HOLD THE PRESSES FOR SOCCER MAMA!

POETRY IN MOTION!

Local newspaper Napa Valley Register covered the soccer game between Justin "Braves" and Michael's school, SHHS "Saints." Here's photo of the near all-page coverage that features, in top photo, the goal by Michael's buddy Edgar (in red) doing a bicycle kick. The lower photo focuses on the defenders, including goalkeeper Armando and, yep, my son Michael defending against No. 10. So proud!

THE RIGHT ATTITUDE!

Last night was the Baseball Banquet for Michael's school, graciously hosted by the faboo Frank Winery.  Here is the JV team, on which -- to my and his father's pride -- Michael played (he's at top left of the shot on whose image you can click to enlarge).

We've been so proud of of Michael's attitude in baseball.  He's not gotten much playing time since most of his teammates grew up playing the game in Little League et al.  This is basically his second year playing/learning baseball.  But, last night, the Coach said about him that toward the end of the season, he let Michael play in the last three games and he batted 4 for 7!  I have no idea what that means but the Coach said the stats made him think that he should have played Michael more!

It's all good.  So inspiring.  Almost makes me want to write a baseball poem ...

Speaking of poems, have I mentioned that Michael got a poem published in his school's annual literary journal?  I haven't mentioned that yet?  No?  Well, he did!  And here's the poem!

JOHN



Do you know this kid? His name is John.
I bet you know John.
You might not even know you know John.

You see him sometimes, isolated,
Not socializing with others.

You see him sometimes skipping lunch.
You see him swallow hard, watching others
toss part of their sandwiches
or apples into the trash cans.

Maybe you don’t see John at school
and you wonder where he is.
Have you ever guessed why John
was absent from class?

Maybe he is helping his dad on a job
to be able to support the family.

How many are we in our English class?
I count 19 students.
Did you know that one out of five kids
in the United States is poor?

19 students in our class.
This means that, on average,
Maybe three or four of us are poor.

I bet you know John.
You might not even know you know John.

Mom is so proud ...

DEFINING "SPORTSMANSHIP"!

Michael is co-Captain of JV soccer.  But yesterday and this Friday, he is playing on Varsity!  Here he is with two Varsity shirts:

But he says he doesn't want to go fully on Varsity yet because he wants to "help out" his JV team.  How's THAT for sportsmanship!  When's the last time you saw THAT attitude from an athlete?!  So proud of him!

Such a proud Soccer Mom am I!

JAB MOI WITH YOUR FIRST LINE!

Notes (Gleaned Specifically for Poetry) from April 20, 2012 Boxing Session:

--the jab is a taunt, a feint, an exploration, a set-up. From that jab, the boxing "conversation" (see letter below) may begin. Hence, the jab can be a metaphor for the poem's first line

--boxers (or any jousters across martial arts forms?) actually don't want to be filled with adrenaline as they begin a bout. Irony: the boxing arena replete with adrenalin from the excited audience et al. But within that storm the boxer ideally wants to be as cool as possible. Heart beat is often slow, if measured. Among other things, adrenalin tightens up the body and you want the body as loose as possible to engage. Reminds me of the volta from, say, the effective haiku. As opposed to a poem where the energy is constantly brimming across all or most words and lines.

--Practice, practice, practice (see letter below re Ali practicing the taking of punches). Write, write, write until the memory becomes muscled memory--you can tell this if the writing the first word of a poem immediately tips you into that "space" from which poems flow.

--As I cheerfully told Julio my trainer, when it comes to martial arts I'm just a tourist. No one knows this better than my Kali teacher Michelle who shares the letter below in response to some of my notes on gleaning poetic notes from my pathetic boxing exercises. If you're in the Bay Area, I recommend hitting sticks with Michelle; click on the link and you see her sipping a cuppa java, which is how I usually picture her in moi mind: one hand holding up a coffee cup to her lips while the other hand (just one hand) takes down two men with black belt finesse. Not a drop to be spilled! Anyway, here's her letter, the poetics of which would be that a poem, too, should be a "conversation":

I read your post on learning various boxing combinations.

