Dad...

There is a quaint little Irish Pub here in Alcala that Aaron and I have become quite fond of. We walk in and get a big hug from the owner and an enthusiastic "Hola!" from everyone present. It has quickly become a quarky combination of the coffee shop in Friends, the diner in Seinfeld, the clubhouse in Caddyshack, and the conference room from The Office (That's what she said...).

How did "The Medium Pint" become so near and dear to our hearts? The story begins with a soccer game...

On the way to Winner's, a local bar where the game was being shown, Aaron and I had high hopes and dreams of our evening. We were going to sit down and enjoy the biggest league game finale in the sport of soccer, the Champions League Final. To make things better and add a slight skip in our step, Manchester United and Chelsea were playing. Being the HUGE ManU fan the I am, there was obvious reasons for joy, but even better, Aaron is a Chelsea fan. Tonight I will have even more bragging rights than I imagined, I live with the enemy. The enemy will be crushed.

We arrived at Winner's and I actually felt a tear slip down my cheek, but not out of joy. It was bigger than a shoebox, but smaller than a boot box. Nay, it was smaller than THE hobbit hole. Oh yeah, and it was packed. We are talking sardines, this is no lie. After trying to be European and just sit at a table with two Spanish guys (they kindly, er, 'asked' us to leave) we stormed out and began hating the stupid english girl that speaks spanish (who is also one of our guides) that MADE us go THAT bar saying, "that EVERYONE goes here for the matches..." Wow, we didn't know that she was such a literal person, she should realize that we are Americans, we are sarcastic.

As we continued cursing her (lovingly) we were suddenly face to face with fear. The game is happening and we are alone in Spain and have to try and find a place to watch it. It was in that moment that we stumbled upon the pot of gold at the end of the perverbial rainbow, LA MEDIA PINTA. This paradise was equipped with adequate seating and even a back room with a projector. Viva Espana!!

This is the part of the story where the main characters again come into conflict. There was a group of Spanish guys sitting in the corner of said back room that were obviously mocking our enthusiasm of the game. I mean can you imagine going to Applebee's and seeing two foreign teenagers yelling at the television after a bad call in the Super Bowl? After ignoring them, it came to that point and I finally made eye contact. Like in any classic story, the ring-leader whom I challenged yelled, "FOR MANCHESTER?" Like a black bear in a honey store I ran over and embraced him in the international language of manhood, the high five!!

The game ended, we all cheered (Aaron jeered) and began singing the Spanish version of "We are the Champions!". On the way out the owner stopped us and invited us back every night to enjoy various festivities. He embraced us both as a father would his own children (and for once I was the older, more loved child because the owner, like in any classic story, was a ManU fan!) and wished us on our way, only to be stopped by more new amigos...

Being immersed in a culture is something that takes courage, fear, strength, and sometimes just dumb luck. Anyone that has lived or spent significant time abroad can attest to that and tell multiple stories to prove the point. I learned alot about life that night. I learned that becoming a man isn't about age, it is about having the courage to venture out and take a chance. Whether striking out or hitting a home run, you have to have the courage to step up to the plate and take the pitches.

When I got home that night, I thought alot about courage. I thought about my dad. My dad always used to push me to be the greatest, to "not be afraid to fail..." I always thought that he was wanting me to become a better center mid, point guard, quarterback, or short stop. I never knew he was teaching me things that would make me who I am today, the man I am today. See, he taught me to be a man, he taught me courage. Not just a jump shot in the driveway, a pass in the backyard, or how to stay cool when being harassed by an unruly fan or horrific referee, he was teaching me how to become a good man. He was teaching me to be able to fail and pull myself up and be better because of it. There is one thing you have to know about my dad, he is a good man, he is a courageous man. He is the Regional Manager...

Isn't it funny that sometimes we have to travel to the other side of the world to learn something that has been at home for so long?

Thanks dad, you are the man, and I finally get it.