The Master
For many years my family lived in front of San Esteban Park. I studied elementary school at the Padres Aguilares School. I would be around ten or eleven years old when I met “the Master” through other children in the neighborhood.
I must clarify something before going further. I have never been a soccer fan. Not because it’s a good or bad sport, but since I was a child, I identified my passions and desires, I always found it useless to run desperately after a ball, reach it, kick it, and always run after it as after a crazy dog.
One day, my friends took me to a soccer match. They told me: “Juan, you must score a goal,” and I was like: “What is a goal?”
On the contrary to the majority of guys of my age, I always believed that sometimes, the masses develop stupid passions. Is it not nonsensical to entertain yourself by kicking a ball? Use mainly the feet to have fun, rather I find it fun for horses. On the other hand, in baseball and cricket, the man needed to think profoundly.
Those sports take time to reflect, use intelligence, and coordinate your body, harmonizing your ideas with actions while developing physical style. Oh! That I genuinely liked it. I agree it’s a matter of taste, and that’s my one. As everyone knows Brazilians are devoted fans of football, and it’s not disputed at all, they are awesome at it.
I must clarify something before going further. I have never been a soccer fan. Not because it’s a good or bad sport, but since I was a child, I identified my passions and desires, I always found it useless to run desperately after a ball, reach it, kick it, and always run after it as after a crazy dog.
One day, my friends took me to a soccer match. They told me: “Juan, you must score a goal,” and I was like: “What is a goal?”
They were surprised I didn’t know the concept of a goal and tried to explain it to me. I should score at least one to beat the other team. I was still puzzled, and they told me: “This would help us win the MATCH!” I sarcastically said: “Sure, what an ingenious idea!”
Those sports take time to reflect, use intelligence, and coordinate your body, harmonizing your ideas with actions while developing physical style. Oh! That I genuinely liked it. I agree it’s a matter of taste, and that’s my one. As everyone knows Brazilians are devoted fans of football, and it’s not disputed at all, they are awesome at it.
Nevertheless, my friends in the neighborhood were almost all lovers of the sport of kicking the ball. I needed to do something to be part of them. My mother punished me harshly for surrounding myself with these goods for nothing. Periodically, I attended “the matches” that were organized overnight in the small park near our house. The boys played their matches with a ball made with old socks.
“We are the champions
We are the champions
No time for losers
’Cause we are the champions”
What I liked the most was that frequently they interrupted the match. There were tough arguments or even hits from one player to the other, usually because of the “illegality” of certain play or action performed by a player. Once the problem was solved, the match continued (for a moment) and stopped again and again as often as new arguments kept arising. There was no time limit, and they rarely counted the goals, for this reason, at the end of the match, there were new arguments. Always one team tried to convince the other that they had scored more goals than them.
When the game was over, the best part came. I enjoyed the discussions of my friends and how many defects they had found. Only when there was an impartial referee, things went well. However, the “players” were still disappointed because everything was too correct, and he did not allow tricks or play dirty.
Thanks to attending so many matches, it is how I finally met “the Master.”
The Master was a man of indefinable age. He was around one hundred and fifty centimeters tall, who dressed like any other worker of the time. He worked as a tinker with its box of iron, tin, and pieces of tin on its shoulder, crossing the residential neighborhoods of San Salvador. We called him the Master as a treatment of respect.
The Master always had time to help the children before the matches. He definitely liked to be surrounded by football players between 9 and 13 years old because he remembered his old days as a football player in Chalchuapa. He always carried in his bags some candied that distributed among “his boys.”
When it came to organizing the next Sunday game, he always had a ball with him available for the “Team.”
The Master always arrived where we were, and we made a circle around him. He enthusiastically told us about last Sunday’s game at Don Bosco, at El Polvorín, or El Pirata. Then he organized the two teams with his boys, and he was the referee. The match began, and the Master was happy with his boys.
The Master knew all of us by our names, ages, and addresses where we lived and knew our parents. Although we never knew his name or where he lived.
The Master always appeared around, in any direction. He came smiling, his face was round and small, with his eyes as elongated as a Chinese, with its faded lining on his head.