I've always taught my students that sparring is a conversation. Part of the reason a person doesn't throw cross cross cross is because people typically aren't recordings and the combinations are in response to the opponents reactions to the first punch. Jab, they go this way to walk into the cross. A constant call and response. And like any language learning, the first things you get are individual words, then learning to speak in sentences, then actually learning to listen to what the other person is saying.

Ali was as eloquent a boxer as he was a speaker. While he would drop his hands and taunt his opponent to go ahead and hit him, it was a rare fighter who fall for his gimme. Alternatively, he was also known during practices to simply ride the ropes and learn to take punches using the ropes to dissipate the power.

Tyson controlled a match through sheer domination. He talked over his opponents and wouldn't let them get a word in at all. I've actually been wanting to go to Vegas and watch his 1-man show. He's a lot smarter than his public image makes him out to be.

Throwing a punch both provides opportunity to strike, yet creates a vulnerability. Punch high, leaves your stomach open. Punch low, leaves your face. There is a need to lay one's self out yet find a way to protect what's vulnerable.

Hope boxing is fun! It's certainly quite a workout!

-Michelle

Yes dears, this Chatty One also is here to serve you sports fans...

MUHAMMAD ALI'S FIST, AUTHENTIC SPARRING, AND MIXED MARTIAL ARTS AS POETICS

Notes (Gleaned Specifically for Poetry) from April 18, 2012 Boxing Session:


--on Authenticity. Julio, my trainer, sets up sparring sessions where we practice combinations, e.g. Jab and Cross, Hook and Uppercut, or Jab, Cross, Hook and Uppercut. Apparently Julio set up combinations that are realistic in terms of how the punches might play out in the real-life boxing ring. He doesn't have me do a whole series of Cross, Cross, Cross and Cross, for instance, as it's unlikely a boxing bout would unfold that way. Such would contrast with how, if a Jab is successful then a Cross is a logical follow-up, and same thing with Hook and Uppercut or Jab, Jab, Jab, Jab. Practice, practice, practice, indeed. But one needs to practice where one desires to go. Relatedly, this makes me wonder about where writing a lot ultimately can fail (and I am nothing if not prolific) if one doesn't have some scaffolding of what type of writing one wishes to create. For most of my years as a poet I believed in just writing and letting the poems fall or soar where they may. Now, older, I have a goal for the whole point of the writing (what's that goal? a story for another day). I don't wish to write poems that would generate a response of unrealism, so to speak. Of course, I'm also still figuring out what this means.

--Related to above, Julio says you need to visualize a reality that you are practicing.  The importance of imagination in poetry.  Except I can't usually visualize a poem ahead of its finish; I can sometimes, however, visualize a (desired) effect of a poem.  I suspect this relates to how I privilege the poetry to the poem.

--Muhammad Ali. He was so self-confident that he at times would drop his hands to his sides, thereby exposing his face and body, and even lean his head in tauntingly to the opponent. Such was his self-confidence about being the greatest boxer ever. Mike Tyson, however, would bulldoze right into his opponent's space (I first typed "face"). The self-confidence versus the brutish offensive. Most orphans (and this, after all, is all research for my manuscript 147 Million Orphans) are made insecure by their circumstances and it can take years (if ever) for them to regain self-assurance/self-confidence. Mike Tyson was an orphan. Muhammad Ali was not. Form befits content...?

--Muhammad Ali adopted a child.

--Jab! The jab is a feeler-touch, more of a slap than a punch. It's made to feel out the opponent or distract the opponent in readiness for a stronger punch. The jab is usually made by your weaker hand while the stronger hand awaits for the opportunity to deliver a stronger punch. I am making jabs here with these notes, feeling out what boxing (and poetry) is about. The punches, hopefully, will be the poems themselves.

--Most (all?) boxing punches rely on the four-fingered front-face of the knuckles, e.g. this Ali fist.

But that's just boxing technique, versus that any other part of the fist would be less-effective. A karate punch, for instance, relies on the other side of the knuckles, the back of the palm. This has led to mixed martial arts where the fighter adapts his fighting technique from many disciplines depending on the actual unfolding of the fight. Poets, similarly, may benefit from being open to writing across genres and forms. Trans is a logical position for poets...

--Speaking of Ali-fist, in that image the punch is bigger than the boxer. Ted Berrigan's The poem is the poet's best self...

