Truth be told, the long pauses have come about for a variety of reasons. First and foremost, I have come under a brutal attack from both the general audience and family members. Some people think its preposterous to predict that a three year old can ascend to greatness. The “naysayers” say too many things can  happen between now and five, when Junito signs his first professional contract. Of course, the old Brazilian refrain that the good looking boys get girlfriends and the ugly ones get good at soccer has a kernel of truth. Still, I managed to be dashingly handsome and decent at pelota, so surely Junito can just take things to the next level.

The more stinging criticism, though, from closer quarters, is not so easily dismissed.

The illustrious and super secretive inner circle has roundly criticized me for heaping a hefty dose of expectations on Junito. Granted, I think some of my training tactics have been misunderstood. Junito and I do watch a lot of tape, usually classic mid-90’s era Serie A, and I do remind Junito that he too can pivot like Van Basten if he sets his mind to it. However, I am not trying to push Junito to compare himself to Van Basten. Far from it. Van Basten merely won a few domestic titles and the European Championship. If anything, Junito should try to top that by twenty.

Rather, I want Junito to focus his young talents on refining his technique, balance, and first touch. He should emulate the masters in form only, sketching Picasso’s shadows but painting his own masterpiece. I read this great NYTimes piece on the Ajax academy, how they focus on polishing a few diamonds and not so much on winning worthless youth league games. And that is my approach with Junito.

Still, I will concede that the super small sized Madrid jersey with “Di Stefano” on the back may have been a tad exaggerated. A tad. But despite the grueling hours of video sessions and training, despite the endless pivots and pirouettes and headers, I swear you can see the diamond shining through.

From a player development perspective, the only problem is that Junito has skipped a beat. Rather than focusing on his positional sense and kicking of a ball, he just pushes other kids around, runs a lot, and says “Soy musculoso, soy fuerte.” While as a youth coach I understand the importance of laying a strong foundation of fitness, I think Junito is skipping a step or two.

But as for the strongest indicator of success, love of the game, all signs point to yes. Anytime we watch television and surf past a channel showing soccer, Junito cries and pleads that we watch pelota. And he constantly pleads for me to take down his arquito so that he can echar goles. So I’m just following his little lead, reading up on sports nutrition and even hitting the gym myself, just to dar el buen ejemplo.

“Ya mido y peso mas que Xavi….grrrrrrrrrr”

Luckily, Junito is still a decade or two away from such problems. Although he did recently throw a tantrum so ugly it would make Franck Ribery appear a GQ coverboy.

The other day, Junito, Angie, the missus, and I were kicking a pelotita around when Junito got mad at not receiving consistent service. Se enojo and was inches away from pegging one of his trademark mordiscos when I restrained him and placed him in timeout. I can handle some heat in the locker, err, living room, but unlike the stargazing Domenech, at some point one must impose authority or all hell breaks loose.

So Junito sat in his chair in a rinconito, and I still couldn’t help but reflect upon the subtle effect of time on character. A few years ago, Gattuso was talking smack about Zidane and his club was a Champions League finalist. Now, humbled by a first round exit, he admitted he deserved scorn. Cannavaro fared little better – his second spell was Juventus was a disaster, and a date with a Persian Gulf paycheck awaited the former World Champion.

I looked back at the Italian run to the top, smirking at how easily we write history in stone yet live the present on a whim. Italy, after all, barely edged Australia on a horrendous penalty kick call. The match against the Ukraine ended 3-0, but any neutral saw a tight match where but for a few friendly posts, the game could have gone either way. And, of course, the final was decided by a single errant shot in a penalty kick shoot-out. Football, even of the non-American variety, appeared a game of inches (perhaps centimeters).

The career arch of Junito is still squarely in the “petulant and cocky Frenchman” point, what with his cocky showmanship and silky first touch. Still, if history is any guide, if genetics play a role, then I like to think that Junito could enjoy perhaps a career of two decades. Why? No, not because of me. If he eats half the enchiladas I have, he will be lucky to make his high school team. No, because of Junito’s abuelo.

Last October, we received the chilling news that foretells the tribulations between adolescence and adulthood. Junito’s abuelo had a stroke. We all worried about my papy’s health, some fretted about a will (or lack thereof), but naturally my thoughts turned to the most important thing of all – soccer. Would my 60 year old dad still be able to play?

