“Our dad did what? You mean that he paid someone good money to teach you how to play a kids’ game?”
“Papa always explained to me that there is no such thing as a kids’ game. That there are only games with which kids are learning the facts of life, but it’s the parents that are so tapados—so blind and constipated that they can’t see what these games are really all about.
“I’ll never forget that day, Mike’s eyes became larger than a rabbit’s, because he’d thought that he was going to get in trouble, but instead, he was being offered a paying job. And fifty cents a day was a lot of money back then. ‘It will take me a week,’ said Mike. ‘Make it two weeks,’ said our father, ‘and I’ll pay you five dollars up front to get started, but you tell no one, understand, or I won’t pay you the rest of the money. And you teach him here in the backyard, so I can keep an eye on both of you.’ After those two weeks, I went from being one of the worst players in all the barrio to one of the best.”
“I’ll be damn!” I said.
“Don’t you use that word again,” said my brother. “You’ve said it, I think, three times since we’ve been talking.”
“What word?”
“Damn.”
“I have?”
“Yes, and you don’t want to say that word towards anyone, and especially not towards yourself. Our mamagrande Doña Margarita, papa’s mama, would never allow us to use that word. Instead she’d have us bless ourselves and bless everyone else, too, explaining to us that this was our power, when we humans all lived in God’s blessings.”
“You knew her?” I asked.
“Of course, Tencha and I grew up with her.”
“I never got to meet papa’s mama,” I said.
“Yes, we all know that, because she died two years to the day, to the hour, before you were born, which means in some Indian ways of thinking, that you are her.”
“Me? I’m our mamagrande?”
“Why not? We’re all little pieces of somebody from our ancestry.”
“You mean like pieces of dust from stars like mama’s mama used to tell me?”
“That, and also from our antipasado, our ancestry. Why do you think papa is so smart? He’s lived life is many trials. He’s his grandfather Don Pio, his mother’s father. Don’t you always hear papa saying that blood knows blood and usually jumps one generation.”
“Yes, but I never knew that he really meant what he was saying.”
“Mundo, you start paying closer attention to our mama and papa. They didn’t get this far in life because their eyes are closed.”
I nodded. I’d never had a conversation like this before with my brother Joseph. I now wondered if his blood had “jumped,” too, and he was then, in fact, our own uncle José, the Great, our papa’s older brother who’d almost single-handedly saved all of Los Altos de Jalisco from the Mexican Revolution.
All that afternoon, I practiced my shooting, and I also tried to get better at selecting my shooter. Not for prettiness, but for weight and feel. Finally, I found that if I closed my eyes, I could feel better than if I kept my eyes open. And also, I found out that, when I finally found a good, heavy shooter that was a little bit rough and fit real good between my thumb and index finger, I could then put extra pressure on that marble without it slipping out of my hand. Suddenly, I was shooting way harder and straighter than I’d ever shot in all my life. My God, when I was finally called in for dinner, I didn’t want to go inside. Learning was so much damn—I mean, blessed—fun when it made sense!
All that night, I dreamed of playing marbles. Something really wonderful had happened to me. It was like, before, I hadn’t known enough so I could think or dream about playing marbles. But now that my brother had taught me all this stuff, I couldn’t turn off my brain, especially when I went to sleep. It was like all night long I’d have that humming, that purring going on at the base of the back of my head, going back and forth, between my two ears.
In the morning, I awoke feeling like I had really slept in the arms of Papito Dios all night long. This day, for the first time in my life, I was all excited to go to school. But then, getting there, I quickly remembered that I wasn’t supposed to play for two weeks. The next two weeks were the longest of my life, as I practiced and practiced at home every afternoon with my brother giving me pointers now and then. But he couldn’t help me too much anymore. He’d made the junior varsity football team and he was now staying late at school and working out with the team.
And every night, I’d continue to have these wonderful dreams of playing great games of marbles, and I’d be really good. My daydreaming and my night dreaming had become one, just as my mamagrande had explained to me it had been for all people when we’d lived in the Garden. At school, I’d watch Gus and the other guys play, and now, way different than before, I could see things going on that I’d never seen before. I was making distinctions, just as my brother had explained to me I would do as I learned more and more. Gus, I could now see, wasn’t just good at breaking up the pot with his big boulder; he was also, probably, the best shooter of the whole school, once he switched over to his regular-size marble.
My dreams of playing marbles continued, and then one night, my two dead grandmothers and my old dog Sam, who’d got run over by a car—saving my life—came to me in my sleep, and Sam licked my face and my two mamagrandes took me hand in hand and walked me across the Heavens. Then we stepped into a Star that was blue and green with a touch of red, and miraculously we were shooting across the greatest star-studded marble game ever played!
This was great! Instantly, I understood that playing marbles was no kids’ game at all! Playing marbles was teaching me all about God’s Garden, just as my grandmother had taught me when we’d planted a vegetable garden next to her little casita. Our papa had been absolutely right when he’d told my brother Joseph that there was no such thing as kids’ games.
