bringing a little taste of America to Spain

Before I left for America, a friend of mine (funny I cannot remember his name but he is the father of one of Alex's teammates) asked me if I could bring back a football. Now not to confuse you, I mean an American football. You know, Peyton Manning signed kinda football. I am not talking about some soccer ball. So one of my first objectives, I think before seeing my own grandmother, was to go to a sporting goods store and pick up the old pigskin.

Not having spent much time in the football section of Sports Authority, I was not well versed in selecting the perfect football. The aisle seemed to glow a strange bright light as my eyes widened at the selection. I think I may have drooled a bit but I was not worried as the floor was carpeted and no worries of a "wet floor" sign being needed. I groped and felt over the coverings as my mind raced back to day of my youth. I remember playing "street football" on Breckinridge Court, perpendicular to my own cul-de-sac. Many days were spent plotting out the perfect stretch of road as we had to negotiate the frequency of passing and parked cars. I reveled in the memory of being one of the fastest of all the neighborhood kids, which did well by me as street ball was a game of speed, agility and catching abilities over brute force and tackling ability. Many times, in moments of desperation for the quick score, I could dust anyone on the block, as long as I had a decent quarterback. And if things got worse, I was the go to quarterback with the strong shoulder and precision passing. I could thread a needle with a football from 40 yards away. Broken were the fingers that decided not to catch the ball properly when I put a little funk on the pass. That meant when I had to put it on a dime to whoever called for the pass. Still I always thought those high paid woozy could learn a thing or two about playing with limited field width and the occasional avoidance of hitting a windshield.
Then my memories took me the not so good times. After a few years of playing high school soccer, I finally decided to try out for the Bethel High football squad. Figuring it could be a good way for me to gain some popularity points (and finally get Tara Gentry to notice me outside of copying my math homework). Well Coach Koz knew me to be a soccer player and took extra care as to watch me punt the ball. Now I can loft, bend, shoot, place and make a soccer ball jump up and do the "hootchie coochie" but kicking an elongated, egg shaped ball is a wee bit different. Sadly, he only gave me one shot and I had to do it on queue. Sadly, I never went back to finish tryouts. Quitters are 100% losers indeed. But I guess that confidence problem I had in high school was the reason why Tara looked right thru me and onto my homework paper.
After snapping out of my daze, I finally had to settle on a decision and it all came down to the most important factors. Which of these marvelous displays of gridiron goddesses ...was cheapest and of some decent quality. Who in Spain would know...really!!

So I made my way back to Spain, smuggling this sacrilegious contraband into the European Union. One the first day of practice, I brought the ball to my nameless friend. I asked him if he would not mind if I borrowed it because I had an idea. I decided to try to bring American football to the kids of Tossa de mar. Now Barcelona had a professional football team called the Barcelona Dragons so the concept is not exactly...and for lack of a better word...foreign. Still, I did say they "had" a football team, seems that like those little suction cup tipped arrows, they just didn´t stick.

So I put out the word. After getting with the "powers that be" about using our home field for a rousing game of "futbol americano" on Sunday at 3 pm, I put the word out for all those interested from my team and the next age group down, that if they wanted to come out and play, I will be here. It seems like a few will show up. They all flocked to me to take a look at the golden egg I brought back from the states, all begging like hungry newborn birds waiting for a parent to stuff a worm in their mouths. Far from the street football of my youth, there is no chance in hell I would play in these narrow streets which are wide enough for one car or some Roman chariot of yesteryear.

As I threw passes to each of the begging youths, I had to go easy on the little tykes as they were unfamiliar with how to catch the torpedoes I tried not to throw. But still, going easy on them is not going to make men out of them. I was less concerned the more I thought about it. So what if they soccer players broke a finger catching my Brett Farve type of passes? They are soccer players...they barely need their hands!!!

What do I think I will accomplish with this effort. Well this is part of my one year plan to leave some type of imprint on Tossa. More and more I think I am becoming accepted with my increase in language, customs and soccer. But most of all, the reason I am taking on this project is to step out of my comfort zone. Mind you I have to explain the rules in SPANISH!!!! From 4 downs to how to pass the ball. I found it comical how they had no idea how to throw the ball. From early on, most American males are taught how to throw a football, throw a curve ball or shoot a basketball. I was marveled in how they struggled to emulate my honed and deeply engraved skills I still possessed after not touching a football for at least 10 years. Still what did I expect as I think most kids here in Spain can make a soccer ball dance a jig from age 5? Still I think it will be interesting to see just how many boys show up for a pickup game of the pigskin. I think in some way that will show me the level of voice I have in the soccer club. Also, with my stepping out on a limb to try to explain the rules and make it work.

I will let you know how it goes...hopefully with pictures.