Eleven

The session started without Figueira today. To be perfectly honest, I didn't even expect him to come. I would take advantage of his absence to talk a little about him. I felt Zangrandi was here in isolation. Without the key, standing like a sucker at the gates of Paradise. Galhardo and Morales were quiet, waiting until I started talking. I was looking at them for a while. If I questioned Galhardo as I wanted, the kid would be likely to close himself instead of opening. I couldn't be very direct, but I was. I would get emotionally involved, making the same old mistake again. Mistake I now feel is part of me.

"How long have you known each other?"
 
"Two years", said Zangrandi.

"Has the varsity existed that long too?"
 
"Yes... why?", Morales looked at me, curious, wanting to find out what my intention was.

"Do you meet apart from wrestling?"
 
"Yes, once in a while. Figueira and I go skating at Palmares square", informed Zangrandi, "don't know about them."
 
Us and them. No greater sense of union could they experience. If it's ever existed. The young varsity seems to be made up of two, one that works and another that fails, to use the raw and pure reasoning of coaches. Isn't there anything to settle the score?

"I, Panotti and Galhardo usually stay at Praiamar", said Morales, referring to the shopping mall in Santos, the masterpiece and monolith of consumerism of Portuguese builder Armênio Mendes.

"Tell me what you know about Panotti", I had only heard his name, mentioned by Mr. Costa.

"He's been a bit sick these days. His dad says he'll soon be back for the practice."
 
"How old?"
 
"Eleven, I think", replied Zangrandi.

"Oh, he's the youngest..."
 
"Yes, but what he knows...", Morales said, all of a sudden.

I got curious about it. I mean, even more.

"Really? What does he know?"
 
Galhardo was the one who explained, "he fights sooo very well; if he does what he does now, ain't no telling what he might do in the future".
 
"Doesn't he fight better than you?", asked Zangrandi, giggling at him.

Galhardo was silent. What does this silence mean? That the answer is affirmative?

"He fights better than anyone of us", Zangrandi went on talking, looking at the other two.

"Better speak for yourself, Zangrandi", Galhardo finally said in a slightly annoyed tone, "he might be the one but not always can he overcome me."
 
Morales, besides shaking his head slightly, remained unmoved. As though he didn't want to get involved or even give the smallest hint of being involved with Galhardo's bravado. Zangrandi then affirmed he said that because Panotti was not there. I felt another turmoil brewing, urged them to describe the other wrestler in not such a passionate fashion. They did, and I had to be impressed by the description; they were certainly not describing an eleven-year-old. At least, even as an ignoramus in wrestling, had never heard anything like it especially at eleven. At five to eight, I called it a day and wished them a good practice. Zangrandi told me he wasn't staying for the practice today, he had an appointment with the dentist at ten. On the avenue, asked him for Figueira's address, so Zangrandi took me there; I said I had something to say to them both. The gap was evident, plain for all to see; Mr. Costa didn't have a young varsity, had two, one first-class, the other second-rate, on the verge of exterminating each other. Zangrandi seemed to be the only one who could talk some sense into the others.

Finding Figueira was not at all difficult. He was at the gates of his building. Didn't like to see us, but didn't hide when he saw it was only me and Zangrandi. My idea begins to develop. I'm unsure if it's the best way to encourage or discourage them for good, but I'll have to tell them about the threat of end of the varsity.

"So? Came to dance on my grave? Came to laugh at the dead wood?"

"Easy, pal. I and Miss Grisam came only to talk to you."

We were about to sit down on the curb. Figueira suggested a small square across from his building, in fact, a vacant lot bought by the municipality to be turned into a square. We sat at a table with four concrete stools all around it with a permanent chess board painted on. The two waited for what I had to say. And I wouldn't have them wait long.

"Mr. Costa wants to discontinue the young varsity."

Dropped the bomb and waited. Silence. Figueira seemed to be thinking back to something. Heating that day's rage to eat it again. And he didn't take long to give his view.

"He wants to see us out, me and Zangrandi. Well, especially me", he said with unexpected tranquility, "you know he puts an end to the varsity, holds Panotti, Morales and Galhardo and what's best, gets rid of the loser."

"Now that we've come to a conclusion what are we going to do with it?"

Too late I regretted saying it; it sounded like a confirmation of the losers they seemed to be regarded as, something I didn't believe.

"I'm giving up, don't know about Zangrandi."

"We could be training a little more, Figueira. You know we don't practice as much as we should, so..."

Figueira was silent. Street background noise all around us. It was the only sound we could hear.

"I think the best answer would be training harder and make some good results for a change.", I said.

And I looked at Zangrandi. We looked at Figueira. The whole of him seemed a well of desolation, dug in something he put his highest hopes upon, hopes whose intensity I would never suspect of. If only I could stop this castle from collapsing to the ground, I would do it at the drop of a hat. But I think only the kids can show me a way out of the maze. Working out someone's self-esteem can be a real quagmire. Mine, for example, seems to be worn out after all is said and done. Figueira said he'd think it over; he and Zangrandi stayed there, talking some more. I went home. I imagined Figueira would soon realize how hard he'd have to work for his goals, only hoped it wouldn't be too late. Anatômico had sent me an uplifting message that's just more than nice, that for a moment gets me out this depression some days can mean to me, days of grey, a feeling of a secret world, of being alone in the world. At home, I see Anatômico left me the message in my comment box. I follow the link in his name and find his black background blog, named after the owner. In one of posts, once he praised the creativity of some blog's names, including my modest diary. In my case, nothing so creative, but in the desert Internet is, a kind word can be a real oasis.

Come on break my arm | Nix

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