MIKE TYSON: A POETICS (#1)

Notes (Gleaned Specifically for Poetry) from April 13, 2012 Boxing Session:

-- Jab, Cross, Hook. Julio (moi cherished trainer) notes, I signal my cross by always doing a tiny fist-circle prior to unleashing (hah) it. Moi replies: "But that fist-circle feels good!" Okay, he says, because it's not like you're training to be a real boxer. Doesn't sit right with Moi as she thinks, "Nah. Still gotta do this thing as if it's for real -- as if I'm going to enter the ring soon..." So must stop signaling my intent ahead of the actual event.

-- I spar with Julio with moi gloves (in my favorite color blue) and he wearing pads with these arrowheads in the center as targets. Julio notes, I have to make certain hits as if my fist is going through the pads instead of considering the pads as walls before which I (unconsciously) pull back my punches. Exactly! I think: No walls! Go through those walls!

-- Jab, Cross, Hook. Julio makes me go slowly through the motions first. In that way, my body gets accustomed to, including up building physical memory, of the motions. When we start that way and then increase the pace to how fast I can then throw the combination, the result is more clean, more finished, more effective, more what the combination is supposed to be. Learn the form before you start breaking away from it. Know the language before you disrupt it. (Is this the difference between language-disruptors and those who "coincidentally" disrupt by being second -- or third -- -language speakers. But what if language is inherently impure; how do you disrupt the impure?)

-- Julio tells me to focus on the pads, their alignment. The pad's alignment will signal what type of punch you're supposed to throw. For example, if the pad is horizontal to the floor, you don't throw a cross but might choose an uppercut instead. When I start paying attention to the pads -- which are metaphors for the real-life boxing opponent -- I notice that I suddenly stopped doing that fist-circle that signals my crosses. I take from this that I become more effective because I have gone beyond myself (who cares that the gloves are in my favorite color? Who cares that a teeny fist-circle feels good (and I think it feels good because it is an opposite motion to the wrist-position I favor when I'm writing and I'm always writing)?) By focusing away from moiself and onto the opponent, I am more able to do what it takes to be an effective boxer.

-- When you're short, you go in closer to the danger. If you back away from your taller opponent, you are giving your taller opponent an advantage due to reach. If you cannot reach something, get closer to it. The more intimate you are with a subject, the more effective you will be -- this is where imagination may be just a starting point in art-making. Imagination as a tool, a starting point, versus the raison d'etre for that poem. Knowledge matters, whether it's research or the literally bodily investigation.

-- Hadn't known Mike Tyson was an orphan until Julio mentioned it. This synchronicity Wows me even as it doesn't surprise Moi as poetry, I've learned, is inherently synchronistic. And this synchronicity is about how I was researching boxing for purpose of a manuscript on orphans. And something I learned as soon as I began researching Mike Tyson (from “Tyson Projected” by Avi Steinberg, n + 1, 29 June 2011):

As an earnest young man, an orphan, [Mike] Tyson was preoccupied with origins and authenticity. Unlike Muhammad Ali, the young Tyson never staked any claims to radical American individualism. He didn’t boast of being “the greatest ever.” Even late in his career, after his crack-up, when his once-great skills had been replaced by threats to eat his opponent’s children, Tyson tellingly qualified his boasts: “I’m the best ever! There’s never been anyone as ruthless,” he said but then felt compelled to add, “I’m Sonny Liston! I’m Jack Dempsey!” He recognized his place in the hierarchy of tradition: an excellent copyist, not an original. At best, a perfect imitation. As he later put it, in an interview with the New York Times, he was resigned to be “a fake somebody” rather than “real nobody.” To Tyson, the prospect of becoming a “real somebody” was never a possibility.

Exactly. If our childhood gods determine much of what we become, it's the same as saying our childhood demons are also determinative. Then, Orphans...what forms their roots?

Mike Tyson as a Child

--And what does it mean to train to become someone you know you'll never become? Like me(?), training to be a boxer but not to be a boxer. Poetic authenticity--that most seductive paradox: being authentic for the goal of being an effective reproduction .... as Mike Tyson ("Beyond The Glory"), once put it, ""I have a Catch-22 within my own identity"

Or is it just something else Tyson said--ye ars poetica or arse poetica:

"I'm just going to extremes...[but] I don't know..."

