How foosball changed everything.

As I biked back from school tonight, I was hell bent on the intention to go home, read some Foster Wallace, eat some popcorn and finish the episode of Homeland I had started. (Not necessarily in that order.) I had already spent seven and a half hours at school, so I was feeling I had made enough of an appearance in the community for the day. (If the past few posts were not enough of an indication, I’ve been in a bit of a funk for the past few days.)

My route home leads me past a boutique where one of my best friends here has a tendency to hang out when he’s finished teaching. About four months ago, two foosball tables appeared there, making it one of the go-to destinations in my village.

As I pedaled past the small group of students who had already been released from class for the day, but had not yet decided it was time to go home standing around the tables, my friend yelled at me to come sit with him.

“I saw you were tired, so I thought that you should come hang out here for a little bit before you go home,” was his explanation as he made room for me to sit on the mat next to him. (When Martin became so perceptive, I’m not quite sure.)

“Do you know how to play?” he asked me, motioning to the foosball tables.

I nodded. “But not well." 

"Let’s play.” He stood, searched in his pocket for the 25 CFA needed to release the hard plastic balls, and took his place behind table.

One of my favorite things about Martin (and several of my other colleagues) is while he is older than me, he still has the tendency to act like a teenaged boy. “I’m going to beat you 5-0,” he said as I dropped the ball onto the table.

He did beat me (9-6). And as we walked away from the tables to let the students play, I realized that he had also given me back that feeling that had been missing for the past few days. That feeling that someone would care if I wasn’t here. That feeling that I could do this for the next 19 months. Never has a game of foosball meant so much to me.