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what’s missing from this photo?

It could have been the day I met Ronaldinho; Sara D. Roosevelt Park, Chinatown, New York; 3:30pm, Friday, August 10, 2006. What a day it could have been. Instead, rain. Lots of rain. What was previously looking like one hell of an afternoon – a brand new turf field; rug rats of various sizes making the most of Major Bloomberg’s so dubbed from now until eternity, FC Barcelona Day, a colorful crowd filling with anticipation with the arrival of their heroes – took a turn for the worst.

no words for the elation of anticipation

Put it on the record: their was no thunder, no lightning, but yet, the NYPD decided a large tent was too dangerous for people to stand under, protected from the rain. So into the crock pot we went. The slow boil inside the bunker of building/storage shack got worse every time another person was added into the stew of cardboard boxes, paint cans and bodies. Temperatures rose with the steam off soaked bodies reaching for paper towels as if they were signed by the entire FCB roster. Water wiped with the towels was simply replaced by sweat. I found an empty chair in the back with some space (a few feet, as opposed to shoulder-to-shoulder). I’m not good with tight spaces and crowds.

I passed the rain delay routinely peeling denim from my legs inside the EasyBake oven (just add people), chatting up a few young kids who came in from Jamaica Queens to see their hero. They drew my attention when one of them asked an event organizer if Ronaldinho was going to come in here because it was raining. That’s why I love little kids. Here we are crammed into sweat lodge, every adult looking around for eye-contact of acceptance for their frustration, and this little guy thinks the greatest soccer player in the world is going to just pop in and hang out. These “#1 fans,” as they constantly called themselves, were unfazed by the rain. They were going to meet their hero.

Or maybe not.

The rain cleared to a steaming, flooded park with slippery-as-ice brand new turf; fans returned, maybe 300, maybe 500, but the storm had done to the crowd what Nike does to their shirts: preshrunk. What was supposed to be a classic Manhattan entrance for the team – they arrived in a double-decker bus, the standard for city tour groups – became comical. Double-decker buses are open-air up top. The players sat on the backs of the seats pooling with water and huddled under shared umbrellas. Smiles were cracked, and even held, but all the players at one point or another, showed their exhaustion. Less than 24 hours after having played to a 4-4 draw in Houston, and here they are, driving through the rain in a bus with no roof (let’s hope their was room below for the players and they just went up top to make their entrance into the park). At least there are a few days until game daytime. This is particularly important because…

Nice to meet you Mr. Messi…

…and you sir

Ronaldihno wasn’t there. The bus emptied: Messi, Marquez, Deco, Puyol, etc, etc, etc, etc, uh, excuse me. Ronald better be making a special entrance because the bus door is closing and he isn’t here.

The players file onto the stage, the crowd erupting into more screams than applause, most hands too busy pressing shutter buttons to clap. A few words from, uh, is that Julia Styles? She gets a few cat calls, but you get the feeling the crowd is here for one thing, the players, and no matter how many interracial dance movies you’ve made, this is a tough room. The players throw some FCB swag into the crowds – it never ceases to amaze me how much crowds of people gravitate toward free stuff – before sharing the new turf field with some of pre-selected youngsters. Adorable. There is no other word. Watching these 7,8,9 year-olds try to play around an obviously doting Marquez, is enough to make Dirty Harry shed a tear.

The disappointment in the no-show was palpable. My thoughts to hearing the boy king was sick and resting back at the hospital weren’t with the here and now, but with the game on Saturday. Would he play? But worry was no match for star-struck.

Puyol and Marquez

There’s a special quality to a moment with fans and their sporting heroes, as proven by my favorite moment of the day. This little kid, wearing a Mexico jersey and holding a second, somehow gets over the fence holding the fans back a few feet from the stage, walks past me, a few security guards and photographers, jumps on stage, walks right up to Marquez and gets an autograph. For the amount of security that was there – a shit ton – this should never have happened. Forget about the players, this little guy, was my hero for the day.

serious cohones

End Note:

Talking about practice – Giants Stadium, tonight at 7pm. My first time at a professional practice. I ask you: what is practice when you are practicing for another practice? We’ll find out tonight, and should get a little more detail about the seriousness of Ronaldinho’s ailment.