BOXING POETICS: A SWEET SCIENCE

Our Own Voice recently did a special themed issue on food.  As a rare Pinay who doesn't cook, I insisted on participating.  So I sent them a Manny Pacquiao poem.  That poem, as both a food poem or a boxing poem is pretty lame.  But it was the best I could do (so far) precisely because I had not invested the body (that is, moi bod) into either cooking or boxing.  (I couldn't have written NOTA BENE EISWEIN, for example, without having once tortured a flamenco teacher by taking her classes.) Well, cooking continues to be a long shot for me.  But for that "Sweet Science!," CHECK OUT MOI NEW TOY!

Love it!  I am taking to it quite naturally!  And it's all for poetry -- not just for Manny Pacquiao Poems but I can see how its elements can enervate my ongoing manuscript, 147 MILLION ORPHANS.  For example, (I'm blogging it to file it here) these two boxing-related elements (from http://boxingkent00.tripod.com/id4.html) are sure to apply:

Fight or flight sydrome
This is the most common feeling the boxer will experience leading up to a fight, it is the brain telling you to run away to survive or stay and fight. It would rather you don't face the fear because survival is it's main aim and there is more chance of this if you don't hang around. Adrenalin is released into the blood stream getting you ready for action (this makes you stronger), you will sometimes feel sick and need to go to the toilet, you will get the shivers and sometimes stutter. Another name for this is FEAR.

Eustress
This is a type of stress that has a positive effect, the boxer will actually seek the stressful situations and thrive on the feelings associated with them, they will get fight or flight but they use it to their advantage.

Form matches content--I find myself boxing with this manuscript; the problem is that, as a poet, I shouldn't do that basic boxing stance of having my strong arm covering my face...in the making of the poem, you see, there should be--ideally--no walls between the author and the text.  No wonder I'm beginning to look like Mike Tyson; he was fearless in going in close to his opponents ... partly because, like Moi, he is short (oh yeah the significance of the body) which resulted in shorter reach:
 
 

 
Off to take some hits ... so that the poems themselves will contain the possibility of, Dear Readers, knocking you all out later!  KA-POW!
 
Those poker-playing poetry angels are always making mischief over Moi.  Who'da thunk that, as a boxer, I would be Mike Tyson.  C'mon, Fallen Angels -- I gotta get y'all for this one!

MOI NOT WANTING TO SPIT ON JV BASEBALL

You know, I'm trying my best here with baseball, excuseMoi, JV baseball. But right now, all I can think of is -- BUT SUSAN-OF-GAME-SIXES, IS THIS WHY MOI SON IS TAKING ON THE DISGUSTING HABIT OF SPITTING ALL OVER THE PLACE! What kind of sports is this! This ain't, Moi hopes, a precursor to my son chewing then spitting tobacco! Anyway, let the local paper do the wrap-up on Michael's team -- he's in the last paragraph of the article; I know it's the last paragraph but, after all, he's been playing the sport for, what, four weeks...?

Anyway, there's a lot of drama in the game. I don't know why I didn't expect that -- this afternoon, I actually was all tense then shouting (in moi delicate way) at the sidelines...! Here's another photo at the end of tonight's game when the Coach (who's the local dentist -- love small towns!) gave his wrap-up to the team:



Yes, indeed. If you want sports coverage, you come on over to this here Chatty Blog ... Not!

HOMERUN!

Michael is much more enjoying his experience at his new school. Here he is in his spankin' new baseball hat -- he was just accepted to the JV Baseball Team! We're so happy as he'd never played baseball before, but the Coach said he improves rapidly! That's my natural-athlete son! Not to mention muy guapo, si?!



Achilles, as ever, remains a fan! I'd better go read up on baseball -- it's a sport I've ignored since the hubby introduced me to it by encouraging me to be a Red Sox fan some years back and then ... that ball rolled between that player's legs (I'm sure you rabid baseball fans know EXACTLY what I'm talking about!). I can't remember the dude's name but I'll never forget that rollercoaster emotional horrific journey -- talk about being dropped off a cliff. And now I must return to the sport because ... I'm a Mom!!

SPEAKING OF BEAUTIFUL MINDS

do check out Tim Yu on Jeremy Lin!

