VIEW FROM THE PIER
by
Herman Sillas
Every Thanksgiving, our families with children gather at Phil and Karen’s house in San Clemente. Phil, our son, and Karen, his beautiful wife, are great hosts. Also, joining us over the years have been Karen’s family. It is a time we all look forward to. But the day after Thanksgiving is our fun day. First, comes the fishing tournament at the pier in the morning. Following brunch at Phil and Karen’s house, is our annual basketball game between the Sillases and Karen’s family. We lost again this year.
Now added to the day’s activities over the last six years is a soccer game. Our daughter, Monica, and her husband, Oscar, serve as captains with each choosing a team from members of both families. I’m always the last player chosen, but my ego can handle that. This year, Monica assigned me to be goalie. All I had to do was block the ball from entering the net. How hard can that be? Each team had about eleven players ranging in age from three to the fifties, excluding me. Don’t ask me my age. The game started and within minutes Andre, a grandson, kicked the ball in the air toward me. I stood and watched it sail over my head . . . . into the net. I was sick. I let my team down. My body had remained motionless. The game continued and another kick came my way. This one was low. I couldn’t bend over to block it. They scored again, two to zero.
Then my competitive nature kicked in! I don’t like to lose. Other balls came my way, but I blocked them. My teammates cheered. Then I caught a few would-be-goals and strutted in front of the goal yelling, “You can’t score any more.” I decided to kick the ball and felt as if my leg had gone in the air with the ball. Then a low ball came toward the goal. My body fell in slow motion on the ball and stopped it. I laughed at my slowness. So did everybody else. I couldn’t get up by myself. Two teammates helped me stand. We laughed so hard we could hardly control ourselves. Then I yelled at my team, telling them I was tired of carrying them and for them to score. They did. Darkness ended the game. We lost two to one.
As I approached the sidelines everyone started yelling “MVP, MVP” and pointed to me. They told me how they were amazed at my ability to defend the goal and marveled over my catching balls. I shrugged my shoulders, all in a day’s work. I felt good about all the slaps on the back and concluded maybe I was the MVP! When we returned to Phil’s house for dinner and dancing that evening, I proudly told Cora of my unofficial award.
“I told you not to play,” she said unimpressed with the MVP honor.
“You think I’m too old?” I asked. She didn’t answer.
My answer came the next day. For two weeks my legs reminded me of my age. They were sore from the ankle to my hips. Each step I took was a reminder.
Next year, Cora will tell me not to play again. She will convince the children to suggest I be the referee instead of playing goalie. But in spite of their efforts, I’m going to seek the goalie position again. One of the nice things of old age is that we forget a lot. The pain in my legs is now gone. All that remains now from this year’s game is the memory of the sweet ringing in my ears of “MVP, MYP.” No referee ever gets to be MVP.
That’s the view from the pier
***30***
(Sillas, a San Clemente resident and L.A. attorney can be found most weekend mornings fishing on the pier. He can be reached at sillasla@aol.com)
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