The answer was a thunderous, joyous, and rapturous yes. During the Dia de Gracias, spent at the abue’s, grandpa could still pivot like a teenager at a school dance and chip thirty foot passes like a 60 year old Xavi that recently had a stroke (use your imagination). I was alleviated. I was elated. Despite the worn legs, the brain’s cruel recollection it too is a muscle, smile after smile graced my papy’s face.

In this game of inches, where young French men cry and fight like three year olds, they forget a simple truth: the game should never cease to be a game. Despite aching knees, mistimed tackles, and the fatigue dizzies, the Italians marched into the World Cup for one simple reason, for the same reason that a 38 year old Maldini deputized at leftback for AC Milan….

“Jugamos pelota nietito?”

“Clarisisismo que si!”

Sorry, but I’m afraid not. Junito is, you see, a three year old with an iron will. Junito is blissfully impervious to the media hype surrounding said event. In laymen’s terms, it’s all about the football. Junito is ravenous for goals and wins, not reality tv shows and product plugs. Ironically, his reluctance to conduct interviews has generated the “can’t touch this” media hype that no amount of botox can buy.

Still, part of me suspects that, deep down, he really does care.

The other day, during the US-England game, Junito came and watched parts of the match at interspersed intervals. I can’t really blame him for not watching the full 90 minutes – neither side impressed in possession and scoring chances came at a premium. You can only see Jamie Carragher commit a late, yellow card tackle before they all blur into the same offense. Still, Junito made some perceptive observations.

First off, he noted that “me aburro” for the majority of the game, which was a most accurate depiction. Second, he said “usted esta feo” after England scored and my face swelled to an enormous red balloon. Third, he noticed that his mother, who has a preference for, shall we say, “the fairer skinned of the male population” (re: guero, chele), well, “le gustan los futbolistas.” And the gustar was more of the kickette variety than sporting qualities.

Still, despite the lack of interest in watching this fantastic sporting event, Junito continues to score goals by the boatload. At least once a day, he drags out his miniature goal, uses his hand to place the ball a foot from the goal, toe-pokes in a delicate shot, and then shouts “goooooooolazo” and runs around the house. My suegra has suggested to Junito that he practice his punteria from a longer distance, but he steadfastly refuses. I’m a bit sad to see him take a service-dependent role, but a fox-in-the-box is a fox-in-the-box.

Junito has gone over two months with no biting incidents. Thus, I am actively looking for a league to fuel his competitive fire. I also have coached youth soccer in various capacities, and may take up the re-take the reigns. Now, this is not going to be one of those Bradley tandems – no sir, Junito will absolutely positively not be permitted to play in the bundesliga and I did not graduate from Princeton. Thus, there are no similarities.

And Junito will not play for the US national team, although that decision has come under fire from other quarters of the household given that Junito was 1) Only three years old and 2) Had not “officially” received a national team call up. And the Rossi-Italy example is a stern warning. So, yeah, the decision door is not wide open, but the crack is almost big enough to stick your big toe into, if not your entire foot. I will not push Junito to make a definite decision until he is at least five years old and can sign his own initials in crayola.

In the meantime, Junito’s enjoying the summer cool as a cucumber, juganto pelota and enjoying some galletas y leche.

“Di mi nombre. Ya. Yeah.”

Junito is the ghost at the far post. No, he is not some vomiting and yelling Exorcist ghost, crying for attention. He is the ghost behind the door in the Sixth Sense, invisible to the naked eye but terrifying all the same. You may see dead people. But centerbacks don’t see Junito. He lives in their blind spot. Junito lurks in the the fourth dimension between the offside trap, the keeper’s reach, and the defender’s ability to turn their hips or step.

The defenders raise their arms and yell “fuera”, staring at the linesman and praying for a raised flag. But the net ripples as their shoulders sag in defeat. Junito’s two footed precision make a veteran surgeon’s hands look clumsy. Some doubted the wisdom of Junito practicing his goal celebration before he could barely walk. They were wrong.

The only problem is Junito’s precocious talents and exploits off the field.

No, don’t worry – no mags yet on the horizon for Junito. While a remarkably handsome and dashing son of a gun, Junito’s once frequent piropos have given way to a singular focus on footy. And the result speak for themselves. However, his self-confidence, killer instinct, and lack of empathy for the opposition has transferred to the family mascot. Yes. Junito’s biggest future problem is with PETA.

