A Challenge
I'm flipping through t.v. channels, desperate for a sign of intelligence, when I stumble on one of those commercial-free presentations of MLS soccer. The game is between the L.A. Galaxy and the New England Revolution. The Galaxy is a superior team on every front. How do I know? Because I was heavy into soccer and learned that players from anywhere but my home town are good-for-nothing bums.
The match was nearing its end. The L.A. Galaxy was ahead 4-0. If you are unfamiliar with the game, a 4-0 lead in soccer is equivalent to a 62-run lead in baseball. Or 10-of-a-kind in poker. Then I saw my old friend, Cobi Jones. Cobi. Local boy makes good on global circuit, earns himself a national spotlight. I had already seen Cobi's picture in the grocery store, the book store, on television, and most recently in the form of an action figure doll at a soccer outlet.
Oh. Are you listening? I'm sorry. I used to play soccer with Cobi Jones. We ran together for five seasons when were kids, both of us halfbacks. Cobi was on the team because he was a robust athlete; I was on the team because my dad was the assistant coach. Our team toured Europe, competing in Sweden's Göthia Cup. When you're 14 years old, it's pretty cool to play in any cup with an umlaut in it. That's when Cobi started to see a lot more playing time and I got used to watching from the bench. Mine was a bona fide bench-warming butt.
At that time, no one considered Cobi a superstar. He was just a friend. He was the guy who used to play on the swings with his cousin, Cori, and myself.
He was the guy who used to laugh so hard when he got a breakaway that he could hardly finish it off. He is the guy whose hair we decorated with moistened Gummy Bears when he fell asleep at night.
Looking back, I can see what set Cobi apart from the pack. It was his will to win. No matter how fast his competitor, Cobi would always win the footrace by a half a step. No one knew how fast Cobi was. He was always just fast enough to beat the runner-up.
Now Cobi's claim to fame is that he is an internationally recognized soccer player, an asset coveted by coaches the world over. And my claim to fame is that I used to know him.
Back to the television. With one minute left in the game, the New England Revolution were ready to cry uncle when Cobi tapped in his third goal of the game --another hat trick. His teammates piled on top of him while Cobi's dreadlocks blew in the triumphant wind that had become his destiny. The announcer tried to convey how great this Cobi kid was and what kind of future he had in front of him. I wondered how many dates he got in a typical week. He just couldn't grow up to be a car dealer, could he? He had to go become an international sports icon.
Mr. and Mrs. Jones -- and you know who you are -- could you please deliver a request to your son on behalf of that undersized blonde kid who used to bleed in your pool? Please tell him enough already. He's making me look bad. He's an action figure doll, for crying out loud. He has scored hat tricks in front of national audiences, played in the World Cup and in all-star games, appeared on highlight films on ESPN . . . From one adult to another, it is growing difficult to be happy for him. I could be happy for an old friend to play professional ball, but to retire on Mount Olympus?
Better yet, let Cobi know that I challenge him to a footrace. Scratch that. What am I thinking? I challenge him to a game of tennis . . . No, gin rummy . . . Wait a minute. I challenge Cobi to a game of Simpsons trivia. Then we'll see who's on top of the world. We'll see who laughs last. I'll make him look foolish. FOOLISH, I say . . . Ha ha ha ha ha