As soon as he arrived, he asked: “Have you played a new game, boys? Or have they not started?” Later, he began his narrations and comments on the previous matches and teams.
“Do you have any candy, Master?” asked one of the boys furtively.
“Yes,” he answered without worrying who asked for it. Nevertheless, he reminded us that they were only after the match and for those who scored goals, as for the goalkeeper.
He counted the attendees and put them in pairs so that each one knew which position he would play and who he had to chase.
After the games, we sat on the grass to rest and talk about the spectators. I was always part of the spectators.
On more than one occasion, I found myself alone. I was intrigued to know something about the life of that odd man, who “wasted” his time in the middle of some football “players.” I came close by and shouted at him with curiosity many questions that sometimes he did not answer and dodged, changing the conversation dramatically.
As the impertinent guy, I was. I came to know many things that most of our common friends did not know about the master's life. I discovered he had no children, not even a wife. He lived in an inn, opposite the Administration of Rents, at 12 South Avenue, with his married sister. He did not smoke or drink alcohol; he did not go to the movies and never went to parties.
In truth, he was an unusual man who only liked to watch the kids playing football. Hardly, he knew how to read and write, but he was nice to the boys and morally healthy. He never talked about sexual matters, and when someone came out with jokes or picaresque occurrences in which they mentioned sexual matters, he would get serious and said: “No, we’re not doing well on that side. With sports, you cannot mix additions or romances. Come on, come on, talk about sports which are what interest us.”
When the game was over, the best part came. I enjoyed the discussions of my friends and how many defects they had found. Only when there was an impartial referee, things went well. However, the “players” were still disappointed because everything was too correct, and he did not allow tricks or play dirty.
Thanks to attending so many matches, it is how I finally met “the Master.”
The Master was a man of indefinable age. He was around one hundred and fifty centimeters tall, who dressed like any other worker of the time. He worked as a tinker with its box of iron, tin, and pieces of tin on its shoulder, crossing the residential neighborhoods of San Salvador. We called him the Master as a treatment of respect.
The Master always had time to help the children before the matches. He definitely liked to be surrounded by football players between 9 and 13 years old because he remembered his old days as a football player in Chalchuapa. He always carried in his bags some candied that distributed among “his boys.”
When it came to organizing the next Sunday game, he always had a ball with him available for the “Team.”
The Master always arrived where we were, and we made a circle around him. He enthusiastically told us about last Sunday’s game at Don Bosco, at El Polvorín, or El Pirata. Then he organized the two teams with his boys, and he was the referee. The match began, and the Master was happy with his boys.
The Master knew all of us by our names, ages, and addresses where we lived and knew our parents. Although we never knew his name or where he lived.
The Master always appeared around, in any direction. He came smiling, his face was round and small, with his eyes as elongated as a Chinese, with its faded lining on his head.
As soon as he arrived, he asked: “Have you played a new game, boys? Or have they not started?” Later, he began his narrations and comments on the previous matches and teams.
“Do you have any candy, Master?” asked one of the boys furtively.
“Yes,” he answered without worrying who asked for it. Nevertheless, he reminded us that they were only after the match and for those who scored goals, as for the goalkeeper.
He counted the attendees and put them in pairs so that each one knew which position he would play and who he had to chase.
After the games, we sat on the grass to rest and talk about the spectators. I was always part of the spectators.
On more than one occasion, I found myself alone. I was intrigued to know something about the life of that odd man, who “wasted” his time in the middle of some football “players.” I came close by and shouted at him with curiosity many questions that sometimes he did not answer and dodged, changing the conversation dramatically.
As the impertinent guy, I was. I came to know many things that most of our common friends did not know about the master's life. I discovered he had no children, not even a wife. He lived in an inn, opposite the Administration of Rents, at 12 South Avenue, with his married sister. He did not smoke or drink alcohol; he did not go to the movies and never went to parties.
In truth, he was an unusual man who only liked to watch the kids playing football. Hardly, he knew how to read and write, but he was nice to the boys and morally healthy. He never talked about sexual matters, and when someone came out with jokes or picaresque occurrences in which they mentioned sexual matters, he would get serious and said: “No, we’re not doing well on that side. With sports, you cannot mix additions or romances. Come on, come on, talk about sports which are what interest us.”
