“In case you’ll be back for New Year’s, you’re more than welcome to come to the party,” she said as before she gave me a hug..
“Sure. Merry Christmas!” I said.
She walked me to the door, the way she always did and does: her head held high, and her gorgeous hair bopping with every step.
I walked to my car and switched the CD in the trunk of my BMW to Manic Street Preachers and turned up the volume of my car stereo. Then I drove toward the ferry terminal, and headed over to Finland.
I wasn’t surprised when Alpo Suhonen called me one fall morning two years ago, He often called me to talk about his new ideas – and there were a lot of them.
I was stunned, though, when he asked me if I’d be interested in writing his biography. After all, I had been the one who’d been urging him to write one for years, ever since I first heard his fantastic, and fantastical, stories while working on another book with him almost ten years ago. We were supposed to be working on his philosophy of coaching, but more than once or twice, I realized I was listening to Alpo tell me about his adventures, the places he’d been to, and the people he’d met. (The list is long and you’d know all the names, but let me just say “David Bowie”).
In grade school, the last lesson of every Friday was reserved for organized goofing around. In other words, on Fridays, we had an hour to showcase our creativity, and most of the times, a few kids would tell jokes or maybe perform a sketch or two. Sometimes I was one of those kids with a short play or a sketch of my own.
It was important for me to be funny so whatever we put on, was always a comedy. Not that we always succeeded. Comedy’s hard, a lot of hit and miss.
Last weekend I chatted with an American gentleman I knew as Coach since he used to be my brother-in-law’s tennis coach.
We sat in the warm August night talking about sports – because he was Coach and I was a Sports Writer – but as the night grew darker I realized he wasn’t just a tennis coach.
I like rules. I’ve always liked to know that there are rules and I expect everybody – I’m looking at you pushing a shopping cart on the streets – to follow them, even the unwritten ones. (Really, dude, it’s not your cart).
I like rules so much that I make up new rules for myself. These are rules that may have been inspired by other people, but they only apply to me.
Two of these rules have to do with how I speak of Son and Daughter – and no, there’s no rational reason behind them. One, I never call refer to them as “children”, “kids,” or even just “son” and “daughter”, except here on the old blog. The rule is to always include their name in the conversation.
I think it has to do with my being an only child. I never wanted to be just a kid. I always wanted to be Risto.
Funnily enough, the second rule has to do with the end of childhood. And the rule is never to call someone “an adult” or “a grownup” when they turn eighteen.
Never.
Finland had a presidential election recently, and for the first time in my lifetime, the new President is younger than me, albeit only by a few months. The new head of state is also someone I’ve played hockey against when we were – both – pre-teens and teens.
A few weeks ago, I was sitting across the table from his father, a prominent hockey executive, talking hockey for a book I’m working on. And since it was right in the middle of the campaign, the topic of presidency came up.
“I’m sure he’ll win,” I said, while grabbing another Jaffa cake (which, for some reason, you can’t find in Sweden, but that’s another story).
“We’ll see,” said the then-future Father of the President.
“It could’ve been me.”
I didn’t say that out loud but I did think it. And then I took another Jaffa cake – because they were there.
I once tried to estimate the number of times I’ve been on these ferries that traffic between Sweden and Finland. It’s almost like one of those questions you might expect to get at a Google job interview in which the right answer is less important than how you try to get there.
The first three – six, if you count return trips, and why wouldn’t you? – are pretty easy.
For years, Daughter and I have driven to games and practices in four different sports, all year round. And over the years we’ve developed a few routines for our trips. Not all of them have made it this far, and some have changed a little.
For example, we no longer listen to Ed Sheeran’s album +. These days, you’ll be more likely to hear Taylor Swift or any one of the One Direction guys in the car.
But when we get to our destination, we always fist bump each other and I’ll tell her to go get ‘em.
If I’m travelling and can’t get to the game, or if it’s an away game, I’ll text her the fist bump emoticon.
The day Daughter was born was a cold one. We had been to the hospital once earlier, but were told that it had been a false alarm. Daughter wasn’t ready to meet the world yet. When we returned to the hospital a month later, it was way past her due date, so we both, but especially Wife, were more than ready.
She was born at quarter to six on that cold March day. Since she was our second child, we knew a little better what to expect, which is why we had our special CD with special songs on it, to create the perfect mood. We were cool, calm, and collected, and since everything went well, and she was healthy and happy, I drove home later that night, and returned the next day to pick up my two girls.
It was even colder the next day day as we walked out the hospital. It was windy so we had wrapped Daughter inside a fluffy white overall inside a blanket as I carried her in my arms, not lifting my feet on the icy ground on our way to the parking garage.
I can still see her tiny face, with a little bit of cheeks and nose showing from underneath the blankets. And when I put her down on the car seat, I have a vivid memory of her raising her tiny fist for me to bump it.
I may be imagining things. After all, it’s been seventeen years today.
Anyway, it’s funny how certain parts of one’s personality never seem to change. She’s still often a little late, and likes to sleep in whenever she can. However, when awake, she’s always been an active child. She learned to crawl and walk at an early age. Well, maybe not as much “walk” as “run”. She’s always loved all kinds of games from football to darts to hockey to card games, and doing everything with a smile on her face.
I don’t think we have one photo of her in which she isn’t smiling.
* * *
The other day, I dropped Daughter off at the hockey rink. We were late, things were chaotic, and she just grabbed her bag and took off. I sat inside the car, with my right hand extended out, my hand a fist. And sure enough, three steps in, Daughter stopped, turned around, opened the door and bumped my fist.
“Go get ‘em,” I said.
“Will do,” she said with a smile, slammed the car door shut and ran off.
I couldn’t see her face, but she was probably smiling.
I love pizza. I could eat piza every day. In fact, about a decade ago, we went on a road trip in Italy, and I did eat pizza every single day for two weeks. Well, every day but one. That day, I decided that I couldn’t eat pizza every day and that I should at least try the pasta – when in Rome – so I had pasta.
It was in Siena, in a restaurant by the Piazza del Campo.
I remember it vividly because when I saw Wife’s pizza, I regretted not having the same.
I’ll never make that mistake again.
I don’t remember my twentieth birthday, and that’s not me trying to be funny and imply I had a wild birthday party. I most probably didn’t have a party at all.
It was a Tuesday, so I probably took the subway to the university, had a few classes before taking the subway back to my tiny apartment. In the afternoon, I’d guess I drove my Nissan Sunny to hockey practice and home, and then watched the Invisible Man on Sky Channel – and waited for Monsters of Rock to begin at 1am.
A good day, in other words.
Risto at 20.
