by Jim Whitehouse
“Mom, what’s that bird?” says a boy sitting next to me on the sidelines of a futebol pitch, which I’ve been told by my Brazilian friend Sergio is the same thing as a soccer field.
My beloved wife Marsha and I are leaning back in folding chairs watching our 11-year-old granddaughter Milly tending the goal, and during the brief pauses in action, I’ve been watching a half-dozen vultures slowly pirouetting above the park.
“I think it’s a hawk,” says the lad’s mother.
“Just keep your mouth shut,” says the good goblin on my shoulder.
“Correct her,” says the bad goblin on my other shoulder. “The boy needs to know the difference between a hawk and a vulture.”
“Off sides!” says the referee after whistling the play to end. The players shuffle around and eventually things get going again.
“What’s off sides?” says the boy to his mother, who is watching her daughter race about the field.
“Keep your mouth shut,” says Good Goblin, “because you don’t have a clue what ‘off sides’ means. In fact you don’t know anything about futebol, soccer, pitches or fields.”
“Explain it to the boy,” says Bad Goblin from my other shoulder. “You don’t know anything about it, but you can fake it.”
“Well, son, off sides means…,” says the boy’s mother and launches into a concise and probably accurate description of whatever weird soccer rule defines the term.
I listen attentively while still watching Milly defend the goal. The score is zero-zero, which means both she and the girl at the other end of the field are doing a good job while their teammates exhaust themselves kicking the ball hither and yon.
“You didn’t understand a word of that, did you?” says Bad Goblin.
“Maybe you could ask her to explain it to you again,” says Good Goblin. “She obviously knows what she’s talking about. Maybe she used to play herself. Maybe she has an older child who played before her daughter started. Maybe the boy’s father is a professional soccer player.”
“They’re vultures,” I say to the boy.
“What?” he asks me.
I point up at the birds. “Vultures.”
“Buzzards?” says the soccer-savvy mother.
“A lot of people call them buzzards, but they are really vultures. They eat carrion. Buzzards are hawks that kill for their food. Opportunists vs. hunters,” I say.
“I think they are hawks,” says the little boy.
“Tell him to respect his elders,” says Bad Goblin.
“Let it go,” says Good Goblin. “He won’t remember anyway. He’s too young.”
“And you’re too old to remember what ‘off sides’ is,” says Bad Goblin.
“They’re vultures,” I mumble. “Not hawks.”
“It’s futebol, not soccer,” says Bad Goblin. “And it’s a pitch, not a field.”
“Let it go,” says Good Goblin to Bad Goblin.
“Hey! You mind your own business. I’m working here,” says Bad Goblin.
“It’s a hawk,” says the boy.
“I think that was a bad call by the ref,” says the mother. “I don’t think she was off sides.”
Milly dives to her left, grabbing the ball just before it goes into the goal. It is still zero to zero, which is the score of every soccer game I’ve ever watched.
“WAY TO GO MILLY! NICE SAVE!” I holler.
It turns out that’s the only thing I know about soccer. Or futebol.
I do know a thing or two about vultures, though, and I’m wondering if those that are circling above are keeping an eye on me just in case or are finding a game that ends zero to zero as exciting as carrion.
