Following the news at seven, to this day, is the most consistent habit I carried in my youth. The sense of importance covering details with my quiet, mustached dad; I aspired to his patience. I picture him in our apartment, four-person round table, the open seat offering view of the television. I stood miles away from my dad, surrounded by a high school rugby club instead, when my coach somberly shared Boston faced a terrorist attack.
Inwardly, I felt a pang of discomfort unsettle my stomach, a common symptom of guilt. How could I ride in a bus to Barcelona, up at all hours of the night, my heart on the senior who would invite me to prom, my mind plagued black with homesickness, and my body adolescent and in-training while my city faced danger? A dissonance resounds because I chase after her, like a knock-on. My fear translated to the skill of tackles. Bruce often pulled me aside after, to encourage my play – gauge my fatigue, or just to banter. I felt confident in many aspects of the game, but somehow thought of physical contact excited me, but stood a real scare. Maybe my prom date noticed, it might explain her teasing, heckling at times, humor. The breakfast buffet and big appetite served as a façade. Still, I could not grapple with the reality of passion and action; fervor took a sophomore to Sevilla for sport, as it led two college kids to martyrdom. Regretfully, the tourist I am did not blossom ‘til later. Much of these high school moments of mischief – clubs are open to young adults much earlier than in the States – went unrecorded. Pictures cannot capture the past; they live in the moment. Maybe the time to make my impressions felt comes, as life goes. The visible history becomes palpable if I tackle it.
Perhaps the most frustrating of weaknesses, the blue piggy bank remains my greatest asset. I wonder how many bills it would take to clear this student’s debt load today, or the nation’s. Upon a precipice piled high, sits the deficit, though former President Barack Obama averted some crisis January 2nd, 2013, with a bill steering clear of a ‘fiscal cliff’, but if fortune would smile again felt uncertain. Certainly, a wry grin I imagine crossed Zimmerman’s face July 13th, when found not guilty of his own terror – the 2012 shooting death of Trayvon Martin. To record time immemorial, I embrace an unpleasant familiarity – wrapping up and tumbling down with the ball carrier – rather than sidestep the obstacle, as my character wishes. Poor boy, the only treasures he possesses are gems, ruby and sapphire, symbols of passion and honesty with which to claim his precious past.
