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, practicing, or not.
My mind idles. A tormenting itch reminds me of the bites on my leg.
I try to distract myself. I look back to the girl on her enclave. The court sits beside the Plaza de la Cooperation. Two days ago, I walked along the tree-lined Plaza, unaware of its existence. I came to the end of the block where a path diagonaled toward me. It led straight to his eyes. Massive, dark eyes emblazoned with ferocious emotion. Determination, passion, hate or inspiration. I could not tell what the eyes were saying. Unlike the girl’s gesture, the man’s gaze was anything but ambiguous.
They startled me, I knew those eyes. I knew the lone starred beret they sat beneath. El Che. The heroic hell-raiser. The revolutionary. I was sure it was him. I had seen his face countless times on T-shirts worn by granola college students and urban hipsters. They clad themselves in worship of El Che.
I thought back to a movie I saw while in college about Guevara’s travels through South America. His journey, particularly through rural Chile, opened his eyes to the poverty of the world, inspiring him to renounce capitalism and set upon a trailblazing path of social revolution.
Che Guevara was born in Rosario. I have walked the streets of his childhood. The Parana River, and the Avenue San Martin. I looked toward the eyes, asking myself if I liked Guevara – was supposed to like him. Culture, and the granola hipsters, told me empathetically, yes. American History, relations with Cuba, hinted toward no. I felt incapacitated to judge. I looked away from the eyes.
Slightly unnerved yet distracted from my itchy torment, I looked toward a closed book that lay beside me on the bed. Unbroken by Laura Hillebrand. I had read it from cover to cover, imbibed by the riveting tale of Olympian and World War 2 Veteran Louie Zamprini.
Zamprini, a prolific miler, possessed a rebellious spirit. A spirit willing to confront and defy the insurmountable odds stacked against him; his life a testament to the unbroken, defiant spirit of man.
I thought back to the eyes. I wondered if Zamprini’s eyes shined; did they shine when he ran, when he talked to his brother Pete or when he faced his tormentor, the Bird.
I thought of recent rebellion, the Egyptians in Tahrir Square. I wondered if the spirit of their defiance emanated from their eyes.
I thought of humanity, and the rebellious, powerful spirit that lives inside each of us.
I thought of the evening that lay ahead of me. The final of the four nation tournament.
USA against Argentina.
I thought of the history of the match-up. Had I ever beaten the Argentines on their home soil?
No.
I thought of the eyes and the rebellious spirit that lives inside each of us.
Tonight, will our eyes shine? Will we tap into that spirit and rebel in Rosario; in the home of the man who branded himself the icon of revolution, Che Guevara.
My eyes burned, my leg itched. I put on my uniform, and left for the game.
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, practicing, or not.
My mind idles. A tormenting itch reminds me of the bites on my leg.
I try to distract myself. I look back to the girl on her enclave. The court sits beside the Plaza de la Cooperation. Two days ago, I walked along the tree-lined Plaza, unaware of its existence. I came to the end of the block where a path diagonaled toward me. It led straight to his eyes. Massive, dark eyes emblazoned with ferocious emotion. Determination, passion, hate or inspiration. I could not tell what the eyes were saying. Unlike the girl’s gesture, the man’s gaze was anything but ambiguous.
They startled me, I knew those eyes. I knew the lone starred beret they sat beneath. El Che. The heroic hell-raiser. The revolutionary. I was sure it was him. I had seen his face countless times on T-shirts worn by granola college students and urban hipsters. They clad themselves in worship of El Che.
I thought back to a movie I saw while in college about Guevara’s travels through South America. His journey, particularly through rural Chile, opened his eyes to the poverty of the world, inspiring him to renounce capitalism and set upon a trailblazing path of social revolution.
Che Guevara was born in Rosario. I have walked the streets of his childhood. The Parana River, and the Avenue San Martin. I looked toward the eyes, asking myself if I liked Guevara – was supposed to like him. Culture, and the granola hipsters, told me empathetically, yes. American History, relations with Cuba, hinted toward no. I felt incapacitated to judge. I looked away from the eyes.
Slightly unnerved yet distracted from my itchy torment, I looked toward a closed book that lay beside me on the bed. Unbroken by Laura Hillebrand. I had read it from cover to cover, imbibed by the riveting tale of Olympian and World War 2 Veteran Louie Zamprini.
Zamprini, a prolific miler, possessed a rebellious spirit. A spirit willing to confront and defy the insurmountable odds stacked against him; his life a testament to the unbroken, defiant spirit of man.
I thought back to the eyes. I wondered if Zamprini’s eyes shined; did they shine when he ran, when he talked to his brother Pete or when he faced his tormentor, the Bird.
I thought of recent rebellion, the Egyptians in Tahrir Square. I wondered if the spirit of their defiance emanated from their eyes.
I thought of humanity, and the rebellious, powerful spirit that lives inside each of us.
I thought of the evening that lay ahead of me. The final of the four nation tournament.
USA against Argentina.
I thought of the history of the match-up. Had I ever beaten the Argentines on their home soil?
No.
I thought of the eyes and the rebellious spirit that lives inside each of us.
Tonight, will our eyes shine? Will we tap into that spirit and rebel in Rosario; in the home of the man who branded himself the icon of revolution, Che Guevara.
My eyes burned, my leg itched. I put on my uniform, and left for the game.
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