THE PACQUIAO POEMS!

Yo, this is the Chatty Blog -- particularly important to discerning sports fans! Welcome Boxing! To wit:

A while back, Manny Pacquiao's singing of that tune came to my attention, and I was struck by the following lyrics of the song he likes to sing (title doesn't come to mind at the moment):

Sometimes
when we touch
the honesty
is too much

Now, the original tune obviously was a love song. But if you think about boxing, isn't that another way of interpretation? I can imagine how a boxed "touch" can be quite honest (Pow! Ow!).

Anyway, I've long thought about a new manuscript of poems related to one of the World's Greatest Boxers, which is a way to raise your attention to this latest must-read article: "Mayweather versus that ‘little fella’ Pacquiao" by Benjamin Pimentel.

Now, if only I can get more freed-up time to devote attention to go commercial in poetry: Emmanuel 'Manny' Dapidran Pacquiao. I just know there are legions of boxing fans just awaiting this particular book:

THE PACQUIAO POEMS

Pow!! Ow!!




'

NOT BASEBALL STATS, BUT BETTER THAN NOTHING!

I'm a poetry publisher. So it pains me to admit that I've moved more books in the first two days of my poetry book trading project than I often sell in a month!

I'm not really in pain -- I reconciled long ago with the limited commercial possibilities of poetry book sales. But I still want a wider distribution for poems! So check HERE for the latest list of books available for trade.

And because, like that character in Richard Brautigan's The Hawkline Monster (who'd partly inspired the hay(na)ku!), I like to count, I'm now keeping tab of successful poetry trades HERE. Even if the momentum slows down, I want to relish these stats. And, hey, why don't you help keep the count going? Trade me poetry books!

SILK EGG'S BOXING POETICS

Speaking of SILK EGG, I love Allen Bramhall's take on how it "invade(s) the notion of context, not the life of the Author." I love it because it seems to be a conclusion only a reader can get to. It makes me wonder what the response would be by a reader who has never read anything before -- a reader who learned ABCs and words and then, for the first book, read SILK EGG.

Meanwhile, go HERE for Allen's map map that provides as stepping stones -- and it's fun for me to list the names dropped so I hereby list them! -- Henry James, Charles Baudelaire’s Poèmes en Prose, Tender Buttons by Gertrude Stein, John Ashbery and citing specifically Three Poems, Buddha, Jung, Heidegger, and (I love it! even) boxer Bob Fitzsimmons (even before Manny Pacquiao got moi attention, I'd long had a boxing book in mind). What I like in part about seeing others referenced in relation to my work is learning said work's context in a way that the context was not predetermined by me as Author. Dear Reader, I've said it before: Moi is all about Toi.

BASKETBALL AND FLOWERS

Okay: I'm not a soccer mom this year. Instead, I'm a basketball mom. Here's Michael yesterday, in red shorts, at his first practice:



I think I've bragged before that he's a natural athlete. Well, in the few minutes I had a chance to watch him play, he displayed the same speed that made him faboo on the soccer field; for basketball, he enjoys stealing balls.

His only problem is that he can't shoot basketballs into the hoop, which is logical given he didn't really play this sport until a couple of months ago. There's no shortcut to practice, and most of the U.S.-American boys on his team grew up shooting hoops.

Well, fortunately, Mama Moi actually had some wisdom to impart. Yes--ME. Yes--we're still talking about basketball! What you don't know about Moi is that, in 7th grade, I and my good pal Sandy were an undefeated doubles basketball team in the local playground! Yep, we were! It didn't last, however, since I stopped growing and everybody else did to become taller basketball players. I am just a couple of hairs over five feet, fyi.

Anyway, so there I was this evening discussing the concept of a lay-up with Michael, noting how it can be easier to score if one banks the ball against the backboard instead of attempting ... NET! I borrowed one of Achilles' toy balls and banked it against the wall into the nearby laundry basket -- SCORE!!

Michael politely listened to and watched my lesson. Then he turned away to hide what I thought was a smirk that flashed across his face. Ah well...