A few week ago, we obtained a pet chocoyito. Junito is positively obsessed with the pet bird, constantly carrying our mascota around the house. The dilemma is that, while Junito’s first touch with foot  makes feathers feel like lead, his grasp of animals is a bit harsher. In other terms, he does not quite get the fact that this is a sentient entity with feelings.

The morenita de mis suenos and I have taken emergency measures for a variety of reasons. First, we believe in empathy and compassion for all living beings. Second, and perhaps more selfishly, I want to prevent any future public relations issues for Junito. Rumors of animal mistreatment could only cast doubt on his looming and inevitable transfer to Real Madrid. I’m not saying that Junito will be some buddhist-Baggio that rubs elbows with Popes, but I don’t want him to be the ruthless Cristiano Ronaldo of the animal kingdom either.

The big step has been to place our choyo in a gigantic jaula so that Junito cannot reach him. However, like a much much younger version of Pippo Inzaghi, last night we caught him snooping around the birdcage. Cristhian asked him – “que haces por aca?” Junito replied, “buscando leche.” The darting eyes. The mischievous grin. He knew the jaula was nowhere near the cocina or the refry.

I can see the same facial expression on HDTV ten years from now, smiling & winking at a linesman with a raised flag.

“Una patada a Xavi? Yo no fui….”

Still, Junito’s national team selection has one distinct advantage – I am not a candidate, as I am a human being, not a nation state. Thus, I reasoned, no evil can come of this. I was wrong. The expected and the unexpected merged into a vortex so profound, so deep and convoluted, that if you wiped your pink finger on the surface’s rim, you’d be elbow-deep in abyss in the blink of an eye.

Allow me to explain.

As you may recall, Junito is a brilliant goalscorer, handsome playboy, and future champion. Thus, his success at the World Cup is a surety. However, his national team is a question mark. Junito lays claim to three different nationalities: Mexico, the US, and Nicaragua. Rather than place the burden of this huge decision on a still developing three year old, like any responsible father I polled a group of strangers on the internet so that they would decide for us. You were one of those strangers. And you voted.

I then painstakingly counted each and every ballot, even the handwritten ballots that were mailed from as far away as Guam. I also tried to get a read from Junito on his personal preferences. The other day, he alleged that he took a taxi to Mexico, obtained a magical stone, and then gifted said magical stone to his mother. Only upon further investigation did I realize that no such taxi ride took place, and Junito’s claims to the stone remain unproven. He has alleged that the stone turns into a huge giant that is larger than any dinosaur, but thus far no eye witnesses have corroborated said transformations.

Still, I read between the lines and interpreted his creative musings as an affection for his Aztec roots. BUT, he still prefers gallo pinto, the traditional Nicaragua dish, to any combination of hot cheese-hot tortilla-ground beef-jalapenos. He also dislikes hamburgers and french fries, so the US is out of the question. Although, to be honest, he does enjoy the caja feliz toys.

Could Junito play for three different national teams like Real Madrid all-time great Alfredo Di Stefano? Unlikely. I anticipate him getting capped before his older sister’s quinceanera, which means no U15 or U17 shenanigans. Nope. Junito will burst onto the scene like Michael Owen, but with the lasting power of Paolo Maldini.

While Mexico loves players that skirt the nationality lines, I have one big problem with Junito following in my chicano footsteps: the word “raza.” Nobody has every satisfactorily defined this term for me. I hear it all the time as in “hoy hay un juego en la tarde, pura raza“, and I think – if I said the term “pure race” in English and had a shaved head, I would probably be talking about a minutemen meeting or something. Shudder.

More importantly, the contours of the raza have not been sufficiently elucidated. Is my Nicaraguan wife a member of la raza? Or is la raza just a synonym for Mexican? Repeated emails to the Real Academia have not been answered.

Still, I cast but one vote in this election and let the majority speak. And speak they did. Drum roll please….The winner of the Junito’s-future-national team-election is…..

Pitchinvasion.Again. Yes. You read it correctly. Pitchinvasion? Pitchinvasion. Again. Check out the results:

I know what you’re thinking because I had the same thought – isn’t Pitchinvasion a website, not a nation state? But our analysis can’t be so shallow – in the 21st century, as technology blurs the lines between nation-states and non-state actors, isn’t it entirely possible that Tom Dunmore will rule a big chunk of the universe? After all, he has a soccer blogger trophy case to make Ryan Giggs blush.

