“So, d’you think we’ll just sit here like two zombies on our way back, staring ahead, all silent, all out of talk?” I asked Leppä as we sat down in our seats 5E and 5D on the plane.
He looked at me and laughed. I laughed, too. Like we’d ever shut up.
Craven Cottage, if you don’t know, is the oldest football stadium in London and the home field of Fulham Football Club.
A few years ago, when I translated a soccer magazine from Swedish into Finnish, there was a story about the legend of Cottage, its demise and return to the days of glory and while I didn’t remember much of the story when I got there, I remembered this much: Craven Cottage was a magical place.
And there we were, Buddy and I, last Saturday. We clapped our hands when the players walked onto the pitch, cheered on Fulham – “Come on Fuuuuuuulham” – and jumped onto our feet when Berbatov scored for Fulham. Well, I did, Buddy just laughed at me. We ate the longest hotdogs I’ve ever seen, and we took a lot of photos. However, while the match was fine, it wasn’t magical.
All I know about the guy is that his name was Lothar. He was one of those people that I sort of thought I knew when I never knew him at all. I knew he was a hockey player, and today, 25 years since I last saw him, I don’t even remember where we played together – or whether we ever did.
I think we may have played together on my university’s ice time, or maybe not. He may have gone to the same university with me, although I don’t think he did. Our paths crossed only a few times in the late 1980s, maybe early 1990s.
In short, all I know is that did play hockey, that we kind of knew each other, and, while I didn’t know his real name, I knew he was called Lothar after Mandrake the Magician’s best friend, the Prince of the Seven Nations, and more importantly, the world’s strongest man.
In the name of full disclosure, I am not a Swede. I’ve retained my Finnish passport, citizenship, and most of the values in my 12 years in Stockholm but I have also added many new ones. Values, not citizenships. One of the things that hasn’t changed, though, is my appreciation for the Swedish Chef, which is why I was so surprised to see this story about Swedes being tired of getting asked about him. Or that, gasp, he wouldn’t be funny!
This past summer, my two kids, my beautiful Swedish wife, and I have watched a half a dozen movies together: Ice Age 4, Madagascar 3, Mary Poppins, Wizard of Oz, The Muppets, and Alvin and the Chipmunks 3. And which ones are the kids talking about afterwards? Mary Poppins, the Oz, and the Muppets. Which songs have been in heavy rotation all summer? The ones from the Oz and the Muppets.
And whose picture is on my son’s wall?
The Swedish Chef’s.
Was I worried that she’d say no? Well, I did expect her to say yes, but I was ready for a no, too. Honestly.
I had originally imagined myself on my knee in front of her, holding the most beautiful ring in my hand. The snow would fall on us slowly, and she’d fight off the tears, then tell me to get up, but she’d say it in a romantic comedy sort of way, so she’d say, “get up, you big old… you big, you…” but she wouldn’t be able to finish the sentence because I’d be up, and we’d kiss.
One day, in second grade, I came home from school with a form that I was supposed to return the next day, with my choice of foreign languages filled in. I was asked to rank the languages in order of preference, and with luck, my number one choice would be the one I’d start studying the next fall.
Coca-Cola had come to Finland with the Summer Olympics in 1952, and by the time I was about to make that language choice, that faraway Nordic country had fallen in love with Rodney in “Peyton Place”, and Ben Cartwright in “Bonanza”.
Then the 50s America was cool, and “Happy Days” was cool. While Fonzie was the coolest of cool, even Ralph Malph had something I really wanted. A cool high school jacket.
FADE IN.
INT. – A CLASSROOM – DAY
Two dozen adults sit on small chairs, facing a teacher who’s smiling and nodding to them.
In one of my first soccer tournaments ever, in one of the biggest ones at least, our coach told me before a game against a Swedish team that he’d make another boy the captain of the team for that game.
“It’s just because he speaks Swedish, you know,” the coach told me.
I took off the captain’s armband and handed it over to the coach who told me I’d be the captain in the next game again.
I was about ten years old, and I knew the coach was right. I didn’t speak Swedish. I only knew how to count to ten, and then fake it to thirteen. I knew just one other word in Swedish: Kött. “Meat”.
It got quiet in the back yard. Suddenly. Almost too quiet, and a little too suddenly so I decided to have a look. As I got around the house, I saw Daughter standing very, very still right at the edge of our lawn, looking out to the other side of the fence our neighbors had set up a couple of months earlier.
She didn’t move one, but she looked happy. And I knew why.
I stopped, too. I didn’t want to spoil her moment.
“Easy, easy there. Easy now, boy.” That’s what my grandfather apparently told the helicopter pilot that was showing him the sights during an agricultural fair decades ago. Maybe it wasn’t a helicopter, maybe it just a small plane, and the pilot was just trying to show Grampa his own house, but either way, the turn was a little too abrupt for Grampa’s taste so he let the pilot know that he did not approve.
As soon as he got his feet back on the ground, the story about Grampa calling the pilot a boy started to make rounds in the family. It wasn’t just that he had called him a boy, it was also the way he always used to say it, with a drawl that made his dialect so distinct.
