2002

90% recollection // 10% fabrication

I squint my eyes to turn the blaring Spartan Stadium lights into bright streaks, swirling my kid head around in small circles to engage them in lightsaber battles. The sun has just dipped below the horizon, and I swing my kid legs back and forth from a maroon seat cushion.

No princess parking for anyone’s behinds here. We either stay humbled by the long rows of temperamental metal or pad them ourselves.

The ref blows the whistle for the second half, summoning a passionate roar from the audience. Dad joins in with the pack, followed by Mom in a brighter and louder tone. Baby Sophie is fast asleep at home with Mom’s Mom, Dolly. I miss them for a moment before looking down at the player card I collected from a stadium employee.

There are names I already love and recognize. Troy Dayak, Dwayne DeRosario, Richard Mulrooney, Landon Donovan, and - just as I read his name, the Ultras section bellows “You’ll neeeever beeeat, Joe Caaaanon.” Our beloved keeper had just saved a kick to the left post from a Galaxy striker, whose name I didn’t care to learn. I feel the delayed excitement in my kid heart. By the time I look back up he’s already sent it northbound across the midfield line.

I want to focus on the game, a nail biter of a 1-1 tie. The player roster is a comforting distraction from the ruckus that surrounds me.

“Manny Lagos, Jeff Agoos, Coach Frank Yallop,” I read to myself. “Rhymes with… scallop.”

Crinkled, balled up aluminum foil sits in a paper tray stained red and yellow from below my dangling kid legs. A man in a black and white striped shirt sings “HEY, SNOW CONES,” with the slightest downward glissando on each note. He treads every aisle with equal parts tact, speed, and power. Just like the guys on the field.

My mouth waters as I see him swap a blue and red cone for someone’s crumpled one’s. I tug on Dad’s arm to ask for the frozen orb in a paper vessel. He turns as I point to the sweets dealer, to which he smiles, nods, and flags down with a quick hand wave. He’s in his beige Grumpy dwarf hat, a short sleeved green and white floral button up, and khaki shorts.

Mom is in her black and blue Quakes hat and a Stanford long sleeve. She is laser focused on the field as Dad reaches behind our seats to make the exchange. I ask for the blue and green one since they’re my two favorite colors.

Raspberry and Lime.

I’m careful not to bite in directly with my front teeth. That’s a rookie move a five year old would make.

Sugar bomb in hand, I revert my eyes back to the field. Dwayne DeRosario is running circles around two, no, three midfielders. He passes a sharp diagonal in the direction where Landon Donovan is sprinting. Everyone hollers as he takes the ball from what seems to be precisely on the offside line. He scurries just inches ahead of a struggling defender, twisting like a blue butterfly before he stings one from his left foot into the bottom right corner of the net. The keeper is outstretched and dumbfounded, knees contorted like he’d been toppled from a praying position.

We jump in unison, cheering with our whole lungs as Blur’s “Song 2” erupts through the speakers. “WOO HOO” as the guitars, bass, and drums thrash messily. I cover my ears. The players huddle in a dogpile and the announcer goes “Goal for the San Jose Earthquakes, from your very own; NUMBER TEN, LANDON DONOVAN.” I can hardly contain my kid excitement.

My teeth and tongue are stained turquoise, and the rest of the match is a game of keep away for the blue jerseys. Two minutes of stoppage time and the ref blows the whistle three times. The board reads “SPARTANS 2, AWAY 1.” We make our way to the grassy parking lot and climb into Green Car, our Saturn sedan.

I peer out from the back left window to make sure that Mom and Dad remembered how to get us home. The “ICE” building with the Rocket Power looking people. “This is where the Sharks practice” is what I’d been told. *Bump* on the railroad line that cuts perpendicular through Alma. First Street. Almaden. Under the 87. The great dividing line of Lelong that turns Alma into Minnesota. The ARCO, the Habbas Law Personal Injury billboard. Left and then a left on the fork. Home.

Sophie is fast asleep and Dolly is soon about to be. I head to my room and plop into bed. I look up at a certain part of the ceiling paint that strikes me as a long fox leaping towards a Parasaurolophus dinosaur. I close my eyes, only thinking as far ahead as Saturday morning while I fade away.

I can’t think as far ahead as Landon Donovan’s ultimate betrayal of getting traded to play for the Galaxy. I can’t possibly fathom the games where we’d turn our backs with his number 10 jersey anytime he got possession of the ball. I couldn’t possibly think as far ahead as the biggest betrayal of our whole team getting shipped to Houston. As far ahead as all the years we’d be jumping out of the seats for Sophie’s games. Connecting dots between “Song 2” and Nirvana’s palpable influence on Y2K bands. Dolly’s resting place in Connecticut. A glass of merlot with Mom…

All I know is that my dreams are vivid and terrify me a little bit.

I cruise through the cosmos and surf Saturn’s rings. An electronic Mr. Potato head toy comes to life…

I loosen my underbite lockjaw as the smell of warm french toast wakes me up. The Quakes won their game last night, and only five year olds are scared of their dreams.