In The Headlights

At the Denver BlogMeet last Saturday, FTS was doing his usual stellar job of promoting my Blog to those who hadn't yet visited. Specifically my first published article, written some 16 months ago, entitled "In The Headlights". At his suggestion, I'm re-posting it this week. Enjoy.

In The Headlights
I saw you up ahead, you and your mate, but only for a moment. I braked but didn’t swerve; stayed in a straight line just like we’re told to do. And if you’d only kept running I would have passed safely behind you. Your mate had already stopped and was safe. It would have been alright. Instead you panicked and turned back the way you came. You almost made it, I thought you’d made it, but there wasn’t enough time. And you were no match for me. You didn’t even make much of a noise. But I knew how hard I’d hit you. I knew.

The driver behind me stopped as well and the pair of us walked back together.

"What was it?" he asked. I told him and his face mirrored mine.

I’m not a praying man, but as I made my way along the road I was wishing with all my heart. "Please let it be dead, please let it be dead".

We found you by the side of the road, much further back than I’d thought. You were lying prone and still, curled up as if you were asleep. As if you could be sleeping, here with all those vehicles roaring by only inches from you. I breathed as sigh of relief. Thank goodness, you were dead.

Then you lifted your head and those enormous liquid eyes looked right into my soul. You told me of your pain, your suffering, your fear.

"Why?" you asked, "Why did you do this?"

I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you, I really didn’t. I was paying attention, honestly I was. I wasn’t even going fast. It’s just one moment you weren’t there, the next moment you were. And I braked. I was slowing down. But you turned and ran back. And there wasn’t enough time.

Cell phone reception is unreliable up here, but after a few moments hesitation the signal came through loud and clear. The dispatcher was very kind though it was hard for us to talk over the roar of the traffic so she suggested I get back in my car. And I had to leave you, frightened and in pain. I didn’t want to leave you.

"No, I’m not hurt. No, there are no other vehicles involved. Yes, my car is safely off the road." Then we started talking about you, the reason for my call. You were off the main highway, I told her, but in a turning lane. Another vehicle could easily hit you in the dark. I was worried about the additional suffering this would cause you. She of course was concerned for the other vehicle.

"I know this won’t be pleasant" she told me, "but could you drag it to the side of the road?"

"No ma’am" I told her, "I can’t do that."

She hadn’t heard me say you were still alive.

So instead she had me back my car up to you. My car, which had caused you so much misery, was now shielding you, protecting you. In a tragically pitiful way, helping to ensure you suffered no more than you had to for your final minutes in the world.

The local sheriff arrived first. A badge, a uniform, authority. Someone who could take charge. I explained what had happened. I took him to you and I could tell from his face that he was sorry too. I expected him to unclip his gun but instead he pulled out a billy club. A dead weight on a telescopic arm. Could I stand here and watch as he hit you? Break your neck, break your skull? Yes, I would have to watch it. I owed that to you. Squeamish cowardice at this time would be a further insult to the end of your beautiful life. But instead he merely reached forward and gently touched your eyeball. No reaction. Mercifully, you had finally moved on.

Donning protective gloves he carried you off the blacktop and onto the grass verge. I noticed there was litter by your head and absent mindedly, picked it up and took it away. Just a token effort but I wanted your surroundings to be as close to natural as was possible. We had to wait on the State Patrol; apparently you were their jurisdiction. So the two of us checked my car; the first time I’d really looked. A light cover was gone, part of the bumper was missing, the spoiler bent back. Nothing much really. Nothing to show how much the damage had cost you. I pulled the spoiler back into place. I can replace the light cover tomorrow. It would be more than the car’s worth to fix the rest so I’ll need to leave it as is. Which means I’ll see it every day. Which means I’ll see you every day.

State Patrol arrived a few minutes later. He looked half my age, but he carried an air of calm authority I suspect I’ll never have. He’s seen it all before of course, but really at this point, there was nothing more for him to do. I’d to fill out an accident report, which gave me fifteen lines to say what I was able to say in 2. I saw you. I braked. You turned. I hit you. What else was there to add? That you were beautiful? That you were only in your second or third year? That your eyes were black pools of pain that communicated your feelings to me as clearly as if you spoke my language? That I’ll carry you with me for the rest of my days? I couldn’t write that. So instead, I said what happened. "I saw you. I braked. You turned. I hit you."

"Try not to feel bad." said the sheriff "It happens. It’s part of living in the mountains."

"It’s my first" I told him.

"I’ve hit three. It doesn’t get any easier." He replied.

Business done, it was time to go. To leave you like any other piece of highway debris. In the next few days the county workers will come with a winch and take you away, who knows where. Hopefully you’ll provide food for some other animals, or nourishment for the soil. I took solace from the fact that you of course, were gone. This was just your body; the vehicle you used for getting around during your short time on earth. You’re running free somewhere, beginning the cycle yet again.

You almost made it, I thought you’d made it, but there wasn’t enough time.