Plus, Pitchinvasion has a scarf. And the line between a scarf and a flag is a very fine one, one that is begging to be crossed.

So, there you have it, I try to run a fair & square election in the hopes my readers can guide my toddler son’s future professional career, but Tom Dunmore’s excellent Pitchinvasion gobbles up the votes like a meth using cookie monster. At least unlike the UK, there was a clear majority. And don’t worry, no legal wrangling on my part. I know how twisted anything resembling an election or award can become when it involves the soccer blogosphere.

That little take taking on a, oh, let’s say, 80% Clarence Seedorf, is none other than Daniel Maldini, of the illustrious Maldini heritage. He is also Junito’s mortal enemy in European Cup finals. In 2024, that is.

A lot of Americans head to Europe with the attitude that by sheer talent and determination they can take down the millennial-established aristocracy. After a year of hustling for work and no cent to their name, the weak-willed inevitably track back to the States, tail tucked firmly between their legs. The problem is brash arrogance. The solution is quiet confidence.

I can appreciate a little trash-talking among players, but, ultimately, Junito’s feet must do the talking. He must also learn to use his body in the offensive and defensive halves with cynical aggression. Case in point: this pickup game between the Zidane family.

The most surprising part of the video is not the obvious technical gifts of Zidane’s sons, but rather that he waited a whole two minutes to commit a cynical yellow card foul on his own five year old son. And by the fourth minute, only staring session into a solar eclipse could blind the average joe to the inevitable red card. And the trash talking…I wonder who Enzo learned that from?

Still, despite the potty mouth, I am glad that Junito will have  true Diez in Enzo Zidane to feed him delicious thru-balls. If the two of them are going to defeat the well-drilled AC Milan back line captained by Daniel Maldini, the combination play must be instinctive, rhythmic, and without hesitation.

Will Pellegrini still be Madrid’s manager at that time? I’m not quite sure. But I do have a good faith belief that Carlos Ancellotti will be back coaching at Milan by then, and, of course, the gentleman Berlusconi will still be owner and probably prime minister of Italy.

Junito has traded in his Huggies for calzoncillos (underpants)! The new influx of cash has led to an all important purchase – a Real Madrid jersey. However, I have come under criticism in some quarters for my treatment of Junito – am I inculcating him in some sort of blanquillo-obsessed cult?

Keep shooting, people, because the arrows fall off this iron-thick skin like a drop of water. The word “culto” means “cultured, educated,” in Spanish, so I will just pretend that instead of cult, you wanted to say culto. Yes, I am indoctrinating my son to be cultured and educated. What an astute observation!

Still, due to some financial distress, I was unable to get Junito an official Madrid jersey. Additionally, there were some cleaning concerns. The all white shirt must not be sodden, and Junito has not yet mastered the use of the silverware. Granted, the important thing is that Junito wear the shirt with pride and aplomb. But the fried cheese stains probably make the spirit of Puskas cry.

Despite a nose for goal, I have a confession to make – I still harbor hope that Junito can develop into a withdrawn striker/false nine. The shining example of grace for my money is Dennis Bergkamp of Arsenal fame. The Dutchman struck a fine balance between the amazing assist and the elegant goal.

There’s just one little stumbling block: the Ajax academy generally does not accept youths under the age of 5, but I do have their number on my cell phone. I haven’t cared call them, but it would be a shame to miss such a call because I thought it was a solicitor and didn’t answer. I could return the phone call, but I would hate to imperil Junito’s development in anyway.

And yes, I know what you’re thinking – the star of Real Madrid…at the Ajax Academy? Right now I am not impressed by the Madrid youth system. The “cantera” is appalling. Granero? Come on. Thus, Junito’s initial career path has two possible projections – either the Eredivisie, ala Ronaldo, or the Portuguese Liga, ala Ronaldo. He could dabble in the Premiership or maybe Serie A to cut his teeth, but nothing long-term. A post-35 deal in Qattar is also a distinct possibility.

Still, seeing as Junito is too young to start lifting weights, I have focused heavily on his cognitive development. Recently, he was able to recite the entire “burrito song” with no assistance. For those of you anglos, the burrito song refers to a “small donkey” who does not know the vowels. It is an excellent method to teach the kiddos the “vocales” in Spanish. Junito has excelled, as expected, but I am not sure he is ready to dive headfirst into the stormy ocean of consonants.

