The Celebration
One week ago at 7:00 AM CST a black limousine arrived at my condo to whisk me away in celebration of Ponderings one-year anniversary. Sadly, Lisa couldn’t join me because of work responsibilities, or at least that’s what she claimed
“Who was in the limousine?” you ask. None other than my close friend Sepp Blatter. Sepp, for those of you who don’t keep up with international soccer scandals, was the head of FIFA (Federation International Football Association) from 1998 to 2015. Sepp got himself in a little hot water over things like bribery, money laundering blah, blah, blah. All I know is one day I got a phone call from Sepp’s assistant Helga, who asked, “Are you the author of “Playing Abroad” from Rob Harrington’s very excellent “Ponderings from the Pitch”?
“Yes, I am.”
“Well, my boss Sepp Blatter wants to meet you; he thinks you’re the cat’s pajamas.”
That’s how it started. Since then, Sepp and I have been texting and facetiming regularly. Sepp is very into Tik Tok and likes to show me all his new dance routines.
The limo ride was awesome. It was as if Sepp and I were old friends and before I knew it we were playing that game where one person puts his hands on the other person’s hands and the person whose hands are on the bottom tries to slap the top person’s hands. I must say, Sepp has incredibly quick hands.
We headed straight for the airport and caught a direct flight to Sao Paulo, Brazil to meet Edson Arantes do Nascimento, that’s soccer God Pele for those of you who don’t speak futbol, for coffee. Pele and I got started corresponding after I wrote “The Lunchbox.” Apparently, Pele has been scouring the Internet for years looking for a Pele lunchbox. He contacted me on Facebook and a few days later we were Zoom calling and comparing our playing careers. I told him about my game-winning goal in the 1986 Wisconsin State High School Semi-Final and he told me about winning four World Cups and scoring over 1,000 goals. He made a few tentative offers for my lunchbox but I changed the topic to the poetry of Charles Simic – of whom we’re both big fans.
Pumped up on coffee, Pele, Sepp and I hopped a train to Buenos Aires. It had a sleeping cabin but only two beds. (Sepp, by the way, is a real blanket hog.) Upon arrival, and after paying our respects to the memory of Diego Maradona, we shared Malbec and Empanadas with El Flaco (The Thin One), aka Cesar Menotti, former Argentinian National team manager during their 1978 World Cup run. He told me he really enjoyed reading, “Bunnies and Gurus” and had wanted to meet me. Gripping each other’s hand in a manly handshake, I told him I’m a big fan of his as well. We washed down a side of uncooked beef with a barrel of Malbec, delighting each other with coaching stories until the sun rose. He told me what it was like to coach the Argentinian National Team during a tumultuous period of political unrest, and I described in detail what it’s like to coach a U13 girls team whose parents have unrealistic expectations. We laughed uproariously; we have so much in common.
Not wanting this reunion to end, on a whim Sepp, Pele, El Flaco and I grabbed a flight to Rome. A long, though mostly pleasant flight, to kill time I taught them how to play Sheepshead. Pele and El Flaco weren’t bad but Sepp’s game was terrible. How do I say it? The man’s a cheater. He kept trying to peek at our cards while sloshing down about six martinis. Eventually, he passed out. While Sepp lay there snoring like a bugle with live frogs stuck inside, the three of us wondered if perhaps an intervention might be in order. We had a couple of drinks then fell asleep ourselves.
In Rome we met legendary journeyman Coach Claudio Ranieri for pizza and Chianti. I had texted Claudio that my schedule wouldn’t allow me to make it to Sampdoria, where he’s currently coaching, so he agreed to meet us in Rome. He won’t leave me alone after reading “Alex and Jimmy.” He just howls with laughter over my humiliation during that horrible night, which really pisses me off, so I ask him, “How long before you get fired again?” Though that usually shuts him up, this day Claudio started talking about his experience with Leicester City in 2015-16, comparing it with my U18 boys’ team in 2006 – both big underdogs.