That morning I awoke, feeling that little purr-humming behind both of my ears, and I knew that all last night I’d truly slept in the Holy Arms of Papito Dios, just as mi mama told me I would do when she’d sing me to sleep each night—coo-coo-roocoo-ing me with the song of the turtledove.
The next day, I went to school with a strength and confidence I’d never felt before. And when I watched the guys playing marbles at recess, I could now see even more things than I’d never seen before. And yeah, sure, I knew that I wasn’t supposed to play yet, but this didn’t mean that I couldn’t help to organize a vote. I mean, Gus was just beating the pants off everyone because of the great big boulder that he used for busting up the pot of marbles, and everyone assumed that this was the way it was and so we couldn’t do anything about it.
I took a few guys aside and told them that I’d found out that switchies weren’t allowed across the lagoon over in Carlsbad.
“So?” said one guy.
I could see that they hadn’t understood what I’d said.
“No switchies,” I said, “means that Gus can’t change from his boulder to a regular-size marble after his first shot. That if he starts with a boulder, then he has to continue with a boulder, and no one is a very good shot with a boulder on singles, not even Gus.”
Their eyes suddenly lit up. They loved it. Hell, we didn’t even have to take a vote on it. They immediately just went over and told Gus that switchies weren’t allowed in California. Well, I’d never said this, but it worked. Because no matter how mad Gus got about this, all the guys stuck together and said that they wouldn’t play with him anymore if he continued switching from his big boulder to his regular shooter after his first shot. Finally, Gus saw that his goose was cooked, and so he calmed down and agreed to the new rule, but not until he’d cussed out all of us chicken-liver, sissy-baby Californians.
But still, even with this rule, Gus kept winning most of the marbles. He was just a damn good—I mean, blessed good—shooter. And at home, I kept practicing and practicing, and I could see that I was really getting pretty good. But now my brother wasn’
t helping me at all anymore. No, he was coming home after football practice and immediately going to bed, he was feeling so tired.
Finally, my two weeks were over and I could hardly sleep that night, I was so excited to get to school so I could start playing. “Dear God,” I prayed that night, “please help me to play well tomorrow. And also help me to remember everything that my brother has taught me. Because, You see, God, my brother isn’t feeling well enough to help me anymore. Good night, Papito.” I added, “see You in the morning. And please help my brother José to get well.”
That night I didn’t dream of playing games of marbles. No, instead, I dreamed of all the things my brother had instructed me. “You’re going to have to be very careful to not become a show-off or make fun of people who don’t know how to play as well as you…. In fact, papa told me that Duel, his friend from Montana, explained to him, that if you get cocky or show off too much, people will turn against you and then you’ll have no one to play with. So what do you do?” José then asked me.
“I let the guys win back some marbles, especially towards the end of the day,” I said in my dream to my brother, as he’d instructed me to do, “so that then they’ll go home feeling good and have the hopes of beating me tomorrow.”
“Exactly,” said my brother. “And you never brag about how good you are like Gus does, because a real king doesn’t need to tell anyone that he’s the king. In fact, a real king keeps his reign as much of a secret as he can. Good luck,” added my brother, “and always remember that our father says that luck is a beautiful woman who needs constant courtship.”
Waking up that morning, I was so excited to get to school so I could maybe pick up a game or two before school started, that I even forgot to wait for What-A-King, so we could eat our cream puffs together. I was into my second game of marbles, beating the pants off everyone, when What-A-King came up on his Schwinn bike. He was mad as hell and said that he’d waited for me at the corner of California and Stewart Streets for a long time. Then he’d gone to my house to see if I was sick, and our dog had almost bit him. He told me that he was never going to bring another cream puff for me as long as he lived.
I told him that I was sorry, but I couldn’t talk right now because at that moment, I was winning. He left in a huff, and I continued playing. It was so exciting for me to win for a change that, boy-oh-boy, this tasted even better than a damn—I mean, blessed—cream puff!
All that week, I avoided playing against Gus, figuring that I had better do as my brother had told me to do, and that was to get quite a few wins under my belt before I played against the best kid on the block. On Friday, since I’d been winning every day, I figured that I was ready to go head to head with Gus. Also, all week he’d been making chicken sounds at me, calling me a sissy, and I was sick of it.
“Okay,” I said to Gus on Friday morning as soon as we got to school, “I’ll play you today, but only head to head, with no one else in the game with us.” My brother had also suggested that I do it this way so I’d be able to keep my full concentration like I did at practice.
“But maybe Gus won’t go for it,” I’d said to my brother.
“Don’t worry. Being a show-off, he’ll jump at it,” my brother had assured me.
“Now you’re cooking!” said Gus excitedly, just as I’d been told that he would do. “Mano a mano, I like it! We’ll all have us a regular Mexican standoff!”
Well, I liked the expression mana a mano, but I’d never liked the expression “Mexican standoff.” “Look,” I said, “just the two of us, and…and no switchies.”
“You, too!” he yelled. “Hell, I’d thought you were a real cowboy! I didn’t think you were a chicken-liver little girl like these other damn sissy Californians!”
