Football is called "ball", and armed themselves with rags. From afar, we could hear the echoes of great players and great teams: Alumni, Independiente, River, San Lorenzo ... they talked about in the newspapers that, at times, brought my father.
One afternoon, my older brother, who would have 13 or 14 years, Dad asked what we all were starting to ask:
"We, of who we are?
Dad, with his usual earnestness, seemed to meditate for a few seconds:
-Let me think.
After a while, as all around him were still anxious waiting, he said: "When will
Buenos Aires, I'll make some inquiries and I'll say.
Once a month, Dad went to Buenos Aires. Out on Friday at noon and again on Sunday late afternoon or, sometimes, on Monday morning.
Finally, a cloudy Friday, Dad came out with their fancy clothes, clean-shaven, well groomed, smelling of cologne and his bag still in hand.
The weekend was ending, not what tell anyone, but Saturday night I could hardly sleep.
At some point, as required dormitábamos nap, Laureano asked Mom if Dad would come that afternoon or Monday morning. She did not know. I thought I would be awful to spend another night with that uncertainty, that tickle the soul.
the evening, we were caught in the river, fishing for eels. But I spent most of his time turned, facing the street. Suddenly, as if it were a ghost carrier of happiness, I appear to Dad: tall, thin, dark-haired, walking proud with their fast paced and agile.
dad arrived, I cried! I
my two sisters, but seven others ran out to greet him. We are always glad to your arrival, but this time was different. It was ... exciting.
greeted us with his love parco, touching the head. Entered the house, greeted mom, took off his shirt. Put on the table something that had brought for inviting us and began to unwrap. I was very calm, it seemed that he had forgotten the main mission of this trip to Buenos Aires.
not take it anymore:
"And Dad? Of who we are? He adopted an air
circumspect and told us more pause than usual, and that was the only time in my life that felt like a desperate slowness:
"Well, I was finding out, and I was thinking ... We Independiente.
I heard and felt that my heart jumped, I missed not hearing it because I had always been independent, Independent was born.
Now we all knew who we were.
Dad went on to explain that it was a great team game, which had its own stage of cement! and visor, the only one in America. And he had built the club without asking anybody silver. Laureano asked what color was the shirt. I imagine it is impossible for me to know, but Dad's response was, again, something like a verbal confirmation of what was already in my mind: red, of course. We were the great Reds Avellaneda.
With the rosy light of sunset, before we are unable in the darkness, ran out to play ball. We had an enthusiasm that never had felt. We were proud and happy.
We had a wonderful chest on the red shirt invisible to the eye. We were
Independiente. . . forever.
(Courtesy of Independent, The Grand Champion)
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