Nobody gives me balls

“Nobody gives me balls.” This is the literal translation of a somewhat vulgar Argentine expression that means “no one pays attention to me.” And it about sums up my last two weeks. I spent my afternoons chasing barra-bosses around Buenos Aires only to be ignored or rudely rejected by all of them. This has become more common than I like to admit. I have been stood up for scheduled interviews three times now by the same person. He is a neighbor, a friend of friends, and whenever I see him he makes lots of promises. “We’ll talk, then I’ll introduce you to all the people I knew when I was in the barra. I was high up, I can get you to the important people.” And that, in local slang, is called chamuyo. Chamuyo is a rough combination of talking trash, making promises, and bragging that is basically designed to make the speaker look really good. As a man, you do it to make women want you and men want to be you. As a man from Buenos Aires you do it instinctively and incessantly.

Chamuyo, for me, means that no one ever says “no” to when I ask for help with my study. They never say no. Regardless of how impossible it may be for someone to help me, or how little intention they have of actually trying, they always make promises. One Friday, I corralled a barra after the Murga rehearsal to follow up on his promises. He has always said the right thing. He has promised to give me an interview and to get me interviews with his bosses. Still, he never seems very happy to talk to me. He has what I think is a very nasty habit of looking over my head when I try to get his attention. I wish he wouldn’t flaunt his height so. And I wish he would give me balls. This time, like always, I had to catch him alone, after the rehearsal and basically block his path before he would even lower his eyes to my level:

“Hey, Yankee, are you travelling with us tomorrow?” Well this was good. I had given up on actually going to Mar del Plata for Boca vs. San Lorenzo, hoping instead that he would use the game to talk to his fellow barras about me. Now was he inviting me to go with them?! Riding in the bus with the barra is the kind of thing Dutch tourists pay hundreds of Euros to do. And they have escorts (guards) and certainly don’t get to ask many questions.

“Can I go, really?” I was embarrassed by my own jumpiness but I couldn’t really help it. “I don’t want to take anyone’s place but I’d love to ride with you all if I can!”

“I see,” he replied blandly, starting to look reluctant.

“I mean, it would be really awesome if I could come along!” At this point, I was beyond excited. A yippy dog comes to mind. It was like I was trying to produce enough enthusiasm for the two of us, enough to drown out his reluctance before he could act on it.

“Come tomorrow, and we’ll see.” Now I was worried.

“Great! Where do you leave from?!” I said, manufacturing yet more excitement as my fear of being let down grew.

“You know, around.” He was no longer looking at me, his eyes, instead, focused over my shoulder, flicking back and forth among the others leaving the park. He had the disturbing look of someone searching for an excuse to run off without saying goodbye. I half expected him to jog over to a stranger and start asking him, incessantly, about “you know, the thing that we talked about,” just so he wouldn’t have to see my over-excited, pleading, Yanki mug anymore.

“Could I have your number, then, so I can find you all tomorrow?” I asked, my excitement lingering even as my hope slipped away.

“The thing is, I don’t have a phone…with me, I mean…I don’t have a phone with me. Why don’t you get Pablo’s number?” He motioned to a young drummer who I knew was not a member of the barra and would probably not be travelling.

“So he will be able to get in touch with you for me tomorrow?” now I was basically sure it wasn’t going to be my weekend to travel with the thugs. I asked Pablo, anyway, and he reeled of a few excuses. He told me to call a couple of other people, though it wasn’t clear exactly why. Finally, he told me that it would be too dangerous to go to the game because the barra was in the midst of an internal power struggle. I knew this. I had been to a game two days after unidentified assailants had assaulted the mother of the barra’s current leader. Most in-fighting takes place outside the stadium and during the week. I have yet to witness any life-threatening violence within one team’s bleachers. But I got the point. Pablo and the tall barra did not want me to go to Mar del Plata. Or maybe they didn’t mind if I went. But they certainly didn’t want to have anything to do with my going.

I thought I would try one last attempt with the tall guy. At the very least, he might agree to talk to his comrades for me and float the idea of my talking to them. Hope springs eternal. As I approached a second time he pulled out a cell phone (which he did not have on him) and turned his back, talking. His girlfriend, who had now joined him, stood by his side with her arms crossed, scowling. I thought I must have looked very stupid, trying to address a man’s back as he tried just as hard to make me go away. Again, I began to see myself as a yippy dog; this time a yippy dog begging desperately for a biscuit from someone he thinks is his owner but who is, decidedly, not, and who, decidedly, does not have any biscuits nor any intention of giving anything to a yippy dog. I said hi to the scowling girlfriend, apparently hoping she might think that was what I had walked over to do. She, however, had not walked over to be said hi to by me. She ignored just as fully as her boyfriend, but she did so without a fake cell phone conversation. She just scowled and stared. I admired her commitment.

When the tall barra got tired of pretending to be on a phone call, I thought I would at least be able to save face by saying goodbye. Mamma raised me to be polite, after all. If I was too polite for tall barra’s customs, well he would just have to deal with that. And he did. Before he even closed his phone, he was flagged down a passing car. I hope, for my ego’s sake, that he knew the driver and did not resort to begging a stranger for rescue. He and his girlfriend got in, very quickly, and the car pulled away. I decided not to make the extra, pathetic-enough-for-Hollywood gesture of yipping a goodbye to the car as it sped off.

I had tried patience. I went to the Murga and for almost two months before I even asked anyone there a question about the barra. Then I tried being bothersome (I suppose if it had worked I would have called it “persistent”). That didn’t work either. It seems the barra is very protective of its balls. In fact, by any objective measure, I left the park Friday night with fewer balls than I had shown up with.

All lewd metaphors and Argentine slang aside, I did not feel very good about myself. I got on the bus ready to go home and write a self-pitying blog post. Distracted, composing weepy one-liners in my head, I got off at the wrong stop. And this too seemed like a great, deliberate injustice done to me by the cosmos. I would have done well to remember the many times that fortune has favored me. But I don’t remember the good days on the bad days. And even if I did, I would no doubt conclude that they had been well-deserved, earned in blood and sweat. Fortune, I would declare, could not have played any role in my good days because “fortune hates me.” Nor do I remember, on the bad days, that they don’t happen to me any more often than they happen to anyone else. “Why does this always happen to me?” I asked as I started to walk towards home.

Two blocks from the bus stop I passed two beggars, people whose trade, if it can be called that, is bothering people. Nearly all of their human interaction consists of pleading and being ignored. When one of them approached me, I almost turned my back, thinking “you got the wrong day to ask me for a favor, buddy.” Then things started to slide back into perspective. I almost cursed myself out loud. I gave the bearded, tired-looking man the coins in my pocket. Another block on, I ran into a friend from the neighborhood. “Zack, how are you man?” he asked. “You look tired, are things OK?”

We chatted for a few minutes, agreed to meet for dinner the next week, and parted. I was legitimately disappointed when the conversation ended, so nice was the contrast it made with the night’s other experiences. I wanted to talk to more people who wanted to talk to me. I went to a local pizzeria, whose owner is a friend of mine and where I have become a regular. The employees never fail to cheer me up. We talked, I helped wash dishes and close up for the night. It was nice to do something productive. I left happy again, cured of my self pity, but with much less motivation to write. I no longer needed to shout from a virtual mountain top. A few minutes with friends had done wonders. They can’t help me with my study, but they don’t promise to either. And, most of all, they always give me balls.