For now, to ensure he becomes a student of the game, I am emphasizing an exacting and rigorous approach to writing his own name in cellophane blocks. Absolutely, positively no taking a bite out the blocks. Not even a little bit. Junito, to his credit, has responded positively to my draconian, Fabio Capello, taskmaster tactics. As you can see…

Junito: English for “Mata-Barca”

For the non-Spanish speakers, piropo is perhaps best translated to “catcall,” although a piropo is occasionally more refined than a whistle and/or grunt. Occasionally. Here’s the situation: every morning, a teenage girl walks by our front porch on the way to school. And Junito? Like a wind-up doll, he instinctively gravitates to the lawn at the same hour, saying to the apple of his eye “Adios, mi amor.”

No, I am about to talk about birds and bees with him. I’m more preoccupied with the implications for his career as a player. Emphasis on career; not “player.”

I have no doubt that, like George Best before him, Junito will be a WAG-net. But in the meantime, he needs to focus on developing his footskills. Granted, dancing with the ladies would have a positive effect on his pivot and dribbling, but spending hour after hour smelling roses and writing poetry would not bode well for the 8 hour flight to Moscow when only steely resolve can carry the day. Not to mention some coaches‘ preferences for lady-less travel.

Still, I am no taskmaster. Junito is allowed to develop his following of MAGs, “Madres-Abuelas-Girlfriends.” I would hate to impose a rigid curfew that would merely drive him into his lady’s arms or lead to some sort of Gago-Higuain-Model love triangle. A young man must travel the world to open his mind, and surely a bit of fun, in moderation, would do him well on life’s journey. Still…

Best once said that “if I’d been born ugly, you’d have never heard of Pele.” I’m afraid that Junito’s playboy antics could overshadow his career, casting a spell over the trophies he wins for Madrid. While the skeptical eye may look beyond the fast cars, super model girlfriends, and designer clothes, I don’t want Junito to wind up an overweight 40 year old jogging around some U.S. American football stadium for a few dollars. Can Junito’s soccer brilliance transcend the material spoils of fame? Should it?

I still remember when Junito couldn’t even crawl – he was my precious little “saltamontes” that rolled around a lot, smiled, laughed, and required the frequent changing of diapers. It never dawned on me that as you get older, time actually speeds up. It never dawned on me that one day this little delightful ball of hair and flesh and bones and blood could possibly form a sentient human being. I remain his father, but my role has changed from diaper czar to papy to…to…to….pasajero. At some level, I can’t pick the ball off little Maldini and run 40 yards to score a goal. Only Junito can. At the most fundamental level, I can only sit back and watch. Umpf.

Here, at the age of 3, barely more than a decade from his first pre-pre contract-contract, I stare at the very real prospect that one day my saltamontes will say “adios papy” and jet off to Madrid or Mallorca for some summer preseason training. My role is to love, to guide, but….but….

The piropos, the love of fast cars, the amazing dribbling skills, the tenacious nose for goal, I feel like I’ve seen this all before. Junito ultimately drives his own destiny, but I fear I’m a passenger along on a ride with an uncertain destination…

“Adios mi amor…”

I started this concept as a tongue and cheek satire – in our society, at least America, we increasingly fetishize younger and younger athletes. The concept of “ESPNU” for people to oggle 18 year olds offends me on some level – and I have boldly predicted an “ESPN Grade School” within my lifetime. Will society be the better? Will childhood be sacrificed on the alter of hero worship? I don’t really know; II just thought I could get a cheap laugh.

But a funny thing happened – the series turned into a “Gleefully Proud/Daddy in Training” column. I began to share details about raising my son that generally stay in the annals of family history. On some level, individuals became more attached to Junito the child than Junito-the-future-greatest-player-for-Real-Madrid.

I stand at a crossroads and ask myself the question: is this healthy? And I stare in the mirror and answer: yes. Can you do the same? Have you pre-ordered your Junito Madrid jersey? Ahem.

But another, more startling development has tossed a wrench into this series. Junito, whom I dreamed would play for Real Madrid but realistically expected to perhaps get substitute minutes at Real Madrid Castilla, has actually shown a propensity for greatness. And, recently, a winning mentality….

