The Ash Creek Papers

Have you ever wondered why the rest of the sporting world plays a ball game with their feet and we don’t… well that’s not exactly true… we’re learning.

But you know what I mean. Maybe it goes back to the Founding Fathers? Isn’t that what we usually attribute stuff to? Maybe it’s a Constitutional issue… there is something buried there that says playing “footsy” with a ball is unconstitutional… it’s un-American. It violates our sense of independence, pioneering spirit and our commitment to Democracy.

And then there are the whispers that it is “un-manly.” Besides, it’s plain foreign!

The fact remains that in any village or city on this planet Earth, look for 8 year olds at play (boys in particular)… odds are they are kicking a ball against a wall, practicing “juggling” the ball with their feet, and if there is friend or two, one is put into an imaginary goal… let the games begin!

In any village or city outside the United States, that is. In this Country? More often than not, the same scenario: boys at play… and the ball is being thrown against the wall, or guys are working on their cross over dribble (with a basketball, not a soccer ball).

Dribbling with either hand becomes a second nature skill to our kids… dribbling with either foot becomes a second nature skill to the rest of the world.

Is it any wonder that we are behind in the sport that the rest of the world calls “Football”? But what we call “Soccer.”

Every four years, the World comes to a standstill for the World Cup. 32 Teams that have gone thru all the pre-qualifying rounds represent Nations from all the inhabited Continents (they haven’t taught polar bears and penguins to kick a ball yet… when they do, my money’s going on the polar bears). To even make it to the tournament is an honor (sort of like being nominated for an Academy Award).

And then its Nation against Nation. That’s the way it appears. Fans in the stands waving huge banners, faces and bodies painted in the appropriate team colours, songs being chanted… cheers and shouts of glory for goal scoring and the countering jeers and accusatory fingers being pointed by the not-so-loyal opposition.

There is much at stake… National honor being primary. One would think that the losing teams (and their fans) had to return to fill out “hard time” in prison or something. There was a case of a goalie, who gave up an unfortunate goal, returned home to be murdered by an enthusiastic fan (if the killer was ever caught he probably would have gotten off… you know, a crime of passion… easy to accept).

So perhaps its understandable when a player is tripped on the field (which is surely a foul, if the defender didn’t touch the ball first), he will writhe in pain as if he had been struck by shrapnel from a claymore mine… the histrionics are for the benefit of the referee, perchance he didn’t see the foul, or if he did, to coax a “yellow card”, or even better, a “red card” from his pocket.

Of course this brings the partisans fans, of either side, to come to their feet to shout, hoot & threaten the opposition… and of course the “man with the whistle.”

I guess this obnoxious display is supposed to be exciting.

Forgive me… is this an athletic contest, or is someone auditioning for the Yale School of Drama?

As Zack has pointed out… a hitter in baseball gets drilled in the ribs with a 95mph fastball, or a wide receiver in football gets nailed chest high by a crossing 200lb safety… and these guys shake it off, not wanting the other side to think they have been hurt.

Still, there is no denying that soccer players have to be some of the best-conditioned athletes anywhere. And to see a well co-ordinated attacking team move the ball with crisp well placed passes — a midfielder deftly moving the ball thru a defender, then finding a streaking wing, putting the ball to his strong foot, in stride, as he is hitting the box, the wing then sending a laser shot to the far corner into the twine. Goal!!

Well… I guess that’s soccer at its best. And maybe you get it once in 90 minutes. Is it worth enduring the other 89 minutes? If the goal scorer is wearing a jersey that matches your face paint, I suppose so…

This is the World Cup… it happens once every four years (like the Olympics)… but unlike the Olympics which opens its competition to all Nations with fewer qualifications, the 32 contesting teams who have made it to soccer’s main stage warrant fan support.

Even for us Yanks. Even if we are below the premier level in the sport… it’s time to tune into the game when our team is involved. And the U.S. made this year’s party. Each team is assured of competing in 3 matches in the first round of play.

This year the American team faced off against the Czech Republic, Italy & Ghana. I was able to watch the first and third games over at my “second” Office (for those of you not in the know… that’s the Ash Creek Saloon).

There may have been other watering holes that attracted more of a soccer crowd… and afterall, the games were taking place during the day (two of them on “work days”) & not during the evening when fans can enjoy the camaraderie of following the fortunes of their favorite team, exchanging some insightful observations & downing a few brews.

But there, John, Ash and myself (aided by Sean for the Ghana match) cheered on the American team. Ash and John born & raised in Cape Town, had a background in the sport, although their sporting taste today is completely American… which is to say Football, Basketball & Baseball (in that order).

And when Reyna’s header hit the post in the match against the Czech’s we jumped up from our stools in anticipation of the goal. It was the closest the American’s got… a game where you had to wonder about the hype about how good we were.

I didn’t see the match against Italy.

The match against Ghana was disappointing. After the Yanks had tied it at one, the referee awarded a penalty kick to the Ghanaians… a call that was dubious to say the least & after the penalty kick was successful, the starch came out of our sails.

Sure… it would have been fun to see the U.S. advance into the next round. But I guess I am still of the mind that it was good to get to the tournament in the first place… and not advancing doesn’t sting the way getting beat in basketball or baseball does…

Aye, there is the rub. We are getting beat at our own games!

I think that for next World Cup it will be time for us to turn the tables on the world! Yeah, we’ll open a can of “whup ass” on the world. Brazil and the rest of them better watch out… the Yanks are coming!

I travel on Route 8 twice a day… in the morning coming either from Derby or Woodbury, and my return in the evening from Norwalk. Ride a road every day and you get to know the ups & the downs, the curves and where the gendarmes lay in ambush.

