Go Jockey Go
Outside my office is an Astroturf soccer pitch. It is owned by a local high school, but provides a space for men of all ages to act out their Premiership and Champions League fantasies.
For most of my life I have lived under the impression that Astroturf was the low maintenance way to keep a field. No mowing, painting or filling in divots from over zealous slide tacklers. But then I noticed a man who appeared to be mowing the green on a sport utility version of those geriatric go-carts you sometimes see racing along the sidewalks at 3.4 mph. Every few minutes my window view is invaded by this peculiar little fire engine red buggy topped by a man aerodynamically hunched towards its handlebars. He wears a dark wind parka, beanie, red ear muffs, and gloves which you can just see maxing out the throttle.
I squint a bit and can just make out that he is not mowing really so much as sweeping. However, his utility vehicle doesn’t seem to pick anything up and every so often the little turf jockey is resigned to dislodge himself from his perch to pick up larger wrappers and knick knacks the footballers have left behind. “Kids these days,” he seems to say.
This little ritual happens three or four times a week I think. It’s like a Zen clock, tick-tocking across my window.
I consider the daunting task of sweeping this grand patch of Astroturf as a kind of metaphor at first. That robust little turf spiffer is me struggling to get my work done this day. Then I begin to wonder what it would be like if all I had to do was putter back and forth across a pitch, perfectly reordering my little patch of reality. Before I can get my imagined cap upon my blissful head however, a young rookie takes my place on the still as yet unswept Astroturf. I am forced to watch as this interloper is called in to finish the elder estate curator’s task. Although not wearing uniforms, they are dressed in identical beanies and parkas. As you can imagine, there wasn’t much to say. One man hopped off his camel as another hopped on. A few little instructions and an encouraging pat on the back and off the newbie went. The elder man stood on the pitch to wave and instruct the rookie on his course, but after just a length and a half he threw up his thumbs in approval and walked away.
It has now been an hour and the Astroturf is looking much the same as it always does from this distance, but I’m sure to our heroic sweeper all the plastic blades of faux lawn are in perfect place. I wonder if tonight’s band of footballers will recognize nirvana when they see it. I wonder why I care. Maybe that common recurring dream for a simple life has found a new metaphor to express itself? Or maybe it’s just a welcome distraction as I imagine my own little project done for the day? Whatever the case, “Go jockey go!”
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