I closed my eyes, breathed, then reopened them. “I am a real cowboy,” I said. “That’s why I’m a vaquero. And being a vaquero means—”
“I knows what a vaquero means,” said Gus. “I wasn’t born yesterday. It all means cowboy in Mexican.”
“Yes. And the cowboys learned everything that they know from the vaqueros. The word ‘rodeo’ itself comes from Mexico, and for you to call me a girl is good, because—”
“Yeah, I know!” he said. “I ain’t an ignorant Californian! I’m a Texan! And we Texans all knows that our cowboy words and stuff originally came from the vaqueros. But then we Texans took over after the Alamo and improved on the whole thing so much that that’s why we can now out-rodeo any damn Mexican chile-belly ever born!” he added with pride.
I felt like I’d been slapped across the face, because this wasn’t true. I’d seen our top hand Nicolás out-ride all of the American cowboys last Fourth of July once again. “No, not improved,” I said. “Made mean in wanting to break the horse, instead of amanzar the horse, which means—”
“Who cares what it means!” said Gus. “Let’s just stop jawing and see who’s top dog even with your little-girl chicken-stuff of no-switchies.”
I was so mad that I was trembling, so when we lagged, I wasn’t that careful, and he easily won and got to be first shooter. But still, I knew enough about what I was doing that I made sure that all the marbles were in really tight together in the center, so he’d hit a brick wall with his first shot.
And it worked, just as I’d been taught that it would. Now it was my turn and I’d calmed myself down enough so I could shoot. I went after an easy lone marble like my brother had taught me to do. Nothing fancy. I didn’t try to go after the two marbles that were real close together, so I could maybe knock out two at the same time.
No, I carefully went to work like my brother had taught me to do, marble by marble, concentrating completely on my shooting just as I’d done at practice, and before I’d even realized it—oh, my Lord God, I’d cleaned out the whole damn—I mean, BLESSED—POT!
I was even better than I’d thought. But Gus was far from giving up. And this time we didn’t have to lag to see who went first. Now, since it was just the two of us playing, I got to go first. A whole bunch of kids gathered around to watch us play, even some girls. But I didn’t let any of this distract me and I made sure that three little marbles were just a little tiny bit away from the rest of the pot. Then I acted like I was going to shoot from the other side of the circle like my brother had taught me to do, so when I finally came back around to take my angle shot on the three loose marbles, it would look like I’d just seen these loose ones by chance and hadn’t deliberately set them up like this in the first place.
My God, it worked like a charm, and I cleaned out the whole pot again. By now, half of the school was watching. In fact, when the recess bell rang, not one of us ever heard it, we were all so excited. Our teachers finally had to come out to get us.
“That was just damn luck!” said Gus to me as we went back to our classroom. “Just wait till after school, I’ll get you! I know you’re not that good! Hell, I’m the one who taught you how to play.”
I nodded, saying nothing. But boy, was I ever tempted to tell Gus that I’d been practicing at home for weeks and being coached by a player far better than him. I said nothing, not then, and not ever. This, I’d also been taught. “Keep your cards close to your chest,” my father always told us.
That afternoon after school, Gus and I got together and we decided to do our shoot-out at the far end of the school yard under the big eucalyptus trees that grew along Stewart Street on the east side of our school. Here, we cleaned out a good-size piece of ground by dragging our shoes across it and wiping it all clean. Then we used fallen branches to sweep it smooth. About a dozen kids stayed after school to watch us play. Two were girls, and one was real pretty, but I was learning that pretty wasn’t the best way for you to pick a girl or a marble. No, you closed your eyes and got a feel for the girl or marble. Closing my eyes, then reopening them, I could now see the second girl was real cute and had eyes as beautiful and kind-looking as a goat’s, which, of course, was good, because this meant she was at peace with her animal spirit.
Looking at the circle, I knew that something was different, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it because everything looked so different out here underneath these huge eucalyptus trees. Then it hit me. Hell, Gus had drawn the circle way bigger than the circles that we normally used on the school grounds under the pepper trees, where we parked our bikes.
A chill went up and down my spine. I could now see that Gus had also had some adult coaching on how to play marbles. He’d just changed the whole game on me, and I could see why. He was bigger than most of us kids, and stronger, too, and so a larger pot would work in his favor.
“Pock, pock, pock,” he said, making those chicken sounds at me when he saw how I was studying the size of the circle. “Come on. Let’s just play. Stop being a chicken. I figure that you and I are the best damn shots in the whole third grade, and I already gave you no-switchies, so let’s stop all this baby girl stuff and play like we do back in Texas. A big ass-old circle, and we put in fifty marbles each.”
“Fifty!” I said, taken aback by this. “I don’t think I even have that many.” My brother had also told me to never bring all my marbles to school, only bring thirty or forty marbles at a time so no one would ever know how much I was winning.
“The guys who bring all their marbles to school,” said my brother, “showing everyone how much they’ve won, are fools, and fools always end up out-fooling themselves.”
“All right,” said Gus, showing everyone his huge bag of marbles, “I’ll just match whatever you got.”
Burro Genius Page 13
