Benfica Market Showdown. How Paul Found His Game Again...

Well... So for those of you who were keeping track of the seemingly incoherent, and frankly extravagant purchases that we made in preparation for our departure to Luanda, you know that we decided to "splurge" and get ourselves a professional, tournament-grade foosball table (yes, they make those) for the trip over. After all it had been about ten years since the last time I had played "the foos" in a pub in downtown San Francisco, and another three or four years prior to that, that I was in my playing prime while attending college at UC Santa Barbara.

In those days foosball was a religion, and even in the fraternity house, late at night, with all manner of tempting distractions fluttering about, a hard-core group of about 4-6 gents would cast away all impure thoughts and focus on the beautiful and seductive art of foosball. Referred to affectionately as the "Jogo Bonito" in Brazil, foosball provided a platform for intense competition and rivalry, and ultimately a deep comradery that could only be forged as a result of hours of toiling over the beautiful game, and about 16 Natural Lights...

Those games back in Santa Barbara would start at about 7pm, and would go straight through the night until about 4am sometimes. With breaks only taken for adult beverage refills, Freebird's Burritos (delivered by eager and willing pledges), and the occasional dispute-fueled wrestling match on the grime covered tile floor, these "foos" matches would test even the most hardened and seasoned players.

Fast forward about three or four years (roughly) and I had largely left the game behind. From time to time I would think about foosball, even catch a glimpse of gladiators doing battle on a table through the window of a bar somewhere, but I figured that I was over the hill and felt it was best if I didn't "risk it." One night I found myself in a pub in San Francisco, I think it was on Grant and Green St. near the Skarsgard's apartment. I was there with a very good girlfriend and some of her pals. We sat in that bar for about three hours, them chatting about the latest episode of Sex in the City, and me fixated on the corner of the bar where a foosball table rose like both a beacon of freedom, and a harbinger of doom alike. I had also noticed a very peculiar, and intensely intoxicated gentleman leaning sloppily against an adjacent wall. He looked in no shape to be standing, and he would most certainly be a gift to the police if and when he stumbled out of this place alone later that night.

The bar was absolutely packed, as downtown bars in the city most often are on a Friday or Saturday night. I remember peering through the crowd and witnessing the sustained and utter domination of that table by a pair of what must have been locals. Bullies. Those two guys stood there and just destroyed everyone who stepped up to that table. They must have won about 25 or 30 games straight over the span of a couple hours.

I decided to walk over and take a closer look. I gently rose from my chair and paused for a moment to gauge whether or not I would be noticed by my companions. I wasn't, so I turned 90 degrees, as stiff as a robot, and started off towards the the killing fields. Clutching my Amstel Light tightly, I settled in near the table. The same pair had just finished dispatching yet another pathetic, helpless, pair of amateurs. "Back to your lady friends" the two victors spouted arrogantly at their defeated foes.

That table had been hot all night. There had been a steady stream of bodies lining up for their turn at the meat grinder for hours, but miraculously there was a lull and no one seemed to be that eager to get on the table. I noticed that my stumbling friend was still "hanging around" the table. I motioned to him with a quick head nod and asked if he wanted to pair up. He immediately accepted and we exchanged greetings. I remember him having a thick Scottish tilt to his voice, not to mention a certain brand of sweaty, beer-soaked aroma shrouding his seemingly rubberized body and limbs.

To make a now long story short(er), the drunken Scot was game. He and I just wiped those two hot-headed bullies off of the table. I think the score was 11-2 and the game only lasted about 5 minutes. The two left the table dejected, attacking the airwaves with a few vulgar, choice words for me and the Scot. If I remember correctly we played just one or two more games and then I was beckoned by the Sex and the City movie club to head for the exit.

Fast forward back to the near-present, and of course when we were deciding what kind of time-killing novelties we should bring along on our assignment to Angola, we figured a foosball table would be just what the doctor ordered. After all, foosball is a great social game for adults, but it is always loads of fun for kids of all ages as well. We wanted to ensure that our home in Luanda was suitable for both audiences.