Bored with Italy, we spun a wine bottle and it pointed toward Spain. Claudio joined us for the trip because he loves that cradle rocking motion traveling by train offers and figured his assistants could handle Sampdoria for a while. Throughout the trip Sepp was completely out of control, embarrassing us by barking and panting like a dog at every woman who walked by. In fairness, Sepp hadn’t been eating much, nourishing himself on a steady stream of wine gushing out of his wine bladder and sipping a bottle of absinthe he carried inside his suitcoat. Pele, El Flaco, Claudio and I were getting worried. We whispered, yes, an intervention was in order.
I arrived in Madrid, my entourage in tow. I flipped my hat on backwards and told my crew I prefer to mingle with my fans. They were cool with it. Surprisingly most passersby wanted Pele’s autograph anyway. Obviously, my fans know me by my words, not my looks. Not to mention, I was hard to see while holding up a stumbling Sepp Blatter – what a sauce.
Zinedine, as in Real Madrid Head Coach and France National Team legend Zinedine Zidane, met us at a Tapas Bar. When he saw me, he began weeping uncontrollably. I was afraid that might happen. Zinedine is a big fan of all my sadder, more poignant posts--“Sarah,” “Remembering Meghan Flannery,” “Remembering Jimmy Banks,” “Coach Bob Wood,” “Natalie and Paul,” “My Dad the Coach” and “Take Care of My Girls.” Zizou and I hugged for what seemed like hours and just let the waterworks flow. I finally had to push him away. Behind those hawkish eyes and random head-butting episodes, Zizou’s a big softy. He calls me his “bestie” – we just get each other.
Because Sepp was not presentable for public consumption, we rented a conversion van and began the journey to Munich, Germany. Claudio drove, blasting melodramatic operas and claiming “driver’s choice” when we complained. El Flaco and I sat back working our way through a pack of unfiltered cigarettes while Pele and Zizou played a marathon game of crazy eights. Sepp had his ass stuck out the window mooning passing cars.
We finally arrived at the lovely home of my biggest critic, World Cup winning player and Coach Der Kaiser himself, Franz Beckenbauer. He’s always posting critiques of my essays. His standby comments are “Not Funny,” “What’s the Point? and “You have no talent.” “Silence,” he wrote me, “Is preferable to your long-winded and self-important nonsense. Now come to Munich for schnitzel and explain this Masked Singer show to me – I can’t get enough of it.”
But we ended up having a great time with Franz. He answered the door in a Tyrannosaurus Rex costume while singing “Uptown Funk.” That led to an impromptu dance party with Sepp passed out in a puddle of his own sick in Franz’s edelweiss garden.
Our last stop was England to hoist a stout with Man United legend Sir Alex Ferguson. Fergie’s been calling me ever since he read “Hjorring Nights.” The problem is I can’t understand a word he says. He refuses to do zoom calls, so I just get on the phone and laugh and agree with him until he hangs up. We took a ferry to London, then a train to Manchester. We created quite a stir as Franz was still wearing his T-Rex outfit. Sadly, we lost Sepp along the way. The last I saw him he was drawing “private parts” on the frosted window of the train and was no longer wearing pants. Screw the intervention, we agreed, we were done with him.
Alex was a wonderful host. He regaled us with a long story about somebody doing something to somebody somewhere--seriously, even in person, I can’t understand a word he says.
After Manchester, the gang drove me to the airport, and we said our goodbyes. They thanked me for my storytelling and letting them hang out with me for a while. We shared one last group hug. Zizou, of course, started sobbing again. Franz didn’t really commit to the hug and we were good with that since he was still wearing the T-Rex outfit. I told them to give my best to Sepp if they ever see him again, and we all shared a concerned look.
As I walked onto the plane I thought, what a year it’s been: 365 days ago, I posted my first story/essay and a handful of people, mostly named Harrington, read it. Since then, more handfuls have read my stories and essays and if I keep writing I may get another handful. And as my good friend Tug once said when finishing the worst wedding toast ever, “Always leave them wanting less.”