Egypt’s heartbreaking own goal in yesterday’s World Cup match against Russia reminded me of something. As you’ll recall, very early in the second half, the ball glanced off the leg of a defensive player on the Egyptian team, resulting in an own goal that opened the floodgates for two quickies by Russia. In a span of sixteen minutes or so, Russia scored three times. Egypt was deflated, and not even a laser of a penalty shot by Mo Salah could rouse the team.
But let me tell you a story. A long time ago, I tutored kids, Mexican- and Middle Eastern- born Brooklynites, at 826nyc, the Dave Eggers-founded after-school literacy program. The kids were so cute, and played so well together. This group was mostly from Puebla and Yemen, and they earnestly did their math and spelling homework, boys sporting Mets caps (God help them, they were Mets fans) and girls in sparkly little sneakers and tee-shirts with funny sayings.
Four years later, the markets melted down, and in 2008, with the world economy teetering on the brink, I shifted gears and started working at the main branch of the Brooklyn Public Library. You know, the big Art Deco one on Grand Army Plaza. People rag about “makers and takers” but, I’ll tell you, every damn seat in every damn study room was always filled. The place was packed with kids and adults, doing their school research, working on projects, and trying so hard to better themselves.
My job was in adult education and, because the market tanked, and library patrons were out of work, or about to be laid off, my primary task was helping men and women improve (or start) their resumes.
But there was one guy, from Montego Bay, Mike, who struggled with composition writing. He needed to learn how to write basic compositions, for his remedial coursework. He was a tall, fit guy in his mid-twenties, who worked light construction. His jeans were worn, his pocketed Carhartt shirts had holes in them, and his hands were rough.
He always smiled at the start of our time. Mike was very shy and said he could not write a little story, even a paragraph, with a beginning, middle and end. We tried and tried, to no avail. It was tough. He was tired from work, and embarrassed by his situation.
“I can’t do this,” he said, finally, one day.
“Bull,” I said. “I know you can.”
He shook his head. I countered with: “I’ll prove you can. Put your pen down, and just tell me a story.”
And he did.
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The ball was struck, a bullet straight at Mike. He reflexively stuck out his foot to block and redirect the shot.
Terror of terrors: somehow the ball careened violently back towards Mike’s goal, and skidded into the corner. It was an own goal.
Mike stopped talking. He wiped away a tear, this big strong guy. “No one talked to me. No one said a ting. They all walked away.
“I will never forget that moment, Mr. Marty. I tell you. Never.”
I breathed deeply and regrouped.
“Mike, thank you for sharing that story with me,” I said. “That was very brave. And now you’re going to do something even more difficult.”
“What?” he said, nervous.
“Pick up your pen, and write that story down, just like you told it to me, word for word.”
And he did. And it was damn fine.
And I will never forget that moment either.