Little Sarajevo

“So your Uncle Joe got engaged last night,” I explained to Puck early Monday morning. “That means they’re going to get married.”

Puck didn’t seem any more impressed than any other six year-old. “Oh. Where are they getting married?”

“I don’t know. They haven’t decided yet.”

“How ’bout Texas?”

“Sorry, pal. I don’t think so.”

“Central Park?”

He then requested a tomato – whole – with his oatmeal, marveling over a picture book of volcanic photographs: shocking orange lava.

“WAAAH!”

I hear this outburst several times a day for no particular reason. Excess adrenaline drain, maybe? Sometimes I advise Puck that my stress level has reached the roof, so then he piles on an attack-hug. Then he stands back, proud with himself and says something like…

“Now your stress level is in the attic.”

Or…

“Now your stress level is in my closet.”

So anyway, the weather was still sort of mild. Nothing amazing like those sky-surging ruffles of white cloud and flocks of blackbirds on Sunday: pepper on mashed potatoes. But it was acceptable for a soccer match at Busch that night, which was the idea.

Four sisters.

One Argentine flag draped over our knees.

We were miserable outnumbered, of course. The Bosnian community surged inside with blue-and-yellow flags large enough to cover Rhode Island. They kept the singing chants rolling for 90 minutes, tossed a few full cans of beer on the field, lit up red flares/fire crackers – curling smoke into the stadium lights. I think it was around that time that I realized there were more than 30 police officers on the field. And a few dogs. For an International Friendly. I wondered what it would have been like if it was a real game.

We snacked on normal soccer match snacks: truffles, honey mustard pretzel bites. I had forgotten the cheese sticks, which Rose wasn’t happy about. No Messi. But the crowds were big and loud. No one else acted out. And commentary ranged from…

“Hallelujah! Hallelujah!” to “Estúpido! Estúpido!”

We walked out with a 2-0 win, the Argentine flag draped over Linnea’s shoulders, blue-and-yellow flags swarming around us, feeling closer to Sarajevo than St. Louis.