Month: August 2013

Categories
Travel

Going for the Goal

bee-kickingAccording to the rules of football – the game we Americans refer to as soccer – a scissors or bicycle kick is permissible provided that, in the referee’s opinion, it is not dangerous to an opponent.

I recently set out to learn about football in anticipation of relocating to South Africa. The prospect of learning a team sport that might be fun to play and provide opportunities to meet people appeals to me.

For an introduction, I turned to a friend, the Wave, a lifelong footballer and Man U fan who played goalie at New Jersey’s Lawrence High School in the early 1980s.

Together on a recent visit to Edina, Minn., we headed to a pitch at a local high school. There under a blue sky on an 85-degree afternoon, the Wave introduced me to some of the game’s basics.

We reviewed kicking with the inside the outside of the foot and trapping the ball with the chest, thighs and shins. “Let the ball settle in front of you,” the Wave instructed. “Use your body to absorb the shock of the ball.”

We passed the ball back and forth as I alternated kicking with my right and left legs. “Boobs over the ball, don’t lean back,” the Wave barked. We sat on the ground and used our arms to pass the ball to each other as if simulating tennis strokes – an analogy the Wave said would show me how to lock my ankle for kicks.

He also showed me how to locate the ball’s center of gravity by reference to the alternating five- and six-sided panels that join to form a football, which produces a satisfying “pop” when struck correctly.

We gathered in front of the goal, where the Wave showed me some of the basics of shooting. “When settling in front of the goal, keep the ball moving toward the goal, within two feet of you at all times,” he said.

From the corner of the pitch, the Wave passed me the ball repeatedly so I could get the feel of trapping the ball either briefly or, alternatively, shooting without stopping, a concept known as “no-touch.”

“Don’t chase the ball, let it come to you,” the Wave counseled.

We reviewed the rule against being offside, which means being nearer to the opponents’ goal line than both the ball and the next-to-last defender (besides the goalie). “When passing downfield, lead your teammate,” the Wave said. “Especially when you go to the corners.”

We worked on my throw-in, which refers to a way of restarting play after the ball has crossed a sideline.

We took turns dribbling the ball while playing a two-person version of keep-away. The Wave showed me how to watch my opponent’s belly button – it reveals one’s center of gravity – as a way to avoid getting faked-out by one’s opponent.

After a few shots on goal we discovered that my left leg happens to be my dominant leg. I am left-handed but had thought my right leg was the stronger appendage. “You have a natural striker’s kick,” the Wave noted. I loved the feeling of striking the ball and watching it arc slightly as it left the ground and sailed toward the net.

I felt as if I could do that all day.

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Home

Escape Velocity

esb_dusk2A spacecraft trying to leave the Earth needs to be traveling seven miles per second, or about 25,000 miles per hour, to overcome the planet’s gravity and avoid falling back to the surface.

Scientists call that speed escape velocity, which also describes what I feel I’m attaining as I prepare to leave New York City after a decade. Like a rocket that appears to bounce haltingly in the seconds before it breaks free of the launch pad, I’ve felt this summer the force of a life lived in one place.

In July, when I began the process of relocating to South Africa, I wobbled under the weight of my to-do list. I felt handcuffed by possessions, especially those I needed to inventory, photograph and describe for Craigslist. That’s not to mention the things that had piled up over the years: papers, books, photographs, magazines, Band-Aids, toothbrushes, notebooks, t-shirts, coffee mugs, bottle openers, eyeglass cases, towels, Sharpies, a chess set, bed sheets, receipts, bandanas, magazines, magnets, seashells and business cards.

I’ve encountered a battery of medical appointments and filled out a mountain of forms for a visa. I’ve planned what to pack and ended my lease. I have friends to see.

Leaving also means escaping the pull of the familiar. After 10 years in one home I can pad around in the dark without my eyeglasses and not bash into things. I know how far to turn the knob to release a full stream of water into the shower and how long the sink takes to drain. (I won’t recall wistfully the vagaries of my apartment’s 85-year-old plumbing.)

Outside I navigate largely by intuition. I know the city underfoot sufficiently well that often I can tell where I happen to be by looking at the pavement. I read on the subway until I feel my stop.

