Ready...Set...Propose!

Most of you have seen a live broadcast of some kind—usually a football game it seems—where suddenly some guy drops to a knee and proposes to some girl. Well, it’s maybe on national television and what’s she going to do? Is she going to answer, “What?! You thought I was actually serious about you?” Or, angrily, “Are you crazy? I should have known you were unbalanced enough to pull some stunt like this!” Not likely. They’re pretty much forced by circumstances to seem thrilled and to radiate excitement.

Which is maybe why temporary roommate Rick hatched his plan. Remember when I told you how I recently went with him to pick up a tux that he had had made for himself (he was getting ready to attend a charity ball, and not alone)? Well, that’s not all he picked up. We also went into a jeweler’s and he asked to see rings. So this Indian showed him a parcel of them. While Rick pondered and pondered, I waited and waited and waited. Finally he made a decision. At least ten seconds had passed. Now could a girl have done that? Of course not.

So Rick now had a ring. And he told me his plan regarding Jennifer. I may have mentioned that he’d been cyber dating this girl from North Carolina for a few weeks and things had gotten pretty serious, despite the fact that they’d never met face to face. They had talked for hours and hours on Skype while viewing each other via webcam, however. Then arrangements were made for her to fly here.

Rick told me, “When I meet her at the airport I’ll have a big bouquet and this ring. I’ll have a photographer and a video man (Rick works for a production company so has guys like these hanging around). Then, when she clears customs and we come face to face, I’m going to take a knee and say, ‘Jennifer, will you marry me?’ So those will be the first words she ever hears from me in person.”

The night arrived three days ago and Rick was prepared. Amid a waiting-area crowd estimated at 500 milling people of every nationality, Jen appeared. Rick fell to a knee and carried out his threat. Severely jet-lagged, Jen screamed…and then sort of collapsed (fortunately she was caught by a certain gentleman from Kerala, named Baboo). No, she could have done that, and Baboo could have done that, but that’s not what came to pass. Instead, she nodded her head up and down. She agreed to terms.

I’ll let you know how chapter 2 comes out.
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The next night, while Rick and Jen were at the fancy ball, Darren (furious, because he hadn’t had the foresight to have a tux made for himself so that he could hobnob with the Rich and Famous) countered by having a dinner party at his house. And I was invited. The other guests were two South African couples and a teacher gal from Texas named Lynette. One of the South Africans was Henry, who you will remember as being the guy that showed Darren and I around the new island that was being dredged from the sea. Henry was also featured for having sailed a boat from Maryland to Capetown…remember?

During the excellent dinner that Darren served up (forcing me to retract many of the bad things I had previously said about him) we talked about another couple of yacht races that Henry was involved in. Once, he and his wife spearheaded an effort to fund and train a group of high school students to be the crew for a Capetown to Punta del Este (Uruguay) race. It turned out to be a glowing success.

But dare I mention Punta del Este to you without mentioning the short chapter in my life that revolved around that locale? I guess not. When I was at the American School in Rio de Janeiro (I wish you could hear me pronounce that name with my glorious Carioca accent—folks from Rio are Cariocas, those from Sao Paulo, Paulistas) in 1972, I took a nice trip to Uruguay and Argentina during holiday break. On one leg, I took a bus to Punta del Este, which is 140 miles from Montevideo.

It was one of the nicest surprises ever. Pine forests that came down to golden sand beaches, and almost no one on them. There were decent waves and some surfers were enjoying a slice of paradise. I found that Punta was the hub of international yacht races owing to the fact of its geographical locale—something about longitude or latitude, and maybe even degrees. Or perhaps the Equator.

At some point before lunch I rented a motor scooter and rode along between the water and the sweet-smelling pines until I came to a little fishing village. I sat outdoors at a little fish restaurant on a jetty and had a wonderful, really cheap, meal. Perfect weather. Got back on my scooter and headed back but, totally without warning, the scooter had the temerity to break down on me. I asked it: “How have I offended thee?” No answer. Of course I can’t replace the twist-on cap on a bottle, much less fix a complicated apparatus. What to do?

Say “Gracias,” that’s what. Because some guy driving by (there was very little traffic) was so struck by the combination of perplexity and woe on my face that he stopped and fixed the bike for me. I wish I had his address right now, so that I could send him five bucks. He was a good guy.

I got back to town and immediately checked into a beer garden. This was back in my beer-drinking days. And since it was day and there was beer available, I sat and drank a goodly portion. Then I notice the sun going down and decided I’d better catch the shuttle bus back to Maldonado. That was the name of the little town about ten miles away where I’d taken a hotel room. Much cheaper than in Punta.

As I rode along in the little bus something bad started to happen. And with every minute it got worse. It is a scientific fact that large portions of beer will eventually seek an outlet, and this was the painful case. Could I possibly make it back to my hotel before exploding? I was in dire straits.

The bus stopped and I hustled off, looking for a likely place to find relief. Nothing was apparent. I was on a sidewalk in town and I passed a cinema, practically running (can’t remember if I was holding myself or not). Look! A little alley! I made a sharp left, and was soon feeling my soul flood with relief. But my relief vanished as I finished and headed back to the sidewalk.

There was a man. With a woman. They were part of the movie crowd that was just exiting. The man looked at me balefully. He spoke to me (gruffly) in Spanish and showed me his badge. I had the feeling that he had taken a dim view of what he and his wife or date (he never explained the relationship with the woman to me, nor even why he had joined the police) had encountered when they saw me down the alley. He promptly walked me to the local jail, which was on a corner of the same plaza where my hotel was located.

At the jail they took my belt away. Honestly, I wasn’t contemplated hanging myself, drastic as the situation was. I was put in a cell. With another guy—no doubt a hardened criminal—as a cellmate. He asked me, in Spanish, what I was in for. I think he was hoping to hear “Multiple rape and pillaging,” but all he got was my bad Espanol, explaining that “I made water in the street.” He greeted that news with an immediate answer: “Veinte y quatro horas.” Obviously a veteran of the penal system, he knew exactly how long each transgression deserved. He himself was in for fighting, he said proudly. I think he had double my penalty, 48 hours.

Sure enough, in exactly 24 hours I was released and, I feel, rehabilitated, and no longer a threat to society. But look how I have digressed! I must get back to the dinner party next time, but now I must relate something else.
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Last nite we had our big showdown game with Ahli Club. They had beaten us first round by 2 points. Things didn’t look rosy for us this time, as the day before the game our star local player, who averages over 20 points per game, sprained his ankle and is out for couple of weeks. Then on game day another valuable veteran got very sick; and so we were drastically shorthanded.

I started two little guys who are still also on the club Youth team, and a third on that team also played a key role, as we managed to squeak out a 4-point win. Lamond had a sub-par offensive game, 21 points, but one of the kids chipped in the same number and another youngster made bunch of key defensive plays. For the second time this season there was some joy in the post game locker room.

There had been a big noisy crowd and after the final buzzer there was dancing, by our fans, in the gym to the pounding drum beat. That spilled over into our locker room and I was even coerced into Arab-style dancing. Believe it or not, I’m not a very good dancer…Arab or anything else. For some reason I didn’t get no rhythm. So everyone had fun laughing at me. But guess who was a really good dancer! My rascally assistant coach, Ahmed. That little rolly-polly guy was quite graceful and adept.

I will begin Arab dancing (it’s mainly about the shoulders and hips) lessons later this week.

Avoid incarceration until next we meet,
Coach Pat