Tag Archives: boys

Los Camachos Del Rugby

Gonzalo Camacho plays on the wing for Argentina’s national rugby side, the Pumas. He’s pictured here wearing the colors of Exeter Chiefs in England.

Camacho was on the pitch this past weekend for Argentina’s stunning tie with South Africa in the 4 Nations Rugby Championship (a tie South Africa were lucky to walk away with).

Here’s a cool little video about his rugby family. He’s the oldest of five brothers, all of them ruggers. None of them have reached his exalted heights yet, but the youngest has recently played for Argentina’s U18 side. Besides the five sons, the Camachos also have four daughters. Quite a family.

Joffre Wasp-Killer

It’s spring time, and that means the wasps are coming out. They’re building nests under the porch awning, and under the back stairs, and by the back shed. But most of all they’re building just under the peak of the house, way up on the second story where it’s more difficult to get to them. This makes the prime real estate for wasps in our creaky cranny 1890s house right by windows to the girl’s and boys’ rooms.

Every spring and summer for the past few years knocking down the nests and killing the wasps that crawl in to the house has been a part of keeping the house. Wifey might be willing to go up and kill one if I’m at work, but usually the job waits until I get home. Then dad takes a flip-flop upstairs and takes care of business.

The wasps come in through the weirdest places. One season we had a recurring problem with wasps crawling in to daughter’s room through the in-ceiling light socket in her room, which didn’t have any glass around it.

Last year Joffre and George would come up to the killing ground with me, little men going up with dad to take care of the men’s mission. This obviously falls to dad because it’s dangerous and we’re protecting women and children. So my then six- and four-year-old boys would crawl up the stairs behind me, and watch from the doorway while I did the killing.

Wifey told me the other day, while I was trying to knock nest off the boys’ window, that I probably wouldn’t have to bother with killing wasps inside the house.

Apparently a few weeks ago a wasp intruder was reported while I was away. L’il Joffre felt himself ready to assume a manly responsibility and asked mom if he could be the one to kill it. He picked out a fly-swatter (a one-chance weapon I would have been too frightened to use, I prefer to crush them for several seconds with a flip-flop or a book), took a deep breath, and prepared to ascend the stairs. According to wifey the mission was nearly aborted as Joffre screwed up the courage to mount the stairs. There were agonizing moments while the audience wondered if he was up to the task he’d set for himself. When he did begin to climb, he walked up very slowly and very deliberately, before disappearing into the bedroom door, leaving the rest of the family to wonder what his fate would be.

A buzz was heard. A smack. A cry. “I got it!”

Wasp-killer.

So that’s not my job anymore. Now younger brother George will sometimes creep up the stairs behind L’il Joffre and watch him stalk the wasps. I guess next year we’ll have two wasp-killers trained.

The Most Melancholy Dunk In The World

I had a nice little time yesterday afternoon. It was a beautiful spring day and the city basketball courts were full. I played a couple of games.

At one point I brought the ball up court, and someone who wasn’t my man picked me up, bumping me the whole way down. I dribbled with some power to make him commit, then pulled up five feet outside the three-point line while he kept going. Nothing but chain.

Hadn’t done that in a long time. I even said “get off me!” and tried to look him in the eyes, which I’m a little embarrassed about.

Played well the rest of the time. Hit a couple of threes. Had some nice passes. The nice thing about being me is that when a 300-pound man beats his guy by dribbling behind his back, everyone on the sidelines does that whole “Oh! Dang!” thing. What can I say? *humblebrag* It’s what I do.

After one of the games, while the next team was picking a side, one of the guys, who looked like he might still be in high school, asked if I’d dunk the ball. Just to show him. When guys asked me that ten (+) years ago, I’d throw it off the backboard, or tomahawk it. This time I had to tell the guy I might not be able to (the neighbor kid had asked me the day before and I hadn’t quite managed it), but since my legs were warm from playing I did a straight one-handed dunk pretty easily.

Then this kid wanted to throw me an alley-oop. Which he did. I missed, but was thankful that I threw it off the back of the rim instead of the front.

On the last play of one game I pump faked, which was credible because for the first time in a long time I was hitting from outside, drove baseline, and dunked with the left. The dunk was strong, because I’m huge, and it was on a double rim with chain nets. The sideline erupted in jeers and yelled advice about stopping me. Like in the old days.

The truth is, I barely got up high enough. And I had a running start.

I had taken my seven-year-old boy along to watch. I believe he was the reason I was so focused; I wanted to impress this little boy. I couldn’t wait to see if he’d bring it up when we left, I had to ask him right away: “Did you see your old man dunk?”

I said “old man” because I wanted to sound casual. I didn’t want to sound desperate. But I realized as I said it that I really am his old man. And I was desperate that he be impressed.

He was. More by the three-pointers than the dunk, but I didn’t care. I was happy. And I realized as we walked home that this might be the last time he sees me dunk a basketball.

I suppose it’s a little late for me to be realizing this, but I guess I’m passing the torch, whether I like it or not.  I still play organized sports, and the younger kids are as impressed by me in my St. Andrew’s rugby kit as they are by professional athletes. But it’s time.

I’m not the basketball player anymore. They are. Little Joffre has a spin move, and I’m working on his crossover. I’m sure it’ll feel like no time at all when we’re in the driveway and he dunks on me. I’ll be very proud. I hope I’ll be ready.

The next generation.