A Cuca, adorned in the beer koozie I received as gift for
being an usher at David and Holly Cory's wedding. 

Shortly after we arrived in Luanda, and with our ocean-bound shipment at least months from gracing the beautiful Angolan shores, we started taking a new route home for the office. This route was far more interesting and "cultured" than the main drag was. The road, or "rua" was narrow and it wound through a village that lined the coast. The first time we took this road I noticed that there was a foosball table on the side of the rua, and their were a bunch of teenagers drinking Cuca's, the national beer, and playing foos. When I saw this I told the driver to stop and he just sort of laughed at me and said "this is not a place for Mister." Every time we drove by that spot for the next few weeks, I would push and prod at him to stop, jokingly, and he would just laugh and respond that I shouldn't stop here and get out dressed like I was. I was of course in very nice dress work clothes and among other reasons, I would have stuck out like a real "estrangeiro."

Well I stopped bothering the driver, Emiquilson, but that did launch a fun dialogue between us two about how I thought I was a professional foosball player and that I needed to get some practice in before my professional, tournament-ready table with match-weighted plastic player men showed up...

I finally got my chance last weekend. We went to visit the arts and crafts market in Benfica. This is an interesting place with all kinds of paintings, carvings, and clothing, mostly awful and cheap, but fun to look at nonetheless. Right when I walked under the giant tent which covers the market I froze in my tracks, just as some purveyor of fine art goods latched onto me and began to express to me vehemently how special of a price he had for me on some of his wares. Across the alley way behind the market there was a group of teenagers, all equipped with Cuca beers, huddled energetically around a crooked old foosball table in the road. With the artist still yelling in my ear and tugging at my shirt sleeve, I had made up my mind. My tournament-grade, extra slick-weighted shaft, professional foosball table was on its way, and I needed to practice. Now.

I turned calmly to the the gentleman who had by now voluntarily worked his own best price down to "40% off for estrangeiro price" and said to him plainly "your bustin' my balls man." A crude reference, and certainly not the most politically correct statement to repeat in our family blog, but a necessary homage to South Park's Cartman character.

I told the driver I was headed over there and a big smiled worked its way onto his face. I did a few quick shoulder and wrist stretches before I crossed over to where the game was being played. One of the teenagers was motioning to me to come over, and I walked over towards the table. I started to chat with him in my best "portugnol" but he just responded with grunts and smiles. It turned out he was a mute, and my driver chuckled and said "Mister, ele no pode falar..." (he cannot speak). I turned to the kid and tipped my figurative hat and politely said "carry on."

I joined the other kids that were crowded around the table and asked if I could play. They were playing quick games, first to 2 points, without skipping a beat between matches. It was quickly my turn and I jumped on with one of the kids who had been waiting alone. I took the offensive line and scored almost immediately. "Oooooh" shouted the crowd. The other team managed to score two before we could get another and we were off until the next round. My partner and I jump back in, winning a few and then losing a few, and then we caught fire.

The kid in the back with the hat could not speak. But he very happily greeted me and gestured that I come join them.

These first few games I was just "feeling" the table around a bit. The strapping young man in the yellow polo is our company driver, Emiquilson de Jesus Brava.

More testing the waters at offense. It is tough to just jump on the table out of the blue. The kids were good and they sure knew the nuances of their table well.

I switched to defense and we both started clicking on all cylinders. We won about 12 games in a row and the whole crowd was in an uproar. I had launched a couple of thundering bombs from the defensive line and almost blew the back of the beat up table off (seriously). When the ball goes in the goal so hard that it pops right back onto the field... yea you foosballers know the feeling.

Once my partner and I switched, we started to just dominate. Look at our faces. He wears the face of an exuberant up-and-comer. I wear the stern and pensive face of a seasoned professional...

Anyway, to make a long story short, I finally managed to get some "Luanda street foos" in, and it felt great. It felt especially cool because of the setting. Sure, the place could use some sprucing up, but I would argue that the chapter room of our fraternity house in Santa Barbara, where all of those late nights were spent yelling and wrestling over the foosball table, was in far worse shape.

Dictated but not read