You might say New York exerts its own gravitational force. I suppose that’s because I love it here. Especially on summer evenings when cafes spill onto the sidewalks and trees overhang the streets and the neighborhoods become park-like and the parks themselves become the loveliest refuges. Or when I’m riding the subway to Manhattan from Brooklyn on a Thursday night and feel tired in a good way and can read for a dozen stops. I love the newsstands and movie theaters and the bodegas that sell Mexican Coca-Cola. I love the people.

I don’t think one can live in New York and not fear the day that your being a denizen might end. That you won’t be around for the change of season. That you’ll have to give up your apartment. That the dailiness of your life here will disappear.

About a decade ago, I left New York for Nashville. During my year away I felt as if I would never get to live here again. “It seems that the moment you left town they put up a wall around the place, and that you will never manage to vault over it and get back into the city again,” Nora Ephron wrote in a 2006 essay about moving away. But I later learned what Ephron also knew: you can come back.

Now summer is fading and the tide of my life here is receding. An echo fills my apartment where furniture and books and the clutter of life once absorbed conversations and footfalls. The last time I heard the echo was 10 years ago when I had just moved in and gazed out my window at the Empire State Building. I thought then I was the luckiest person in all of New York to have that view. I still feel that way.

Categories
Travel

Books to Bring

booksI am in the process of deciding what books to bring to South Africa.

Here in New York I have about 140 books in all. As libraries go, mine may be small — friends seem to have many more volumes — but I love my physical books, which I reread regularly. The titles range from history and literature to politics, science fiction and spy novels.

Most of the volumes won’t make the trip. I hope to travel lightly and sending things in advance makes little sense. Once there, I will visit the library or read e-books and books my girlfriend owns.

For now, here are the titles that I’m thinking of packing:

The Elements of Style (illustrated): The Strunk and White classic, with illustrations by Maira Kalman. A reference book I love to read. The writing is wonderful, the paintings are lovely and the formatting makes the edition a joy.

Long Walk to Freedom, The Autobiography of Nelson Mandela: The head of the anti-apartheid movement, yes, but also an introspective look at the life of a great leader. I can’t put it down.

The Fun of It: Stories from The Talk of the Town: I read these pieces over and over. In an introduction to the volume, New Yorker editor David Remnick writes that “the best Talk pieces have a combustive power; they are miniatures that provide a burst of pleasure and a revelatory glimpse into some corner of life.”

The Sabbath: Abraham Joshua Heschel: A meditative and poetic look at Jewish spirituality that doubles as a tale about time travel.

Midlands, by Jonny Steinberg: My girlfriend gave me this account of a murder in the midlands of KwaZulu-Natal. A great read and insights into South Africa’s passage to democracy.

The Atlas of the Conflict: Israel-Palestine: Another gift from my girlfriend, more than 500 maps of the territorial relationship between Israel and Palestine over the past century. Assembled by an Israeli architect who aimed to present facts in a politics-free context. A visualization on paper that inspires the journalist in me, as well as a beautifully designed book.

Cesar Vallejo: The Complete Posthumous Poetry: Poems by the Peruvian poet. I’ve never read poetry so simultaneously complex and lovely. Translated from Spanish. My girlfriend and I read “Discovery of Life” to each other, quote from it, inhale it.

Financial Accounting: Introduction to Concepts, Methods and Uses, by Roman Weil, Katherine Schipper and Jennifer Francis: An essential for someone who writes about business. From the warning that precedes the preface: “Study of this book is known to cause thinking, occasionally deep thinking. Typical side effects include mild temporary anxiety followed by profound long-term understanding and satisfaction.”

One, Two, Three…Infinity, by George Gamow: Big numbers, the world of four dimensions, and whether’s it’s possible to bend space, written with whimsy and clarity. Plus illustrations by the author, including one of an ancient Roman who tries to write “one million” in Roman numerals. Also, Mathematics and the Imagination: Edward Kasner and James Newman: Numbers, chance, geometries and more — all here in a book first published in 1940 that introduced the terms “googol” and “googolplex.” Both books were gifts from a friend who showed me how much fun mathematics can be.

Slouching Towards Bethlehem, Joan Didion: I reread Didion’s essays at least twice a year. “On Self-Respect,” “On Keeping a Notebook,” “Los Angeles Notebook,” “Goodbye to All That.” Just typing this leaves me in awe of her reporting and writing.