The Cosmic Kite: Diego Maradona, RIP

On June 22, 1986, I learned, in less than ten seconds, to love soccer.

My whole life, imitating my father, I'd hated the sport, mocked it, refused to play it. I called it ping-pong on a football field, an exercise in futility, without elegance — a game for masochists bereft of imagination.

But — some context — in May of that year, I'd been assigned by my church to complete a two-year Christian mission in the Province of Buenos Aires. Upon learning that soccer was a religion in Argentina, I decided to give the sport, by way of the World Cup, a chance. I was determined to claim Argentina as mine — my segunda patria.  I'd read that their star, Diego Maradona, might be the best player in the world, and I made it a point to watch all of their matches.

On that June afternoon, Argentina began its quarterfinal contest with England. Beyond its importance in the tournament, the match was Argentina's chance to exact a measure of revenge for 1982's Falklands War. (Or to suffer further humiliation.) I was sitting on my parents' bed, in Woodland Hills, Utah, watching the match on their bedroom television, my father having requisitioned the bigger, better, family room TV for, as he would have put it, a sport worth watching.

First, in the 51st minute, came the "Hand of God" goal. Which I knew I should disapprove of but couldn't. Its cleverness — its comic genius — was, in a word, Shakespearean.

Then, a mere four minutes later, with the soccer universe still trying to find its equilibrium, came the earthquake, the cyclone, the bolt of lightning, in the diminutive figure — 5' 5'' in boots — of Diego Armando Maradona.

I was speechless. I fell back on the bed and held my face. What I'd witnessed — and I'd spent much of my short life watching sports — seemed impossible.

Not amazing. Not spectacular or extraordinary or marvelous. Impossible.

Merely watching the highlight, which lifts the moment from its context, fails to capture that impossibility. Of course, in Utah, I'd heard the shellshocked commentary of the English commentator, whose flattened tone conveyed its own kind of disbelief. But Victor Hugo Morales' reaction communicates how the world, including England, reacted to what Maradona had done. That does not happen. That was not possible.

Soon, I raced downstairs and tried to explain what I'd seen, and how the channel had to be changed, because maybe they would show a replay, and you have to see it to believe it. And even then you won't believe it!

My awe — an inadequate word for what I was feeling — was met with little more than bored indifference.

No matter. Argentina went on to win the match and, soon thereafter, the World Cup, and over the next two years, traversing the Argentine pampa, I had the honor of catching Maradona highlights in the homes of Argentinian friends. Despite the fact that he was playing in Italy, all of his matches — all of his miracles — were broadcast in Argentina. They watched with reverence and glee. He was theirs. He was doing that, for them, in the world.

Now, soccer — fútbol — is the only sport I watch with any degree of diligence, up early on Saturday and Sunday mornings to catch Premier League matches on NBC. My favorite team changes yearly, depending upon the rosters of the team. I go for the teams that have an American — this year, Pulisic at Chelsea — or for the team with the most, or best, Argentine players. Of course, I always have an eye on Barcelona and Lionel Messi, Diego's inimitable progeny.

And I owe this passion to Argentina, mi segunda patria, and to one man, el "barrilete cósmico," Diego Maradona.

Victor Hugo Morales, in that immortal moment, asked a question the world is asking today, upon hearing of Diego's passing, with wonder and gratitude: ¿De qué planeta viniste?

Es para llorar.

Some Thoughts on the Covid Pandemic

Most people missed this article from The Lancet on the prevalence of Covid antibodies in the U.S. population. I would have missed it myself, in all likelihood, but for one of my students.

Some quick numbers summarize its content:

According to the article — for those who aren't familiar with The Lancet, it's widely regarded as the world's top medical journal — at the end of July, 9% of the U.S. adult population had Covid antibodies. Meaning they had come into contact with the virus.

At that time, approximately 150,000 Americans had died of Covid-19.

These two numbers let us do some straightforward math. I'm going to round these numbers to keep this simple.

Let's assume — reasonably — that if 9% of adults had encountered the virus, that same number of the total population, more or less, had encountered the virus.

9% of 330,000,000 = 29,700,000.

That's far more than the number of confirmed cases at the end of July, needless to say.

Of those 29,700,000, 150,000 had died.

150,000,000 of 29,700,000 = .005

So Covid's death rate (again, rounding) is likely around one half of 1% — five times influenza's death rate.

