Shoechuks & Other Necessary Things

The Italian's strength is talking, very often to the point of mental fatigue and hearing impairment on the part of the listener.

He might invent terminology here and there, but not in the way in which the German does, substituting a made up word for one he can't recall. The German is legendary for inventing the word "shniggle" when he meant to say "jiggle," and also for his meandering explanations when he simply can not find the right word. His is a unique and joyous gift.

The Italian's use of language is precise. He uses complex words to convey complex ideas. His imaginary words are deliberately and intentionally crafted.

Like "shoechuks," for example.

In case you've never heard of them, not only is shoechuk an entirely new word created by my son, the Italian, it also is a revolutionary advancement in footwear weaponry.

The shoechuk was made possible by our purchase of a large painting to hang in our family room. The unframed painting had special cardboard corner protecters that were held together by long elastic bands. Removed from the painting, the Italian found he could cram one of the protective corners over his heel and another over his toes to create a "shoe" of sorts. The elastic band served as a body-length shoe suspender.

The best part -- and the reason warmonger Dick Cheney ought to consider funding a grant for further research and development -- is that in one sorta, kinda almost swift move the Italian can grab the band off his shoulder, yank the "shoe" off his foot, and swing the two sections of cardboard around like lethal nunchucks.

Okay, maybe more like a pair of non-lethal clown nunchuks made out of bits of reinforced paper and leftover underwear elastic, but nunchuks just the same.

Every now and then, however, the Italian surprises us with a slip into his brother's area of expertise, confidently using the wrong word in the wrong situation. It doesn't happen often, but when it does it's a thing of genuine beauty.

Last Friday night, as we sat shivering on the metal seating of Our Daughter's high school football field, the Italian suggested we purchase one of the blankets being sold by the Pinecrest High School marching band boosters. To stress the potential value of the purchase, he pointed at people nearby who were draped in a blanket.

He said: "Look, it's P-encrusted!"

Now, I know what he meant. He could have said imprinted or emblazoned but he didn't. Actually, you have to hand it to him. A pee-encrusted blanket probably would do a great job keeping you warm on a cold night, at least for the first few minutes, and providing you don't mind the smell.



© 2011 Mark Feggeler

Sports Dummy

Okay. Don't tell anyone, but I'm not exactly what you might call a sports fanatic.

I know. Shocking, isn't it?

All my life, the appeal of organized sports has pretty much eluded me. One of my "manly" genes must never have kicked in when I was an adolescent, leaving me more likely to shop at the mall than hang out at the municipal basketball courts.

Even the few sports that have endeared themselves to me have been left by the wayside. Baseball, for instance. During my teen years, few things were as important as rushing home from school to watch the Mets on channel 9. A really great day meant I could catch the end of the first game of a double-header, followed by the entire second game. These days I'm lucky to make it to one Durham Bulls game each summer.

The thing is, I "get" baseball. It makes sense to me. From the pitcher-batter duel to the sudden burst of activity in the field when a ball is struck into play, I understand the purpose of both the individual performances and the collaborative efforts of the offensive and defensive units. When two equally-matched teams meet on the field, it can be a wonderous thing to experience.

I just don't feel the same way about basketball, hockey, NASCAR, or even football.

When I was in college at SUNY Plattsburgh in upstate New York, our university had one of the best hockey teams in its division. I think it cost all of $6 for students to attend the games back then. You know how many I went to? None. You know why? Because I couldn't possibly, not even if you paid me to try, care less about hockey. When the NY Islanders won the Stanley Cup season after season, I lived only a short bike ride from their arena. I might have high-fived an enthusiastic friend or two at school, but it meant nothing to me.

Football games can be infectious, thanks to the repetitive scattering of bodies in every direction and the potential for dramatic plays, but that's about it for me. I know more about the sport than, say, my mother, but significantly less about it than the average 10-year-old boy.

Sports like basketball, hockey and soccer share the same problem, for my tastes. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth... After about five minutes, I'm done. Sure, if I had a deeper understanding of the nuances I might appreciate them more, but I'm just not interested.

At least racecar drivers keep things moving in the same direction. Although, while that might ameliorate my indignation at the zero net distance I associate with the back-and-forth sports, I still don't understand the excitement of someone driving hundreds of miles in a tight circle. Go to the mall and try walking just hundreds of yards in a tight circle and you'll be talking to security before you reach lap 50.

So, there you have it. I have confessed to being less testosterone-driven than the average man.

You can hold out hope for me, if you want to, but you should know something. This July, when we pack up the kids and drive to Durham for our annual Bulls game, I'll probably be just as excited about shopping at Streets at Southpoint mall before the game as I will be about attending the game itself.



© 2011 Mark Feggeler