I’m looking at the 4th tallest structure in Europe, the Berlin TV tower, which is 364m high.  The fam and I are at a Fulbright seminar and I spent our first morning trying to get online.  Of course I could have paid the exorbitant fee our hotel wanted, but that would run counter to stipend stretching.  I could post entirely about the last hour, but I think I’ll just hit yesterday’s highlights before retyping the planned post from laptop to internet cafe computer.  And as a sidenote, who gave the German’s permission to move the z and y on the keyboard?

Great Third Reich tour yesterday lead by two youngish American Fulbrighters based in Berlin.  We probably walked five miles in part because a huge half marathon had shut down the bus system.  Damn runners.  The tour was informative and memorable.  The 15 year old was particularly tuned in.  The 12 year old drifted in and out.  The 12 year was enthralled with a sidenote, the hotel where Michael Jackson dangled his baby from a window.  Several pictures were snapped.  Our room is on the 34th floor of a nice hotel with an amazing view in what used to be East Berlin.  Loved the bus rides in from the airport, very gritty sections of former East Berlin.

On to the planned post.  47 minutes of time left, so forgive the rough trans.

Isn’t passion in some form, or to some degree, integral to wellness?

At Lexington Junior High in Cypress, CA, I dreaded my 7th grade Spanish class.  I struggle with languages and the teacher was going through the motions.  The class started at something like 10:20 and ended at 11:10.  I explained to my hombres who were equally bored that our problem was the minute hand (pre digital) had to fight gravity to make its way from the bottom of the hour to the top.  Knowing that didn’t prevent us from endlessly staring at the classroom clock in the hope that someday it might miraculously skip forward.

One of the best barometers of passion is the opposite of my Spanish experience.  When passionately engaged with something, time loses relevance and seemingly stands still.  A few springs ago, A, J, and I stood standing in our family room watching in complete disbelief as L gardened right through dusk and into complete darkness.  Eventually, we gave up on her cooking dinner and turned on the outdoor lights for her.  When she came in dirty, exhausted, and completely contented, she said she hadn’t noticed the sun had set.

What activities give you the most joy?  When does time at least slow, if not stop?  How can we develop passions or maintain existing ones in our work-a-day world?  Do you enjoy camarderie with others who share your passions or are they solitary pursuits?  Are we doing everything we can to help young people develop socially redeeming passions?

These questions bubbled up a couple mornings ago after listening to the head coach of England’s national football team on BBC Radio.

In a tone so serious it’s impossible to exaggerate, he intoned: “Where have our great goal scorers gone?!!!  What are we doing to develop the next generation of great goal scorers?!!!  I had just come to and was semi-conscience so I searched for the transcript online to see if I was imagining things.  While looking for the transcript, I stumbled upon Nick Webster’s blog, which convinced me I had heard correctly.  Here’s an excerpt from one of his recent posts:

“So where are the English strikers and will they ever come back?

With a sick feeling in my stomach, I’m afraid to say that until a major shift in attitudes and social conditions occurs, we’ll not see an Englishman top the scoring charts for at least another decade.  I have three reasons for my pessimism.  Firstly, a lack of street football.  Secondly, a lack of poverty.  Lastly, too much time in front of the TV and video games.  All three reasons are related.

When, I was a kid, we’d play in the streets for hours on end.  In fact, in summer it wasn’t uncommon to have matches that lasted eight hours or more as children came and went.

The score wasn’t that important but scoring always was.  I can still recall great goals from my childhood-from swerving thirty-yarders that Petr Cech would’ve struggled to stop to mazy dribbles that would have Diego Maradona (circa 1986) drooling.

It was in the street that you would try the outrageous finish because it didn’t matter if you missed-you had another seven hours to make amends.

Although I wasn’t from a poor family, there still wasn’t a great deal of money for extra stuff.  The movies were a luxury, malls were non-existent and ice/roller skating was for rich kids.  Football was all I had-and rest assured I’ve played my fair share of games with balls that wouldn’t must FIFA inspection.  The hunger of poverty has often been cited as a major factor in producing the two greatest players in the world, Pele & Maradona-scorers of ridiculous goals.”

Even though I didn’t grow up playing the “beautiful game” and haven’t fully embraced it despite being a soccer dad for the last decade, I want to meet the Nickster because I love his passion.  Forget economic malaise, global warming, the threat of terrorism, poverty, education reform; dammit we need some goal scorers.

Given the Nickster’s logic, maybe Gordon Brown should do everything in his powers to accelerate England’s economic downturn in the hope that a world-class English striker or two might rise from the ashes.  Were that to happen, I’m guessing the Nickster and his football-mad friends might just accept the trade-offs and re-elect Brown. 

L’s life is enriched by gardening, the Nickster’s by football, and yours?

(apologies for the typos, it’s the Germans fault)