In other words, Covid's death rate (.005) relative to influenza (.001) appears to match the difference that Donald Trump communicated to Bob Woodward when they spoke about the virus on February 7. He said, "This is more deadly. This is five per- you know, this is five percent versus one percent and less than one percent. You know? So, this is deadly stuff." He correctly noted that Covid-19 is five times more deadly than the flu — but his percentages were off.

So, for simplicity's sake — noting, too, that treatments are improving — let's turn that 9% of the population into 10%. Therefore: we reasonably estimate that for every 10% of the population that gets infected with the virus, about 150,000 people will die.

Again, this is essentially what we saw over the first half of 2020, and what we are still, almost certainly, seeing today.

It would follow, then, that if every American encountered the virus, 1.5 million of us would die — more Americans than have died in all of our wars combined.

That won't happen, however, thanks to "herd immunity," which begins to kick in when around 70% of the a population has been infected. Infection rates would then decrease dramatically; the virus, even with no vaccine, would never reach every American.

Nonetheless, with a 70% infection rate, approaching herd immunity, 1,050,000 Americans would die.

That, in short, is the number we're trying to avoid: one million Americans dead.

Back to the present. As of today, the number killed by the virus amounts to 100 Pearl Harbors, 80 September 11s, two WWIs. By the time Donald Trump leaves office, the total dead will have approached, if not surpassed, the number of Americans who died in WWII.

The virus is an invading enemy, killing Americans at an unprecedented pace. To defeat this enemy, we must mobilize as a nation and agree to make difficult sacrifices. If we refuse, basic epidemiological math tells us that over 1 million Americans will die, many of them avoidably.

In the past, when our country has faced a similar horror — a national catastrophe and many Americans dead — it has asked us to sacrifice our children to eliminate that threat.

I live a few miles from Golden Gate National Cemetery:

There are 137,000 American soldiers buried in that cemetery. That is the history of this country's response to a mortal danger. That is the kind of sacrifice our country has, in the past, asked of us.

In 2020, the nation — local, state, and federal government — is not asking me to sacrifice my sons to fight this lethal threat.

It is asking me to socially distance, avoid large gatherings, and wear a mask. It is asking all of us to endure a period of economic and psychological hardship — in many cases, great hardship. But, let's not forget: our sons and daughters stay home. The nation is not asking us to risk sending our children to an early grave to fight off a threat to American lives. 

In short, the sacrifices that we're being asked to make today in response to a national threat is not comparable to the sacrifices of earlier generations.

Yet many of my fellow Americans are reacting with disheartening outrage when called upon to sacrifice for the common good. Their response does not compare favorably the responses of our fellow Americans to earlier crises.

A vaccine is coming. Until then: socially distance, avoid large gatherings, wear a mask. If the government authorities that we elected, after listening to experts in epidemiology, ask use to stay home, stay home. Doing so will likely save over 500,000 American lives — four Golden Gate National Cemeteries of Americans.

Prior generations sacrificed far more. It's our turn to be patriots.

The Trump Years

I'm at my computer, playing a video game. My face immobile. Fingers clicking the keyboard. For weeks. Months.

Spanish Fork, Utah. My brother Ryan is at the wheel. I'm beside him; in the back seat are my sister Kim, and Aaron, my youngest brother, the one I know least and for whom I feel impatient awe.

We've loaded golf clubs into the back of Ryan's truck; we leave Kim's house, waving at the kids, who are playing in the front yard. William, Aaron's three-year-old, catches sight of us leaving and panics, screaming. He chases the truck, running down the sidewalk after us, crying — terrified.

Ryan stops; Aaron descends and takes sobbing William into his arms and speaks to him reassuringly and disappears into Kim's home, where he deposits William into his mother's arms.

Sahar and I are at a stoplight. This is in quiet Belmont, a mile from home. An old truck pulls up next to us — an '90s Ford, a beauty. I glance at the driver. He is staring — glaring — at us. I look away. Soon, Sahar, who is in the driver's seat, says, "That guy is staring at us." I tell her, "Ignore him." She says, "It's the bumper sticker." And I remember the old "Feel the Bern" sticker that remains on her bumper. "Just ignore him," I say. "Why should I have to ignore him?" she asks. So I look at him and wave. He continues to stare — not at me, whom he disregards, but at Sahar. Until the light changes and he roars away.

