15 June 2010
Vuvuzela
(Football Fans with plastic trumpets- Photo Coca Cola of South Africa)
I was chatting with a pal in Germany over the weekend when she remembered that England was playing the U.S. in that strange game that everyone cares about except us. It is in South Africa, as you may have heard. I have had enough trouble concentrating of late that I nearly missed the conclusion of the Stanley Cup and the denouement of the NBA finals.
It is as though the air has been filled with the hum of a million cicadas, the ones who terrorize the Virginia summers every seventeen years. It is purely imaginary, I think, but it is real enough to be a constant distraction. I will be thinking about some huge business thing and then my thoughts drift off to something else altogether- the list of things that the folks need done. Where were the passports? Isn’t everything supposed to be in the metal box in the library? Where is Dad’s Blue Cross card?
Didn’t he have a wallet all his life? Where could it be?
There was a peculiar dual resonance when I walked away from the computer in the den and tuned in the football match from the pitch in Africa.
There was something in the background that threatened to drown out the commentators- a low rasping buzzing sound exactly like a billion cicadas on warm Virginia night.
The color commentary ignored the whole thing, or perhaps had explained it earlier in the telecast. Apparently the South African fans communicate their feelings with a plastic trumpet called "vuvuzelas."
It is a mark of nationhood, according to locals, and that being still a fresh concept, they are quite adamant about it. Everyone else is irritated, including broadcasters, fans and players. The World Cup organizing committee has announced that they respect matters of sovereignty- sensitive as they are in the former land of apartheid- and will allow the mind-numbing drone to continue.
Mom and I hunted through documents after I read the announcement. We had a date with the local maxillary surgeon in the afternoon. Apparently Dad had broken a tooth in a fall a couple weeks ago- I don’t know how, and shuddered to think of how it must have hurt- and the assorted pieces needed to come out.
No wonder he had not wanted to chew the tasty steak I had grilled the other night. I am such an idiot sometimes.
Dad got through the procedure all right- much better than I anticipated. In fact he handled it pretty well, probably better than I did, since I had to pretend that everything was OK. He was woozy on the way out of the office and on the drive back home, but perked up.
When he got out of the car he pulled out the wad of gauze they told him to clamp down on over the crater in his jaw and he tossed it like he used to throw a baseball.
I saw him in there for a flicker. He had pretty good heat in his time, and could make my glove give a satisfying "thwack" when we played catch.
I think he must have been in pain the last few weeks, but couldn’t articulate it. It must be like trying to live in the middle of a stadium with everyone blowing on a vuvuzela.
Copyright 2010 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Subscribe to the RSS feed!