The Confederations Cup is a quadrennial football tournament that serves as a dry run for World Cup organizers. The host nation uses the event to work out the kinks before inviting the globe for a look. Brazil hosted the Cup last month amid mass protest, the protesters surely becoming less visible next summer during the big sha’bang.
Lessons were learned, the Confederations Cup serving it’s purpose of preparing Brazil for something bigger.
Last week, I lived in a tent with a Magna-Cum-Laude graduate, a Guatemalan entrepreneur and a complete stranger named Gary. The idea was to prepare for something bigger.
This was our Confederations Cup.
Americans are some strange people, believe me.
A typical young Midwesterner celebrates the Fourth of July in this manner.
First, they gather on boats with packs of shirtless strangers, then jump in a septic tank for a swim. Those turned off by the water, lay on the deck, then fry their epidermis with ultraviolet light. They refer to it as tanning.
It really doesn’t make a bit of sense.
Once the broiling hydrogen bomb sets for the night, the Americans gather down range and set off huge explosions to celebrate a guerrilla war that ended 237 years ago.
That makes no sense either.
The most honorable man I know in the U.S. hates the Fourth of July. Why? He’s done four tours in the Triangle of Death. IED’s are loud, like fireworks. Fireworks scare the shit out of him.
Happy Independence Day!
In order to buck the trend, I sent a simple, July 3rd email to everyone I knew.
Subject: 1st Annual No Fireworks Fourth of July
Meet me in the woods behind North Liberty.
No fireworks.
I’ll pack the tent.
Only the Graduate and the Guatemalan would respond.
It wasn’t more than a season ago the flood waters came, then retreated with dozens of fully loaded shoreline Porta Potty’s. My source of that information asked to remain unidentified during our conversation at the camp fire. Chock full Porta Potty’s floating down the lake were bad for his rental business. But it didn’t seem to stop anybody. If we were lucky out there, we might find a stray toilet.
On day one at the tent we meet Gary, a train conductor from Missouri with a used boat named Henrietta. Gary was extremely green when it came to boating. He had just purchased Henrietta that day, swinging the deal through a broker who returned fastest with legal registration.
“You don’t understand, I want this boat out there. Twooo-day,” Gary kept repeating, reenacting the phone call in railroad twang.
We would learn together, Gary being perfectly comfortable with three complete strangers riding his boat on it’s maiden voyage.
Together we learn how to back a trailer while the entire dock looks on.
Together we learn that boat batteries have an On/Off switch.
Together we learn to drive a boat.
It isn’t long before I ask Gary for the keys. He’s a wild man behind the throttle of his speedboat, a friendly fellow, on the nervous side, he’s my new best friend, but Gary wasn’t going to take my life on that boat. Not on that day. On that night.
Who would write the story?
More comfortable, my life now resting in my own decision making, I open up Gary’s new toy, feeling the exhilaration, while gliding over twelve feet of toilet water. At the end of the day, I got my guys home safe to their wife and kids.
If they had a wife and kids
On day two, the Guatemalan floats in the coffee colored water, up to his neck in Lake Porta Potty.
Still, he looks like an underwear model behind his shades and backwards cap. The Guatemalan is a walking, breathing, JCPenney underwear ad. A living Hanes commercial. The women swoon over him, forcing me to bust the Guatemalan’s chops. We run into one of his ex-wife’s on shore. The Guatemalan is popular. He has family in the area, multiple Guatemalan’s that are to join us at the tent after traveling south on their boat. If you’re scoring at home, it’s now three Guatemalan’s, one Magna-Cum-Laude Graduate, a writer and a guy from Missouri named Gary.
It was going to be crowded.
The Guatemalan’s undocked a quarter past one the following day. Their sparkling new pontoon gently rode the discolored waves of the polluted lake. They are wealthy lawn-mowers, each with genius business sense and organizational skills. We laugh with each other, sharing a few dreams. There is a two year old on board. I miss mine, the little guy packed into a life preserver brings me joy.
On the craft’s nose the Graduate and Guatemalan discuss a grand plan to dominate the fishing industry, going as far as drafting PowerPoint slides. I bring little to the discussion, preferring to lounge and argue about basketball.
I lay in the tent at 3:00 am on the last night. Unable to sleep to the snores of the Guatemalan’s, I talk with the Graduate.
Due to his typically obnoxious behavior and crude nature, there’s a perception The Graduate is uneducated. When I press him, asking why he never mentions his graduation from an exclusive college, in a difficult major, with better grades than every other person in his class, he answers simply,
“It just wasn’t that hard for me man.”
And I go back to bed.
On Sunday morning we visit Bobbers Grill, just the Guatemalan and I. We meet Mary, proud mother of three, a friendly staffer who entertains us with lake banter. The Guatemalan has action on Wimbledon, yelling at the TV during a particularly epic rally. The man from England wins and so does the Guatemalan. The Guatemalan is happy.
Happy Guatemalan’s undock the boat. Even on Sundays.
There was a moment of complete relaxation late that evening, laying on my back, arms folded, eyes closed. Buzzing home ever slowly with the Guatemalan piloting the pontoon. My Irish pigment free from the killer in the sky, I drift off to sleep. We’re a nautical mile out, arriving just at sunset. Traffic is heavy at the dock.
The Guatemalan encounters a wake, the splash sending gallons of water over the short edges of his boat, directly into my mouth, waking me up to the sensation of Lake Porta Potty draining down my esophagus.
I take a gulp, longing for the comfort of that tent, fully prepared for something bigger.