The Athlete Way

I sit in the Ros Tower on Mitre Avenue, Sante Fe, Rosairo, Argentina. The air is thick with rain. The midday sky is vacant. The sun has faded. Mosquitos have laid claim to my legs. The flesh of my left calf is marked with 18 bites. The American blood must be sweet, a treat to my South American tormentors. I sit on the perch of my bed beside a window. The window has a ninth floor view. My eyes peer thru a forest of decrepit, sun-worn, Rosarian buildings. I spot a clearing amongst the forest, a small enclave painted with white lines, decorated with a net and two goals. At the center of the enclave, a small dark-skinned girl in a pink shirt hits a tennis ball over the net to a man in white. The man, presumably her coach, her father or brother, tosses ball after ball at her. She stands ready. He throws, she returns. He throws, she returns. His stash of balls runs dry. She waits by the net, twirling the racket idly. It is an ambiguous gesture. I cannot tell if she wants to be there, pr...

It was 2:30 am on February 14. Another Valentine’s Day in Argentina. Honestly, I have lost count of how many we have spent here. Two, definitely. I remember the single roses gifted to us from Doc Higgins. There have been two roses, for sure. It starts to get blurry at about three. An endless summer night had welcomed this Valentine’s Day. At 2:30am my roommate and I were finally folding back the covers of our single beds. It would be our final night in the charming room at the boutique Hotel Huentala in Mendoza, Argentina. A warm, early morning breeze blew thru the open balcony door. On the balcony, a drenched battle worn red uniform fluttered in the wind. It was unlikely that the uniform would dry during what would be a short slumber. In four hours we were due to rise, break the fast, pack the luggage and depart. We would take a bus to the airport, a plane to Buenos Aires, and ride another bus 4 hours through Argentine farmland to a hotel in Rosario. Once in Rosario, we wo...

Expression of Form or Form of Expression? A Sweet Robot. A Play on the Ground City Lights. American Hero in Argentina Sun-lit Lamp Post.

My forehead lay magnetized to the ground. My arms extended forward, above my head, along the earth. Through the tips of openly spread fingers, I reached for a gain, any infinitesimal gain, in space. It was Friday. The week had been long, its events had transpired in a whirlwind. Only much different than a whirlwind, for it had not sent me on an aimless journey in the wind, this whirlwind had rooted me in the ground. It had rooted me in the realities of a long, seemingly never-ending week. A week with no finish lines. A powerful encounter with the Navy Seals. The passing of my Grandfather. An impromptu trip across America to say good-bye. An apathetic team performance . Moving house. Departing for Argentina. By Friday at 10am, such powerful happenings had caste me into a profound fog. It was not a mystical fog, the one that hovers between the treetops in the land of fairies. It was the type of fog that reaches deep into the core of the earth, and the only way we know it exists is ...