Umtiti

 Umtiti 

Eleven o’clock: The phone rings. Maggie Paul’s voice: “Hi.”

     “Hi.”

     “Your uncle - or Albert - says the game begins at one.”

     “I thought two.”

     “Well, he says ‘one,’ and I’m to bring him by at noon for lunch. Is that okay?
     “I guess,” I say. Then, because what else can I say? “Sure. Tell him though that it’s either cereal or PB&J here.”

     “Wait a minute.” Murmuring. Then: “He says, ‘Sandwich is fine. Do you have milk?’”

     “Yes,” I say. “Of course” - I wasn’t going to eat cereal dry.

I’m looking out the front window so I can help him up the steps if he needs it. There are five steps up from the sidewalk to our walk and then another five from the walk to the front porch. I open the front door, step out on the porch. But he waves me off. He has the handrail in one hand and Maggie in the other.

     Does she want to stay for sandwiches? I ask Maggie. She says, “Maybe.” She thinks a tick. “No. Better not,” she says.

     “Call when I’m to pick him up,” she says.

We eat in the kitchen. The game does start at two.

     “We’ll turn it on about a quarter till,” Uncle Albert says. “Okay?” he adds uncharacteristically.

     “What do you want to hear?” I ask when he’s in his chair in front of the TV. “Through your sleeping ears?”

     “Miles?” he says.

     “Sure.”

     He falls asleep just as “Will o’ the Wisp" begins, as the percussion clicks in.

Emperor Joseph II

A back-and-forth first half, first Belgium dangerous controlling, then France more dangerous on the break. But there’s no scoring until the 51st minute when Umtiti gets in front of Marouane Fellaini for a header from an Antoine Griezmann corner. No one on the post. Kerplunk.

     And it’s a frustrating jump, waddle, wiggle, and limp to the end for poor Belgium. It was another pretty ugly edition of “the beautiful game.”

Uncle Albert celebrated my groan - of real pain!

     I am not sure why I have rooted for Belgium throughout this long, often messy slog, but I have. And against France, again I don’t know; but I will have to watch them in the final.

     It is, I decide, as Emperor Joseph says it is, over and over again in Amadeus, the fool, who, however, understands life better than Socrates does philosophy: “There it is!”

01.04.18

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*By Anton von Maron, 1775 - Kunsthistorisches Museum, Wien