Many of my friends in the “overeducated anglo saxon young professional” group hold very androgynous views of the genders. They assert that the two sexes only share differences based on societal assumptions and cultural indoctrination. They ascribe to Judith Butler’s theory that we “play the part of gender.” I have a bold suggestion to these individuals: reproduce. No, not this very instant. But soon. And if you are blessed with a baby boy and girl, you will see the difference.

Up until this point, my Hispanic chauvinistic male self has protected my daughter and the little lady from exposure on this blog. In part, this was because I wanted to protect the integrity of my traffic from misclicks for “gorgeous Nicaraguan females.” However, their roles in my life and Junito’s development as Real Madrid’s future-greatest-footballer have intertwined to the point where they must be described and explained. With tact, of course.

But first, the Junito update. Junito has entered into a period best described as a “dominate or be dominated” phase. Upon seeing other human beings, including myself, he pushes them and declares “Soy fuerte. Soy veloz.” When pushing his mother, Cristhian, he boldly proclaims “Soy veloz y no me alcanza usted.” For the non-Spanish speakers: “I am strong, I am fast, and you can’t catch me.”

I am, of course, elated. As I grow older and my physical parts slowly atrophy into gelatinous  couch cushions, I grow convinced that the mind must conquer the body. I regret not having pursued my own sporting interests more fully – yes, I did once earn a 5 game suspension in my high school hockey league for a vicious two handed stick slash, but could I have earned a 10 game ban? Probably.

So, when posed with Junito’s tenacity, how did I react? Disdain? Un regano? Playing possum? Nada que ver. I scooped Junito up with one swoop of my arm, rotated his torso vertically by 180 degrees, and methodically lifted and lowered him at a reasonable clip. Slightly different from the gol reward gesture. Why? Well – Junito laughed but also learnt an important lesson – Papa Bear is still Papa Bear.

Of course, the missus does not entirely understand such male bonding moments. When I crawl on all fours and challenge Junito to pushing contests, or vice versa, she scoffs at the fact I do not allow Junito to win. But, I reason, if I let him win – then what incentive is there to fight and improve? Will Patrick Vieira back down from a 50/50 ball from Junito into 10 years when he is still playing? I doubt it.

Still, despite Junitos’ garra, two problems concern me. First, Junito’s nationality. He can lay claim to both Mexico and Nicaragua, but…but…I have done some serious thinking on this. The thinking was prompted by a good friend of mine from the UK, who asked – what makes an American an American? Is it sunglasses? A convertible car? A leather jacket? Cynics point to these objects as material, tangible, shallow. However, I prefer to view them as representations of a concept, an attitude, an aura. Is the world a better place after the last presidency? I’m not sure. Is it a better place after the Fonz? I haven’t a doubt.

So yes, while I can lay claim to Mexicanage, I dub myself an American. In fact, when I renewed my deal with the folks at SoccerPro, I ordered an away United States World Cup jersey. Rumor has it that they also offer el tri World Cup jerseys. And granted, if Rafa Marquez had been fit or playing regularly, I may, I may have an considered an el tri purchase. But he does play for the wrong club team.

Thus, I want Junito to play for the United States. However, the vote is still up in the air.

The second problem is Junito’s penchant for, shall we say, “flight.” La fuga. Se esfuma. Yes. Junito runs away at every possible opportunity. After being spoiled by our lovely and mindful daughter Angie, the prospect of keeping tabs on a darting white lightning leaves Cristhian confused and perturbed. Why? Why did Junito run away from us at the Metrocentro mall’s comedor in Managua, leaving us both panting and scared out of our whits? Why? Why does Junito sprint out of the front door every time we sit on the porch and start a platica with vecinos?

From a future star forward for Real Madrid perspective, his explosive burst and elusiveness are fantastic traits. From a young parent angle, they are terrifying. Granted, every male in my family tree has been tied to a baby-leash at some point or another. Still, don’t let the charming smile fool you…

“…he could fugarse at any moment!!”

I am all smiles today and for one simple reason: this morning, Junito absolutely wanted nothing to do with the broom. Nope, he sprung out of bed, ran to the closet, picked out the soccer ball, and woke me via the traditional “ball hits head” approach. It’s much more effective than an alarm clock.