She brightens up and moves to change the subject: So, speaking of Achilles, here he was this weekend monitoring the florist as the wedding flowers were prepared:



And here was Michael practicing photography on some of the flower decorations:



Well, I'd rather have photographs, after all, of flowers than basketball...as in these final decorated centerpieces, completed with input under Achilles' watchful eye:



Although, I'd like to share, too, one of the most beauteous images I've seen of emptiness. This is a wine decanter that would come to hold the bride's bouquet:



So gorgeous the bride absconded with said decanter (heh). After reading this, no doubt the bride will return it (double heh)... On the other hand, the "theft" shows you probably have good taste after all, notwithstanding your choice for groom!

SKIING: A POETICS

First, we ripped underwear.

To wit, one of the many, uh, complications of suddenly finding yourself a parent of a teenage boy -- a "culture" about which I am totally ignorant -- is that one has to be prepared for what it takes to help said boy meet his potential. Well, not only is Michael on the Honor Roll (oh pardon Moi but have I already bragged about that...?), but he is a natural athlete.

So parenting Michael has meant, among other things, that I and the hubby have had to dust off many a sports outfit to accommodate the hijo's athleticism. Last summer, I played tennis for the first time in a decade as part of the process of introducing him to the game. A carabao in white ... whatever. Well, this weekend, off we trotted to Northstar Tahoe to introduce him to skiing and snowboarding. Again, Michael was a natural -- his instructor ended up taking him on intermediate slopes before Saturday ended. Louis, from Chile, was so enthused he moaned in both Castilian-Espanol and English that we should live closer to the slopes so Michael could immediately join the racing team! Sunday was for snowboarding and Michael also excelled. Looks like this family is back to hitting the slopes every winter! (Save us green chile, ye peeps in New Mexico!)

But about that underwear -- I and the hubby also haven't skiied in a decade. So a week ago, we delved deep -- deeeeeep! -- into the closet to take out the old ski clothes and see what equipment still stayed relevant to today's sport. Well, we hoped of course that thermal underwear would still be in fine condition. And they were...until we put them on. The rip was ugly to hear. Uh huh...okay, so all that fine wine apparently expanded our fleshly expanse as much as living on a mountain surrounded mostly by furry critters expanded moi internet blather. Fortunately, this was such a busy winter that by the time we returned to the ski stores for new clothing and some equipment, the near-end-of-winter sales were on!

Anyhoo, all this reminds me of poetry (work with me here; this is a poetics blog). For the past decade until Michael joined the family nearly a year ago, I'd just basically -- and cheerfully, mind you -- tossed exercise aside except for working the right arm's bicep from lifting all those wine bottles. But as Jessica Hagedorn once pointed out and I paraphrase, A poem shouldn't be sitting on its ass fanning itself!

So, you see, parenting Michael means that I'm being aided into be-ing instead of writing the poem. Not that the poet is the poem, of course, but that in the writing or making of the poem, it's best for the poem that it comes into being rather than being authored. Kapisch? No? Whatever.

Meanwhile, here are photos of Michael during his snowboarding lessons (he apparently prefers skiing, though -- dude after Moi own heart). Second photo shows him with his instructor whose (nick)name, I think, is Nemo.





As for how Moi did after ten years of absence from the ski slopes? Dude -- I was hot. I was on. Bump me a knuckle bump, why dontcha! I can see with much relief, as Michael is just getting started, that I can take this sport back up again! But classic Moi story -- after two days of flexing muscles I'd forgotten I possessed and not just surviving but looking fantabulous (I'm gonna ignore the "Moose on skis" crack that just wafted from another room), here's what happened on my last run.

I was holding hands with the hubby as we got off the ski lift. I suddenly tripped on something and fell. But instead of letting go of his hand, I tightened my hold on it. I dislocated his thumb as I fell on my ass...though, happily, there was more cushioning on that ass than ten years ago and said thumb seemed to have gone back into its groove. Pause. I just checked -- the hubby is still not speaking to me.

But, we all know, don't we: Poetry is difficult, especially when it wants to do something more than sit on its ass and fan itself!

How I suffer for Poetry. I. Suffer.

ALL STAR DAY!

Here are this year's St. Helena ALL-STARS! (Yes, Michael's the sho..., uh, the kid in the blue shorts):



And here are all the players that made up his ALL-STAR Napa Valley game:



One of the best things I appreciate about these tween boys is when they show their thoughtfulness, as in Michael's goalie-friend deliberately bending his knees, perhaps so as not to emphasize Michael's slight stature....