This article appeared in Issue # 114 of Mountain Gazette in June, 2005.

The Love of the Game

So it’s over. Three weeks of getting up early to watch television before starting work, setting the VCR for the days I had to be in the office, and trying to avoid listening to the radio on the drive home. Because of course it would have been terrible if I’d learned the result prior to watching the game.

The World Cup of course – Do try and keep up.

I didn’t bring much with me when I immigrated to the US other than a funny accent and a love of football. And that’s football, as in "with the feet". I refuse to use the term "soccer"; that’s what rugby fans call it and you don’t want to get me started on them.

One of the things on my "to do" list is to dig out my parents’ photo albums and find the one taken of me when I was about 6. The one where I’m wearing my very first football kit. Not only is the strip a replica of the one Manchester United wore back then (what was I thinking?) and that’s shameful enough. But even worse, I’ve got my shorts hiked up almost to me oxters. The word ‘cool’ wasn’t around back then, but if it was, I can’t imagine it ever being applied to me.

But anyway, I digress. The point is that once every four years, my life gets put on hold, all other interests and pursuits are neglected and I park my bum in front of the television to watch the world’s finest on display. Of course it doesn’t usually live up to the expectation although the opening rounds are always promising enough. A bunch of third world countries whose players are just happy to be there get to take on the overpaid prima-donnas of the world’s major footballing nations and the result is exciting, free-flowing football with the inevitable upsets. Sadly, by the time we get into the second round, most of the minnows are out and we’re left with the big boys. Such is the nature of knock-out competition that rather than try to score, most coaches prefer to try and avoid being scored against. Tedious, low scoring games are the result.

Not that I care. After four years of American sports, I’m always chomping at the bit by the time the World Cup comes around. I don’t expect the game to ever really catch on here of course. Regardless of the pitiful showing by the US National team, (am I the only one who finds it odd that a country so obsessed with patriotism is unable to instill any sense of national pride in its athletes?) the media, especially talk radio, is determined to prevent anyone from taking an interest. In the weeks prior to the tournie, barely a day went by without us being lectured on what a boring game it was, nobody was interested, blah-de-blah, blah, blah. Alright guys, we get it; you don’t like the game. I don’t like golf, but lots of other people do so I don’t feel the need to badmouth them every chance I get. (OK, well perhaps I do just a little bit.)

Then there's the short attention span of most people nowadays which requires "something to happen" every few seconds just to keep them interested. I’ve tried explaining that it’s the passing, the dribbling and the tackling in football that is the action, while the goals are just the icing on the cake, but what’s the point? These are people who get excited by a 162 game baseball season, or a basketball game where 95% of the scores are meaningless, or football (sic) where there’s a break in the action every 6 seconds. You know who you are.

Of course, the off pitch drama is every bit as enthralling. Thanks to the wonder that is the IntraWebthingy, I get most of my football news from the BBC; which as we Scots like to point out, should really be named the EBC, as in English Broadcasting Corporation, such is the bias they routinely show at this time. England as you may know, once won the World Cup, on their home soil some 40 years ago (by virtue of a dodgy goal, I might add) and the BBC is determined never to let anyone forget it.

For weeks building up to the tournament we’ve been told how the English lions are world-beaters who’d be bringing the trophy home to the birthplace of the game. And you know what? This time I actually fell for it. That is, until I saw them in their opening game and realized it was just the same old, overrated England. And if you're interested enough to read this far, you probably know they stumbled through each game until they met some decent opposition, one of their aforementioned prima-donnas got sent off after a juvenile hissy-fit and they were eliminated on penalties.

As usual.

Fortunately there was a touch of controversy about the sending off, so now, rather than admitting that they are not, and haven’t been in years, a major footballing power, England can spend the next four years happily telling everyone they would have won the World Cup had it not been for the biased referee.

What’s that you say? Sour grapes? Moi? Well perhaps a little. It’s true Scotland decided to sit out this tournament by virtue of not qualifying yet again. And it’s also true that in the last few tournaments for which they have qualified, their track record has been less than stellar and they've never reaching the second round. There has been pain. None greater than during the Argentine World Cup of ‘78.

Despite the coach’s boasts that the cup was theirs, Scotland came out of the gate looking tired and stuttered to a draw against Peru. Defeat at the hands of Iran and the ignominious disgrace of a player being sent home for using drugs meant the campaign turned into a national disaster which left scars on the psyche of every Scottish football fan. The fact that in their third game Scotland took on and beat Johan Cruyff’s Holland, regarded by many as the best team ever to play the game, has largely been ignored by the historians. See me? See ancient wounds?

Which brings me to my last point.

The next World Cup will be held in South Africa, in the year 2010. By which time I shall be almost 48. Which means that by any realistic estimate, this is probably the last time I’m going to get selected to play. So, this is a private message to whoever has the job of coaching Scotland by then.

Hurry up and call me, dammit!

