Tales from the Towers: Keep your eye on the ball By Lucca

My youngest grandson, my little sunshine (who is no longer very little), and his big brother, the future anthropologist, are here for their yearly vacation in Israel. On Tuesday evening both disappeared happily to watch a live soccer game. Soccer in Israel is more exciting than soccer in the US, I suppose.

Although I like and appreciate most kinds of sports, my brain seems to be locked against everything that has to do with a ball. However, since my 3 grandsons have this inborn passion for soccer, I am trying my best to get involved. It seems that my best isn't good enough.

Many years ago in California, when we were all on our way to a soccer game where one of my grandsons was supposed to excel, I asked Omri to finally explain the rules to me. He did so, and in great detail. But he must have seen that glazed look in my eyes which is a sure sign that means the listener has moved to another planet. He gave a great sigh and said, "Grandma, never mind. If you hear people cheer, just cheer along!"

So, last Tuesday night, I made an additional effort to learn what's all about. Since I knew that this game was televised, I switched on  the TV and sat there expectantly, waiting for a sudden enlightening. All I saw was 22 good-looking young guys running from one end of the field to the other, chasing a ball as elusive as the first love of my life (who was five years old and hated girls).

Here and there the ball got into the net and a great outcry reached the sky. I joined in that releasing shout of "GOOOAAAL," although no one was there to appreciate my appreciation.

Why in heaven's name do they have to stretch and extend and prolong this cry of triumph so? Wouldn't just one short, loud announcement of "goal" into the loudspeaker do the job?

A long time ago, while living on an island, I contributed articles to the weekly youth publication which was called, of course, "Maccabi".

One evening we traveled in several cars to attend a basketball game to be played by our own Maccabi youngsters against a Dutch team. The young fellow who wrote about sport events was home with a cold. The president of our club told me: "We have no choice but you, and you will have to write about this game, which is an important one!"

"I can't write about basketball, I just don't know the rules, and I don't know what counts for what!" I whined.

"Well, Zacharias (a nice boy from Venezuela) will sit next to you," suggested the president, "and while he talks and explains, you write!"

I was a bit anxious about this solution, but I was bravely prepared to give it a try.

Actually, it went well. Zacharias sat next to me and was completely knowledgeable, talking, shouting and reporting on everything, and I used my shorthand to take it all down.

But suddenly he turned to me and said, "Sorry Lucca, I've got to go for a minute!"

He went and I was suddenly a fish out of water. "What's going on, what's going on?" I wailed in pure despair, but everyone around me was transfixed by the game and no one came to my rescue.

The outcome of it all was that my article appeared in the paper, but all that was happening while "Zacharias had to go" …was missing.

No wonder that my uncle, a basketball maven, read the piece, scratched his head and said:

"Something went wrong with that game, but I can't really figure out what!"

Soccer is not the only ball game which puzzles me. Take tennis. They toss a ball over the net and then it is love 2, or love 3, and who loves whom? Two players are competitors and they keep on declaring their love for each other?

The older I get the more life puzzles me!

Lucca