An inauspicious first step on path to the World Cup
Initiating small talk has never been my strong suit. I’ve got a handful of skills and precious few talents, but the ability to strike up a random conversation with a perfect stranger is all but absent from my repertoire. Don’t get me wrong. I can hold my own if someone else begins the conversation, but if I am left to lead the effort, the only thing you’re apt to get is awkward silence.
Occasionally, in the spirit of self-improvement, I’ll venture out onto the pencil-thin limb of personal vulnerability and float an opening line. The setting this time was the YMCA locker room, where I’d just finished a morning lap swim and was about to head off to watch my grandson James in his first soccer game. I shared this joyful little nugget with the guy at the locker next to me. As a fellow “gray hair,” I figured he’d offer some reflection about his own children or grandchildren.
“Now isn’t that nice?” he said. “And how old is he?”
“Well, he’s playing in the 3-year-olds league, but he’s nearly 3 1/2,” I said chuckling.
The guy stopped in the middle of pulling on his left sock, turned to look me straight in the eye and said, “You know the human brain isn’t fully developed until age 25.”
What I fear most in trying to instigate a conversation is it will lead to some utterly uncomfortable, insanely silent moment where I’m stuck with no idea of what to say next. Now here I was, in a mess of my own making.
Nothing in his body language or facial expression offered a clue as to what he meant by the comment. Did he hear me correctly? Was it meant to come off as a word of wisdom? Advice? Maybe it was a sneering criticism of my own grandfatherly enthusiasm? Or was it a simple, random observation from a perfect stranger sitting on pine board in his underwear?
I turned my full attention to tying my shoe laces, checked my watch and hurried off with my traditional “Have a nice day!”
After sharing the experience with my wife Kristin, both of us were left to ponder the statement on the 30-minute drive to the big game.
We arrived during warm-ups, and James was thrilled to see us there — he in his shiny, knee-length jersey, knee-high socks with matching shin guards and pristine white spikes. It was as if a pro from the famous Manchester United club had been converted to a character in the “Peanuts” comic strip. He looked entirely ready to roll and goal — except for the doughnut-sized rock he clutched in his hand.
“Papa and Gee Gee, look!” he said, instantly running off the field. “Look at this awesome rock I found!”
There was no turning back from this moment. Whistles blew, children circled, drills were conducted and soccer balls were eventually moved along by little feet. All the while our grandson marveled over a flat chunk of sandstone worn roughly in the shape of a boomerang. Adjacent parents and grandparents experienced similar heroics all around the sidelines.
One kid named Gunter could have scored a thousand goals in the course of the ensuing 30 minutes of play had his Euro-punk soccer coach father turned him to full throttle, but it would have been an empty victory. He was the only player on the field for most of the game.
A player next to us sat on the ground pushing a toy dump truck through a patch of sweet clover. Two generations hovered over him, exasperated.
“You know, the human brain isn’t fully developed until the age of 25,” I said.
They laughed and nodded in full understanding.
Kristin and John Lorson would love to hear from you. Write Drawing Laughter, P.O. Box 170, Fredericksburg, OH 44627, or email John at jlorson@alonovus.com.