The landscape and sights become familiar, too. And the stretch just South of Seymour (Exit 13) running to the Merritt Parkway is just a pretty piece of road. No homes or commercial strips can be seen from the road… just thick stacks of trees and rock formations that line either side of the lanes and fill the generous grass covered island that separates the Northbound from the Southbound.

It’s a fast road, too. Great lines of sight. A joy to drive. Particularly if you’re looking to get from point “A” to “B” in a hurry. Just like I was this morning.

But even in a hurry I had to pause to notice something. It was a timing thing. It was early in the morning and I was cruising in the porsche, making 80mph, headed South on 8… That is the pace of the traffic at that hour, by the by… lotta vans, small trucks and cars intent on getting there quickly.

I reached a point in the road, a clear straight away, some two miles North of the Merritt when I first took notice of the evidence of the sun. From that spot the sun itself was well below tree level; but ahead I could see the deep green of the tree tops being touched by the sun…

It appeared like only select leaves were being lit by the new day; the rest of the landscape remained in early morning shade. As I approached I could now see the effect of the sun’s powerful path as it reflected on the windows, side mirrors and chrome of the vehicles ahead.

Then it happened… Route 8 briefly alters its Southward course, and pivots to the West putting the sun, now breaking up from the tree line in the East, squarely in my rear window. It was blinding. The entire road exploded in its light. A yellow glow that had a remarkable blue morning cast.

It’s 5:27AM on June 12. I was in perfect position, on a perfect length of road, to greet the new day… soaked in the sun, seconds either way and I would have missed it.

Sometimes you get lucky. Timing is a tricky thing, you know. Ask the architects of Stonehenge how hard it is to plan on the movement of sun and moon.

But I tell you what… come June 12, 2007 @ 5:27AM (give or take 15 seconds), I know where I’ll be.

Have you ever been to a quiet place? A place where the houses are set far apart… and maybe you can’t even see the next house. It might be a place where air conditioning is not in vogue. And on a warm summer’s night the windows open to a medley of outdoor sounds. Chirps & squeaks of crickets and cicadas create a “wall of sound” that can match the “buzz” of any nighttime New York City street.

On one level, it is simply a blend of sound… on another there are specific sounds that can be picked out… like a single spice in a particular sauce… or a single instrument in an orchestra.

You don’t have to be in the “country” on an August night, or on the Upper East Side in Manhattan to experience the buzz. Stop into Ash Creek Saloon on a Thursday evening… pick a cozy stool and listen… listen to the buzz.

On the way in I give a quick “hi” to Red (he is stationed at his usual roost, on the “goal line”), and then I move at flank speed to a stool that will give me an advantageous view of the Yankee game that is in progress on the big screen.

Sean and Nicole are patrolling the business side of the bar… theirs are the first voices I pick out and respond to. It’s a busy night and Nicole has my Wild Turkey Rye in front of me before I say a word… “Hiya Jim, nice to see ya…” And she is off to mixing serious shots for a clutch of folks at the other end.

Then Sean moves thru, seeing that Nicole had covered my beverage need, merely thrusts his hand in greeting, “Hello Seamus!”

No other person calls me Seamus… and I must say, I look forward to the greeting. I feel like I have been accepted! I love it! Yeah, Seamus… it works.

Whisky in front of me… the Yankees at bat, drubbing the Devil Rays to the tune of 10 – 5, I can ease back on the throttle. The sound of the TV is turned off in lieu of music… and it is the sound of music that I hear next… not The Sound of Music; but Dire Straits The Sultan of Swing. Yes, I like that.

Bits and pieces of conversation surround me. It could be 3 or 4 people, maybe more… maybe just two. I think the technical term is a “talking unit”. And in rare cases, it’s just one patron. Be advised: folks talking to themselves at a bar should be given wide berth… they maybe in a work-release program, or maybe worse.

There’s pleasant chatter, an occasional laugh that raises above the din… but the over all sound is no different than the outdoor symphony heard on a hot August night in the hinterland.

No need to focus on the specific voice, or phrase… it’s good enough to get lost in the texture of various pitches and melodies.

The buzz.

And on this night, at least… nothing mean spirited.

Next song… Up On Cripple Creek, The Band. Too bad Zack’s not here… it’s one of his favorites.

Uh oh… shmuck alert. A member of the pod to the left punctuates his remarks with an accusatory point of the finger. His voice is like picking out the oboe in Rhapsody in Blue (I think he was complaining about a “Mars/Venus” issue). I glance over, “Venus”, to his immediate right does not look too happy. I could be wrong on this, but I don’t think he is getting “any” tonight. Luckily he has to “hit the head”, and the peaceful buzz resumes.

Sean returns. “Seamus, are you ready?” He has correctly assessed that my beaker of Rye is at the dangerously low level. I nod my gratitude.

It’s been a long day, in a string of long days. I spend nearly my entire day talking to folks… talking to folks about wine (which is what I sell) why a certain Spanish Red from Ribera del Guadiana is best thing since Mother’s milk (don’t ask me what that tastes like, it’s been a while since I’ve had it). I talk, talk, talk… specific words, specific conversations… totally focused one to one.

It’s nice to melt into the buzz, to get lost in the comfortable, non-focused sounds in a hospitable place… nothing untoward (now that the shmuck is in the john). Songs kick over, some noticed, some not.

Nicole drifts this way. She bears a pint of Bass for a patron to my left. He nods appreciatively probably more for Nicole’s admirable cleavage than the ale.

I guess it’s pretty much the same, isn’t it? The wind moving thru a stand of Birch trees… taxis honking and jostling 10 floors below, or the sweet hum of voices and music in Ash Creek Saloon.

It’s just a buzz.