Before the game had started, all the kids got ALL-STAR t-shirts. After the game, we went home, Michael took a shower, then put back that fabulous but now quite stinky shirt to wear again for the rest of the day! Mama Moi held her tongue and her nose!

As for who won the ALL-STAR game, now C'mon Peeps -- the score doesn't matter as long as you tried your best, right? (That's right -- you wusses betting on the score-results just got obviated by Moi for being in the wrong game.) I am happy to confirm, though, that Michael played his heart out...!

ALL-STAR = ALL-HEART!

CARNE-HEAD, PART II

This evening had the second and last practice before Michael's ALL-STAR SOCCER GAME this Saturday. In the car ride towards the field, I reminded Michael that the coach who'd moved him from his favored left-field defensive position simply didn't know him. And that Michael should use the practice to show his capabilities to the coach and everyone.

We arrived. Practice ensued.

Let me put it this way: there was a moment towards the end of scrimmage when every coach and parent on the side-line simultaneously Whoooo-aaaahed and agreed my son is a fabulous player.

Take that, Carne-Head.


This Saturday, Michael will play in the position he desires...and earned. THAT. IS. MOI. BOY.

MANNY PACQUIAO: MY SON'S POETICS

One gets the sense that boxing has yet to show Pacquiao anything as challenging as what he has lived through in the streets as a kid of General Santos,..
--Patrick Rosal

Today was the first practice for the ALL-STAR Soccer Team. It looks like the league's various teams chose their top five players to create an ALL-STAR team that will play some other area's ALL-STAR team this coming Saturday.

Today's scrimmage focused on melding these players for the first time. The two ALL-STAR coaches had to assess the kids, especially those new to them because they'd not coached them before, like Michael. A few other coaches stopped by, though, to check out the action....which is to say, this is a story of how I really had to control myself today from going after a big, burly man -- one of the coaches who clearly is not himself an ALL-STAR caliber -- and wallop him with my trusty umbrella-suddenly-turned kali stick. Let's call him Joe the Plumb..., okay, let's just call him Burly Joe.

So, my son -- again -- was the smallest guy on the team. Perhaps he's the smallest guy in the league -- I can't say I recall a shorter guy than him from the games I saw all season. So he's short...BUT, so what, right? He was on the team that won the Napa Cup and one would think -- if one was thinking -- that his size clearly must not have been detrimental because he wouldn't have been picked among the top five players sent to the ALL-STARS.

But Burly Joe obviously wasn't thinking (perhaps he can't from all that muscle? Let's call him Carne Head instead) because he arbitrarily switched Michael to play defender on a different guy. One of the coaches from Michael's regular team questioned that and Carne Head replied, "I'm just matching him up with a smaller guy..."

Oh Knucklehead, I mean Carne Head, Michael's taken the ball away from guys as big as three times his size! If you want to adjust his position because he's doing something wrong, okay. But don't arbitrarily make a decision based on his size (you must judge a book by its cover, right Meat Head?!)

What pissed me off -- what pained me the most -- was seeing the confused expression on Michael's face as he strove to understand why his position was shifted when he was handling it just fine ...

... I've been mentally fulminating over this all evening. I keep telling myself that the coach-who-also-looks-like-a-meatball just doesn't know Michael. The thing is, most of Michael's peers are soft when compared to what formed Michael's character, what he survived to end up as my son. Without going into details, what he survived is why he is not at all intimidated by bigger, burly players. Even then, a soccer game is not even a smidgen of a challenge compared to what he's clawed himself out of ...

Michael's growth spurt has started. But meanwhile, the steel in his spine is not evident from his small frame. Keep underestimating him, you Carne Head. I look forward to seeing him make bile out of your meat. Only a Pin@y or Child of a Pin@y can survive pinappaitan, di ba?

P.S. Another Soccer Mom, who'd observed Michael in action all season, actually suggested today I have Michael join his school's basketball team. Meat Head: extrapolate from that and learn.

ALL-STAR SON, BUT NOT ALL-STAR COUNTRY

This weekend will present the last game of soccer season. So Michael, the faboo artist, will present his coach with the following drawing:



I will miss soccer season -- to my own surprise, and no doubt as evident to you Peeps, I've quite enjoyed being a "Soccer Mom"! Yay!

