Tuesday, April 5, 2011

El Rompe Redes, or The Legend of the Brown Man of Barcelona

Because we are the visitors,
the home crowd shows us hostility.
Because I am different,
the home team shows me hostility.

I have three defenders
guarding me at all times.

"Monkey," they call me,
for my pale brown skin is not
olive-brown like an Italian,
my dark eyes are not
bright blue like an Aryan,
and the bridge of my nose is not
aquiline like a Roman.

They could at least be more precise
and call me "Half-Monkey",
for my father is a Spaniard,
who married a short brown native woman
from the Philippine islands.

But to them,
my blood counts for nothing.
Half a monkey is still a monkey.

I am the only brown man
on a field of twenty-two players.

My teammates can see past
the color of my skin.
I am treated like a brother─
an equal (maybe even greater)─
because I score goals,
because I win matches,
and because they all know
I am the best player
among my white-skinned peers.

That is why my defenders look at me
with anger in their eyes
and hate in their hearts.
They will never allow
a monkey to beat them
in this beautiful game
they created.

I now have the ball,
and the defenders tighten their guard,
like zookeepers out to corral
an escaped chimpanzee,
and they hurl their tightly-woven
nets of prejudice
as they try to hold the monkey down.

But I am too fast for them.
I leave all the defenders behind,
nothing left for them to do but stare
at the number on the back of my jersey:
Number 1.

Racing toward the goal,
I cock my leg back,
and strike the ball
like the hammer of a gun,
and send the bullet flying.

I watch the goalkeeper's
bright blue eyes,
following the ball in disbelief
as it passes through his hands
and over his straw-colored head.

And the goal's net cannot hold my shot,
just as the zookeeper's net cannot hold the monkey.
My bullet travels so fast
that it breaks the net completely through,
splicing the fibers that hold
the twine of reality together.

The entire home crowd
is stunned into silence,
and the joyous uproar of our visiting team
praising my magnificent monkey kick
becomes the salt of insult
that sprinkles over the wounds of their egos.

In the cheery blue eyes of my teammates,
I am El Rompe Redes
The Net Breaker.
My name will live in legend,
and the club will pass down my story
from generation to generation.

But in the teary blue eyes of my opponents,
I will live in infamy.
They will never see me
as the player who scored the winning goal
amidst the hostile conditions
of an away crowd.
My name will be spoken with loathing,
for I will live forever in their memory
as the monkey who destroyed their net.


*For Bersong EuroPinoy 3

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