano & Raul records may withstand the test of time. And by that I mean…Junito has expressed a very strong interest in goalie. In playing goalie.

I was taken aback at first. But, to be honest, Junito’s 16th birthday and first team debut would coincide perfectly with the end of the San Iker era. Junito also has mad ups for a toddler, and pretty broad shoulders. Being musculoso would help him deal with crosses and those accursed inch perfect Barcelona shots to the lower far post. Additionally, at the age of one, Junito had a similar “no hair but still virile” look akin to Pepe Reina.

I get the feeling that Junito’s training partner, Tony, dislikes goalie and put him up to it. But my bebe saltamontes has stepped up to the plate, saving quite a few of my shots and boasting about it. He frequently tells me “Papy Elliott, verdad que soy el mejor portero del mundo? Verdad que usted no marco ningun gol?” And given the demise of Buffon and Cech in the last five years, who am I to argue?

I can imagine Junito at age 14, playing on loan to get minutes at a Turkish second division club, bravely jumping into the air, snagging the ball, and absolutely obliterating a thirty something Freddy Adu. And I smile. Perhaps Madrid is in darkness, but my son will shine the light.

“Junito, Corazon de Leon”

A border-line comical WSJ op-ed lamented the scarcity of good men in these here United States of America. The author remarked that men in their 20′s live in a state of extended adolescence, never coherently explaining why a) adolescence was bad or b) why women in their 20′s couldn’t suitably seek males in their 30′s. Slate got in on the act, interviewing 20-something females who complain about 20-something men that, shockingly, do not rush into a potential commitment of 60 plus years (given modern life expectancies).

Regardless, if you are looking for good men, we have collectively decided to congregate at the aptly named Good Men Project. When we’re not sculpting our perfect abs, praising commitment, being financially successful, reading Aristotle, or expressing our intimate emotions to one another, we post articles about these topics. We then comment about our feelings and emotions. And that is why we then become emotionally distant to our significant others – we are “emotionally tapped out” after all this.

You can read my guest post at TGMP on young fatherhood right here. And yes it involves everybody’s favorite Real Madrid future all-star.