Sahar says, "You didn't do enough."

I'm going through my Missionary Journal. And remember being interviewed for a local public access TV station in General Belgrano, in the province of Buenos Aires, Argentina. July, 1988. The interviewer, who appeared to be something of a local celebrity, asks me, "Who will win the American election?" I'm taken off guard — we were supposed to be talking about my then-beloved religion — and respond by naming my preferred candidate. "Bush, I believe," I say. He shakes his head. "No. Your country is ready for something new."

After the interview, when he shakes my hand, he says, "Always remember, when you vote for your president, you are voting for all of us. The entire world suffers more or suffers less according to your vote."

26 women. One of them, I had met. She was the younger sister of my neighbor in Salt Lake City. He attacked her at a beauty pageant, when she was 21 years old. 

I decide to teach Journey Into the Past, by Stefan Zweig. When I introduce the book, I tell my students something about Zweig's life. "Ultimately," I say, "with the rise of fascism in Germany, when it became obvious to Zweig that his country was lost, he left for Brazil with his wife, Lotte Altmann. They were there for two years before they took their own lives. They left a note saying that they couldn't overcome the despair they felt at what had become of their country."

My students are surprised — embarrassed — to see that I'm crying.

Stupidly, I imagine that if I read all the books, or the right book, peaceful sleep will return, peace of mind will return — I will have unlocked the mystery of what was happening to my country and to people I love. I'll be able to say, "Ok. This is what's happening." Escape From Freedom. On Tyranny. Beautiful Country Burn Again. The Plague. How Fascism Works. How Democracies Die. The Origins of Totalitarianism. I Shall Bear Witness.

Eventually I stop reading. The sleeplessness persists. TV is easier. "The Sopranos." "Schitt's Creek." "The Bachelorette."

On Mother's Day, 2020, I insult much of my family by questioning their decision to meet at a park near their Utah homes.

At some point I tell them — text messaging — that by my birthday, August 2, there will be over 140,000 dead Americans as a result of the virus.

This claim is met with great skepticism.

From that point forward, we no longer speak of Covid.

But as the summer passes, I become obsessed with my prediction. Looking at my phone, following the trajectory of the pandemic, I find myself, to my great shame, wanting more people to die so that I'll be right.

But the virus doesn't care what I want. It merely does its work. On my birthday, there are 146,000 Americans dead. I tell Lincoln, "I told them! Three months in advance, I told them!" Lincoln nods his head sadly.

At work, a new language has developed for consolation, camaraderie. "This chaos." "This circus." "This shit-show." We all know — we imagine that every person in the world must know — what "this" is.

8 minutes and 46 seconds.

Reports that the Amazon is in flames.

I text Sam, "Impressed by how well the NBA bubble has worked."

Finally, after months, we are able to dine indoors again, and we go to Vivace.

A woman at the end of the bar, distressingly tan, slams down her hands. "Trump 2020!" This goes on for a while.

Finally, Sahar says, "Would you mind keeping it down? We're trying to enjoy our dinner."

"Majority rules," the man next to her says. The tan woman says, "This is a bar, we can say whatever we want."

The bartender says, "Actually, this is a restaurant."

"It's not worth it," I tell Sahar, and I watch the World Series on the wall's TV.

The woman is getting louder. Eventually, yes, I turn to look at her. She points at me, says, "Look at him. He eats like a faggot."

A special thanks to:

All for Nothing, by Walter Kempowski.

DAMN, by Kendrick Lamar.

INRI, by Raúl Zurita.

Fetch the Bolt Cutters, by Fiona Apple.

"This Extraordinary Being"

Everything Flows, by Vassily Grossman.

Jorge and David and I are on Zoom, arguing about colonialism, the roots of white supremacy. I hang up on them, my dearest friends.

Often, I sleep through the afternoon. Upon waking, I need a drink but do not drink. I ride my indoor bicycle. I think, Maybe there will be good news, and I put on the news. Soon, I'm back on my bed, staring at the ceiling. I think, I should write something. I should be recording this — what is happening. You see it happening. All those years of reading, which you believed in, which you thought would prepare you to see it. And now you do see it, and you're on your bed, staring at the ceiling.

It's the eve of the election. I have voted. I will change no one's mind. No one will change my mind. But before this ends — before tomorrow, and the inevitable chaos, circus, shit-show — I finally say, too late: I saw it. I bear witness.