Having said that, just as I was starting to miss the season, Coach Emilio asked if I would consent to having Michael participate in this one-off ALL STAR GAME. My son is an ALL STAR!!! But of course, preened his All Star Mama! Doesn't he look the muy guapo part?!



*****

Having said all that, Michael also got an Honor Roll Certificate this week for his First Quarter Grades. I applauded him, of course, and yes of course that is wonderful news.

But, Estados Unidos -- can we all get real here?! Someone who was in fourth grade in an orphanage school in Colombia just six months ago should have no business being in a U.S.-American school's Honor Roll. Particularly, I emphasize, if that student is being tutored in math by Moi! This just gets to show yet again how the quality of public education in this country has plummeted.

I wish I could say that Michael's grades were because he's a junior Einstein. I'm his mother and, to paraphrase that Christian joke, I therefore think he's The Second Coming. But no: he's not an Einstein. He's just getting high grades because the academic thresholds are way lower than they should be in this country. And by the way, our local public school is among the best in the country. So: Estados Unidos -- get your act together. We have got to do a better job of educating our children!

Believe me -- I'd rather my son had Ds and Cs this term; he is supposed to be behind academically. That he's performing well among his peers basically means public education has dumbed down significantly in the past several decades. And, since this is a poetry blog, I will add that this factor is a way bigger factor than the "difficult vs accessible" dilemma in engendering little popular support for poetry.

THE MYTH OF LITTLE LEAGUE (MOI VERSION OF SPORTS, #3)

But on the way to SF for his first poetry reading experience, Michael and his team played another game -- and they won 5-0. I hollered so hard from the sidelines that I'm surprised I was able to do a poetry reading hours later!

But this game was also when I observed again what a myth it seems to be about how the "Little League" should operate, to wit, that it's not who wins or lose but that everyone has a good time. I'm not the only one on the sidelines who get all agitated over caring about the results. When we hit the 5-0 level, the hubby muttered out loud: "It should be 7-0 by now!"

That's when one of the other chuckling parents explained to us newbie parents that these games aren't supposed to be a rout -- that when we hit a score like 5-0, coaches typically re-assign the best forwards to play defense (as what occurred on our team). Yadda. But as I was listening to this explanation, one of the kids from the other side -- A BIG KID! -- shoved Michael aside in a move that was obvious to all, making Moi let loose with:

HEY IF YOU'RE GOING TO HIT SOMEONE, YOU GOTTA HIDE IT BETTER!

I was being ironic, but that nuance didn't come through. All that came through were the guffaws that greeted my holler from another set of parents exiting the field after their games were over. I looked over at them and paraphrased DeNiro, "You all laughing at me?!"

Big, burly Dad grinned and said, "Yep."

Well, nuff said. But let me tell you something: It's a good time when we win, and when we lose the cheer on parents' faces is often a d*mn lie. Or, as John Bloomberg-Rissman shares in a soccer poem he sent, written in the 1990s when his son Sam was also playing soccer:

STERN GODS ON THE SIDELINES

Stern gods on the sidelines
Clamor for victory
While the young in bright colors
Race after a ball.

When things go wrong
Out on the field
The stern gods run their fingers
Through their thinning hair.

But, you know, I should set a better example for good sportsmanship. So let me end on a classier note with another soccer poem by John -- who does also capture just how enchanting the sight is of little girls playing soccer:

LANDSCAPE WITH FIGURES

The shouts of boys as they run
Rise through the air            shimmering
Like heat off a parking lot
Rise as they run
           One after the other
                      Kicking a soccer ball.

Someone hollers “Sam!”
He passes the ball – precision,
Right in the mouth of the goal –
Ryan kicks it in.

Giotto’s angels up above
Loop for joy
           In a pure blue sky.
And O the green of the grass
           Upon which
           The boys’ feet fly.

A brightness beyond banners
Waves on the breeze.

A 13 year old girl
Rolls by in shin guards
Tight shorts and cleats –
           Artemis –
           Boudicca –
           One of the Pink Panthers –
           A warrior queen.

*****

If you have a soccer poem, do feel free to keep sending to Moi!