The WAG

Saturday night. We’re in our back yard, using our new patio furniture. We’ve bought Bianca a leash and a harness; even so, she refuses to join us outside. …

Aaaannnddd now we’re inside. We missed Bianca too much to stay apart from her. Also, it’s warmer in here.

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You should come to watch your bf play soccer, I tell Edoarda. You probably don’t realize how good he is. Stephen is very, very good.

Absentmindedly she replies: I think somebody told me that.

I’m not that good, says Stephen.

Don’t listen to him, I tell Edoarda. Stephen is truly excellent.

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Easter Sunday. Extravagant breakfast at the church; then, pickup soccer from 2:00 to 4:30. Edoarda goes with us. The sole WAG, she watches from the bench, the sun beating down on her. Stephen and I play quite well, but this doesn’t alleviate Edoarda’s misery. Did you see my golazos?, I ask. Uh huh, she murmurs. With my toe I arch a lovely assist to the male Sabby (I’ve gone back to wearing Venus shoes instead of cleats, and, once again, my touch is beautifully precise). I turn toward the bench: Did you see that pass? Uh huh, says Edoarda.

There’s nothing to do but sit, she says.

Well, that’s how it is, watching soccer.

Afterward, driving home, Stephen turns to Edoarda: Did you like how we played? Yes, Edoarda smiles. I did.

Lame

Foot pain has been preventing me from running. I’ve ordered a new pair of shoes: until they arrive, I’ll sit back and rest. Which is to say, I won’t get any rest, because all the while I’ll feel antsy.

Because of the foot pain, whenever I go on errands I walk with a ridiculous limp.

On Sunday I was jaywalking with Stephen. “Let’s cross here,” he said. “All right,” I said. And when we were halfway across the road, a car loomed up and I had to limp with double speed.

Yesterday I rode the bus to Walmart and then limped over to Great Clips for a haircut. The stylist had plenty of piercings and tattoos, and her manner was aggressive. I felt obliged to pretend to be a badass.

“Cut it very short,” I said.

“You do realize,” she said, “when it grows out, it’ll stick up in the back.”

“Honestly I don’t even care,” I said.

“You don’t like to get your hair cut, do you,” she said.

“No, I don’t,” I said.

“When was the last time — eight months ago?” she said.

“Five and a half,” I said. Bam.

Admiringly she said: “Your hair grows really fast. You’re really healthy.” I said: “You mean, like, I don’t have cancer.”

She was amused by that.

When it was done she said I looked like a different person. I asked whether that was a good or a bad thing. “Well, I enjoy the shock value,” she said. “I will, too,” I said.

“See you in six months,” she said. “If I come back at all,” I said. Bam.

I have no idea how to do nice, normal smalltalk.

Kenny asked which stylist it was. He knew her. I told him about the conversation. He said I should ask her for a date. Kenny is always telling me to ask people for a date. But I don’t want to go on a date.

Kenny’s mom told me I need to drive a car: if I won’t drive a car, I won’t get a wife. You make a good point, I said. Kenny’s mom told me she’d pray for me to get a wife. I told her I’d appreciate that prayer. I’d appreciate any prayer on my behalf, including that one.

Romaniacs, pt. 862: The twins (and their father)

This was how they looked in 2006:

And in 2012 the twins are in middle school, more bashful, more aware of boys. Their openness is gone. Now they stare downward, hair veiling their eyes.

As usual, I give them unsolicited advice:

“When a boy likes you, be nice to him.”

They look up shyly and smile.

(The advice is from the heart, but upon reflection seems incomplete. Perhaps I should have said: “Be nice to the boy — provided he’s not deluded, or narcissistic, or a non-Christian …”)

(Or maybe such provisos are too complicated, or beside the point. Maybe the most effective principle really is, simply, Be Nice.)

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I’ve known these friends since they were infants. They used to be wild but submissive; now they’re quiet but rebellious. Their father suffers constant rejection from them. He bears it cheerfully enough. What could he still teach to such full-minded creatures? They will no longer listen to him: in writing they inform him, “Your pounts are erelivent, your judgmints are too.” What a handicap for a philosopher, to be disarmed of his points and judgments! It would appear that his only recourse is to love.

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We go into a green-carpeted warehouse. This is where the Hispanic girls have their soccer league; the twins (Romaniacs) play for one of the teams. The style of play is pinball. The league’s purpose is to teach girls not to fear the ball, not to shirk from getting blasted in the face. (This happens again and again.)

I am unimpressed. As the twins’ father and I recline in our chairs and watch the bloodbath, I mention girls’ concussion rates. I mention the superior youth training at F.C. Barcelona. He shrugs it all off. Are my points irrelevant? And are my judgments, too?

Better to discuss my friend’s research on forgiveness. Forgiveness is what he thinks about now. This, finally, is worth prioritizing: what forgiveness is, what a forgiving person is. Not what dating is, or debating: those pursuits may have some value, but the fact is, people are alienated from each other more than they realize. Forgiveness must be cultivated first.