The Old Man and the Posts
My boyfriend runs a soccer game on the Presidio on Saturday Mornings. A former professional player with knees gone wrong, he's the grandfather and coach of the group. He arrives an hour before anyone even thinks of the game, stakes out the field, sets up the pop-up goals and waits to greet the players - twenty-somethings, some who are experienced and some who are new to the game.
M calls the shots, sets up the plays, encourages the "kids," gives warnings of "be careful" when the ball rolls into the empty street. He's ever watchful, layering his love of the game with his joy at seeing young people succeed.
There's an old man who comes to my park each day at 4:00 without fail. He has a truck that can only be described as junky; garden equipment is tied to the rotting wooden sides and piled in a manner that makes each item - rakes, leaf blower, water canteen - nearly indistinguishable. I know what each of these things is because I see him unpile them each day as he gets out the metal posts and net essential for the daily volleyball game. If it's a wet day, he takes his leaf blower and disperses puddles on the blacktop. If its a dry day, he sweeps the pavement clear. He has a rusty chair that, once done with initial chores, he sits in and waits for the young people to show up.
M and I call him the old man because he walks with a limp, hunched over, and his face is hardened with the sun. He's swaddled in a gray hoodie and rises from his chair to pace the court as he waits for the guys to show up. (Isn't it a characteristic of the elderly to pace and wait? It seems to me that young people never have time to wait. In the waiting, there are memories, reflections, contemplations, but never decisions. Decisions belong to the young who are tenacious and think they can build their lives while the elderly understand that life happens. I suppose there are peaceful surrender and wisdom in the waiting.) In reality, this weathered gentleman is probably only in his late fifties.
Clearly, the games wouldn't happen without him. He is my unsung hero, an old man in the sea who knows not to fish for his youth but to celebrate alongside the young. He is the zen master, raking the sand over and over again. He is a grandfather of love and dedication. Godlike, he does not play the game he sets up, but he is ever watchful and knows each player's moves the score by heart.
He is a reliable constant.
This is what M has been to me, greeting each day with hope and love regardless of my lack of energy, crying fits, and hopeless fears. M is ever present, coaching me into the day with love and faith.
M calls the shots, sets up the plays, encourages the "kids," gives warnings of "be careful" when the ball rolls into the empty street. He's ever watchful, layering his love of the game with his joy at seeing young people succeed.
There's an old man who comes to my park each day at 4:00 without fail. He has a truck that can only be described as junky; garden equipment is tied to the rotting wooden sides and piled in a manner that makes each item - rakes, leaf blower, water canteen - nearly indistinguishable. I know what each of these things is because I see him unpile them each day as he gets out the metal posts and net essential for the daily volleyball game. If it's a wet day, he takes his leaf blower and disperses puddles on the blacktop. If its a dry day, he sweeps the pavement clear. He has a rusty chair that, once done with initial chores, he sits in and waits for the young people to show up.
M and I call him the old man because he walks with a limp, hunched over, and his face is hardened with the sun. He's swaddled in a gray hoodie and rises from his chair to pace the court as he waits for the guys to show up. (Isn't it a characteristic of the elderly to pace and wait? It seems to me that young people never have time to wait. In the waiting, there are memories, reflections, contemplations, but never decisions. Decisions belong to the young who are tenacious and think they can build their lives while the elderly understand that life happens. I suppose there are peaceful surrender and wisdom in the waiting.) In reality, this weathered gentleman is probably only in his late fifties.
Clearly, the games wouldn't happen without him. He is my unsung hero, an old man in the sea who knows not to fish for his youth but to celebrate alongside the young. He is the zen master, raking the sand over and over again. He is a grandfather of love and dedication. Godlike, he does not play the game he sets up, but he is ever watchful and knows each player's moves the score by heart.
He is a reliable constant.
This is what M has been to me, greeting each day with hope and love regardless of my lack of energy, crying fits, and hopeless fears. M is ever present, coaching me into the day with love and faith.
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