Perhaps as a young father, I overreacted to the ever slightly changing preferences of a toddler? Nevertheless, I speculate that the trip to the motherland helped reignite his passion to be Madrid’s greatest player. Plus, we got a little help from the Lazytown’s protagonist Sporticus. Junito saw this bastion of masculinity kicking a soccer ball and knew it was okay for half anglo saxons to play this sport, even though it only marginally involves butting shoulders and grabbing at other males. The Backyardigans also had a wicked and trippy soccer monster episode.

My initial reaction was obviously warm and streaming tears of joy. I immediately thought – there is a Jesus, he loves me, and he guides Junito inexorably towards Real Madrid greatness. Or something like that. Plus, on top of Junito’s first career resurrection, during a vicious short side game, Junito landed his first proper tackle. Am I dreaming? Don’t wake me up!

We were kicking around, along with my four year old aspiring doctor daughter, Angie, when suddenly the game switched to keep away. Angie, who has a serious height advantage, used all of her weight to shield off and taunt Junito. Did Junito let his guard down? Did Junito give up and go crying to mommy? Nein.

Instead, Junito backed off, regained his balance, and anticipated Angie’s dribble. He then got stuck in magnificently, knocking away the ball and sending Angie into a fall-less stumble. Don’t worry, neither child was hurt. But Junito is a striker, you recall. A striker getting stuck in? Exactly.

The modern game, with goalscoring centerbacks and galloping wingbacks, requires a collective commitment to defense. I am not teaching him the dark art of the catenaccio…yet. Basically, Junito needs to drop back to support the midfield and suck forward the opposition’s defensive line. And picking a few pockets from time-to-time should boost his goalscoring stats.

While the modern club game has a fluid aspect, one cold, hard, black & white question remains: which national team will call Junito captain? Right now, he has a claim to three different sides, all with pros and cons. Nicaragua did quality for the last Gold Cup, but the World Cup is a long shot. And while I love George Best, I don’t want Junito to supplant him as the greatest player never to play on the sport’s biggest stage.

Mexico and the US, thus, are the prime candidates. And I’m sure Junito will add some picante seasoning to the already steaming rivalry. I’ve already taught him the art of the bilingual trashtalk, whereby you say awful things to the opposition in one language and feign ignorance to the ref in another. But regardless of which team he plays for, Junito seems destined to face a Madin Mohammad-led France in the final.

The kid has a lot of talent:

Despite mad footskills, some questions pop into my head. The most glaring issue is his character. They say the apple does not fall far from the tree, and what parents would have the utter lack of tact to put videos of their child on Youtube? At least have the common decency to use Vimeo or Rutube.

Also, and more importantly, I believe in respecting the opponent without putting them on a pedestal. Positive visualization is crucial, so whenever I get anxious about the inevitable Junito-Madin showdown, I think of this image…

The game: World Cup Final. The location: Mexico City, Mexico. The score: 0-0. The time on the clock: 76th minute. The US/Mexico gets a corner kick which Junito nods but tragically hits off the post. Raymond Domenech, still the France coach, screams for a counter. The ball is swiftly played to Madin in space, courtesy of a lovely weighted ball from Lilian Thuram’s grandson, known as Lilianito.

The crowd stands on their feet, puts away their toothbrushes, and anticipates brilliance. Madin takes a touch, lifts his head, and then, crack, the sound of bones crunching echoes throughout the stadium. Roy Keane, watching from home, turns his head away from the television in disgust. The commentators drop their jaws in disbelief.

Junito has just broken Madin’s metatarsal, ACL, and hip flexor in one double-studs up moment of insane beauty.

The crowd holds a collective silence as Madin is carted off the field on a stretcher, his vital signs weak. Junito is blue carded (a double red in 21st century FIFA rules) and sent to an early shower. As he walks to the tunnel, a cascade of boos showers over him, but Junito, of Aztec warrior blood, defiant as a Cuauhtemoc Blanco, knows about human sacrifice and smiles as he marches. He faces a mere lifetime ban, and with 21st century implanted robotrotic legs, he’ll be back on the field for the 2210 World Cup. A blink of an  eye.

On the sideline, Raymond Domenech loses his mind. More so. He has already used his three changes, subbing on David Terezeguet, then subbing him off, and then subbing him back on again. Despite the man advantage, the US/Mexico does not exactly dominate but does hold on until spotkicks. David Terezeguet clangs his shot off the post, and…

Well, you get the picture. I also want your input on which side Junito should call his own.