Furthermore, I never saw him smoking and even less drunk or with traces of coming from a wild party. The Master never gave us bad examples of any nature, and we could appreciate his sincerity and honesty towards everyone.
…
Many years passed, and I lost contact with my childhood friends. I never saw again: Pepe Mayén, Chuvete Chavéz, Chalupa Hernández, Luis Marti (RIP), Luis Solano, Kique Zepeda, Zungo, Chepe Roldán, Salatiel Durán, Oscar Zepeda, Pato Vásquez, Arquimidez Herrera, and many others I met in my teenage years. I started to travel from my 16th birthday with small gaps. First, I knew all my country, even the most remote villages. Then, Central America, Mexico, and part of the United States of America, and later all South America.
One day, I returned to my homeland in 1958. On that day, I entered a little shop to search for some jenny milk candies. I ran into the mouth, as my mommy used to say, with “The Master.”
Oh! What intimate joy I felt. I gave him a strong hug with almost childlike emotion as if I had found a dear member of my family. We began talking for a while.
I had not seen the Master for more than 22 years, and to my pleasant surprise, he was almost the same. He had only lost two teeth, but generally, he was the same as always; it was the same man I met in my childhood days.
We exchanged some greetings, and I told him something about my adventures. He, with his characteristic Chinese smile, extended his hand saying: “It has been a pleasant surprise to see you again. I am glad you are among us one more time. I came here to buy some candies, and I need to go. My boys are waiting for me. I’m going to El Polvorín.”
…
Many years passed, and I lost contact with my childhood friends. I never saw again: Pepe Mayén, Chuvete Chavéz, Chalupa Hernández, Luis Marti (RIP), Luis Solano, Kique Zepeda, Zungo, Chepe Roldán, Salatiel Durán, Oscar Zepeda, Pato Vásquez, Arquimidez Herrera, and many others I met in my teenage years. I started to travel from my 16th birthday with small gaps. First, I knew all my country, even the most remote villages. Then, Central America, Mexico, and part of the United States of America, and later all South America.
One day, I returned to my homeland in 1958. On that day, I entered a little shop to search for some jenny milk candies. I ran into the mouth, as my mommy used to say, with “The Master.”
Oh! What intimate joy I felt. I gave him a strong hug with almost childlike emotion as if I had found a dear member of my family. We began talking for a while.
I had not seen the Master for more than 22 years, and to my pleasant surprise, he was almost the same. He had only lost two teeth, but generally, he was the same as always; it was the same man I met in my childhood days.
We exchanged some greetings, and I told him something about my adventures. He, with his characteristic Chinese smile, extended his hand saying: “It has been a pleasant surprise to see you again. I am glad you are among us one more time. I came here to buy some candies, and I need to go. My boys are waiting for me. I’m going to El Polvorín.”
I replied to the culprit of his backwardness was me. Let me give you a lift, I told him; therefore, we have a few more minutes to talk.
Fifteen minutes later, from the top of the paved back of El Zapote Barracks, I saw the Master who was in El Polvorín. A new group of children between 9 and 11 years old surrounded the Master. He organized the game in pairs (figure 1) as he always did with all of us during my childhood.
He was the same Master as before, with his love for football and his child mentality.
Only back in 1963, talking with Fito Alfaro, a childhood friend, did I come to know the master's name, Miguel. Nothing more than Miguel and the new boys nicknamed him: The Master llacha.
Figure 1. The Master and his boys. ¹
THE MASTER
Only back in 1963, talking with Fito Alfaro, a childhood friend, did I come to know the master's name, Miguel. Nothing more than Miguel.
Only back in 1963, talking with Fito Alfaro, a childhood friend, did I come to know the master's name, Miguel. Nothing more than Miguel.
Inspired by the book “Mitología Cuzcatleca, O, Los Cuentos De Mi Infancia Y Otros” by Dr. José Efraín Melara Méndez.
Credits:
¹ “Mitología Cuzcatleca, O, Los Cuentos De Mi Infancia Y Otros.”
Credits:
¹ “Mitología Cuzcatleca, O, Los Cuentos De Mi Infancia Y Otros.”
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