Run for the Border

A recent Gunsmoke File detailed some of my dealings with the fine men and women of the Immigration and Naturalization Service, and the trauma which lies therein. In fairness though, it has to be said that no matter how problematic working with those folks might be, it pales in comparison to the challenges of dealing with their cohorts who man the borders of the nation. A group whose apparent frustration at their inability to stem the tide of illegal immigration manifests itself in a desire to make it as difficult as possible for anyone attempt to cross the border by following the rules.

I’ll admit, I deviated from the script somewhat in that I first entered this country from the Pacific, without the security of an onward ticket. My hair wouldn’t have passed muster on a parade ground, my clothes screamed ‘hippie’; and my passport was festooned with the colorful stamps of half a dozen Asian nations, many of them known for their uhm, pharmaceutical industries. But even so, I was in proud possession of a Visa issued by the US Embassy in Singapore and valid for up to 1 year, which by definition guaranteed me entry to the country.

Unfortunately, nobody told the Customs officials at Los Angeles International Airport. I was already in a state of some tension having gone 12 rounds with the booking clerk when attempting to board the plane from Hong Kong. He too, had misgivings about the validity of my Visa and was concerned that should US Customs decline to allow me entry, his airline would be forced to return me to Hong Kong at their expense. I assured him repeatedly that the Visa was issued by the US Government themselves, who employed said Customs Officials, therefore there wouldn’t be a problem and after a lot of wheedling on my part, he finally gave in. However, I suspect that had that flight been overbooked, as was common, I might have been bumped to make way for someone not expected to be back in a couple of days.

After 18 hours on the plane, all I wanted was a shower and a lie down, but instead I’d to run the gauntlet of an array of government officials, each determined to brighten his day by making mine miserable. At least, I think they were all government officials; one might have been the janitor because there were a heckuva lot of people taking turns at going through my backpack. They checked the pocket linings, confiscated my stove’s fuel canisters (which shouldn’t have been on the plane in the first place), took the batteries out of my Walkman, opened the back of my camera (ruining most of my photographs from China – thanks guys) and quizzed me endlessly as to my reasons for visiting Asia.

"Buy many drugs when you were there?" One asked.
"Why yes," I replied "They’re in the top pocket of my bag. Would you like some?"

OK, I didn’t say that. I just kept answering their questions politely until they released me to the next sadist. Finally they conceded that there were no legal grounds to detain me longer and I was released into the Land of the Free™.

It was a few weeks before I encountered Customs Officials again, following a sojourn into Mexico. To encourage trade along the border towns, no Visas are required unless you plan to venture more than 10 miles into the country but as I intended to do just that, I was careful to ensure my documentation was in order. There was nobody on duty as I walked across the border but a couple of days and several miles later, Mexican officials placed a stamp in my passport to show that I had indeed entered the country. The problems didn’t start until I attempted to re-enter the US at El Paso, Texas.

"Why didn’t you have the Mexicans stamp your US Visa as well?" asked the unsmiling official.
"Because nobody told me I was supposed to." I replied.
"Well, your Visa’s no longer valid. We can’t let you in."
"Then what am I supposed to do?" I pleaded, "I can’t stay in Mexico!"
"Go speak to the people in the office. See what they say."

And with that, I was unceremoniously bundled off the bus, which continued into town without me.

Much later, the official behind the desk deigned to acknowledge my existence.

"What are you talking about?" he barked "Why would the Mexicans stamp your US Visa? It’s nothing to do with them."
"I’m just telling you what the guy outside said."
"Get the hell outta here!"

It’s a long walk from the border into downtown El Paso, particularly when you’re carrying a heavy backpack, dusk is falling and you have the only white face for miles around. Still, at least it gave me time to invent various epithets for the customs officials.

Interestingly, I heard some of those soubriquets repeated back to me, by the customs officials when next I encountered this rare breed. This time I’ll admit, I had broken the rules, albeit inadvertently. Simon from Britain and I were exploring the delights of Southern Arizona and wound up one afternoon in the charming hamlet of Douglas. Wandering up to the gate we fell into conversation with the Mexican lady manning her country’s defenses.

"Are we allowed to come across and walk around?" we asked, thinking of the "No Visa unless you’re going further than 10 miles" rule.
"Sure, no problem" she told us.

So, come across and walk around we did. Of course, what we should have done; was ask the Americans if it was OK to do this. As we discovered when we tried to walk back.

Simon at least, had his passport in his pocket. As a legal resident, I had no reason to carry mine so it was safe and sound in a drawer at home. As was the letter from the US Government explaining that my permanent residency status had been approved and I would be receiving my new Green Card shortly. Which meant the only legal documentation I carried was my Arizona driver’s license. Which meant I could easily get locked up for this. Or worse. Much, much worse.

So as the official berated us for our faux-pas, I was frantically reasoning that while Simon’s English accent was a dead giveway, I had yet to open my mouth. Therefore, she didn’t know I wasn’t an American.

Fortunately she ran out of steam after a while and let us go. I’m not sure my John Wayne impression could have held up to the test.

This Gunsmoke File was nominated for in July 2006.