Nunca voy a olvidar el dĂa en que conocĂ a Tato.
Era de tarde y yo estaba sentado en las gradas de la cancha del barrio, esperando que todos llegaran para el tan esperado partido futbol dominical. Era un dĂa medio nublado, de esos en los que no sabes si te vas a mojar o te vas a achicharrar con el sol.
De repente, vi a un chico con muletas que venia a todo lo que daba su cuerpo hacia la cancha, tenĂa una gorra azul medio torcida, una sonrisa enorme y una mochila llena de calcomanĂas.
Se acercĂł a la cancha y gritĂł:
¡Hey…! ¿Me dejan atrapar unos penales?
Los niños lo miraron raro, como con duda, ya sabes como son a veces, pero no por maldad, sino porque no saben cĂłmo reaccionar ante una situaciĂłn asĂ. Pero Tato no se achicĂł ni un poquito, estaba allĂ parado con una confianza que hasta yo envidiĂ©, se metiĂł en medio de todos y les dijo:
Yo atajo, pero no me tiren despacio, eh. Quiero que pateen como si fuera el Ăşltimo penal de la final del mundial.
Y allĂ fue donde vi algo que me dejĂł asombrado.
Tato, con sus bracitos flacos y el cuerpo que no se movĂa como los demás, se paro frente al arco y abrĂa los brazos como si fuera un superhĂ©roe. Y cada vez que le tiraban, se lanzaba como podĂa, a veces con la mano, otras con el cuerpo, y si no llegaba igual se reĂa.
Gritaba ¡casi! o ¡esa era mĂa!, nunca se quejaba, nunca pedĂa que lo trataran distinto. El era parte del juego, y punto.
Pasaron los dĂas y Tato se volviĂł un fijo de la cancha, siempre lleno de energĂa, siempre con buena actitud, con esa chispa que te hacĂa pensar, este niño entiende cosas de las que nosotros los grandes ni nos percatamos.
Un dĂa me sentĂ© a su lado y le preguntĂ©:
ÂżCĂłmo haces para estar siempre tan feliz?
Él bajó un poco la vista, como pensando bien lo que iba a decir, y después me respondió:
No siempre estoy feliz, hay dĂas en los que me cuesta levantarme y otros en que me duele hasta el alma y no quiero ver a nadie.
Pero aprendĂ algo... hizo una pausa, aprendĂ que si me quedo pensando en lo que no puedo hacer me pierdo todo lo que sĂ puedo.
Y eso sĂ serĂa una derrota, asĂ que cada vez que salgo, aunque estĂ© roto por dentro, decido reĂrme fuerte, no para fingir que todo está bien... sino para recordarme que sigo vivo y porque quiero que la vida sepa que no me he rendido.
Con esas palabras me marcĂł.
Ese chico, que, segĂşn el mundo, tenĂa todas las de perder ya habĂa ganado, porque tenĂa algo que no todos tenemos, coraje, ese coraje que te impulsa a mirarte al espejo cada mañana y decir, aunque duela, aquĂ voy de nuevo.
Desde aquella vez, cuando siento que no puedo más, me acuerdo de Tato, de su sonrisa torcida, de sus penales imposibles, y de esa frase que se me quedó tatuada en la cabeza.
"No siempre estoy feliz... solo quiero que la vida sepa que no me he rendido"
I'll never forget the day I met Tato.
It was afternoon, and I was sitting in the stands of the neighborhood soccer field, waiting for everyone to arrive for the long-awaited Sunday soccer game. It was a partly cloudy day, one of those days when you don't know if you're going to get wet or burn to a crisp.
Suddenly, I saw a boy on crutches coming at full speed toward the field. He had a blue cap half askew, a huge smile, and a backpack full of stickers.
He approached the field and shouted:
Hey...! Can I take some penalties?
The kids looked at him strangely, as if doubtful. You know how they are sometimes, but not out of malice, just because they don't know how to react in a situation like this. But Tato didn't back down one bit; he stood there with a confidence that even I envied. He got in the middle of everyone and said:
I'll save the ball, but don't shoot it too slowly, okay? I want you to kick it like it's the last penalty kick of the World Cup final.
And that's where I saw something that amazed me.
Tato, with his skinny little arms and a body that didn't move like the others, stood in front of the goal and opened his arms like a superhero. And every time they shot at him, he dove however he could, sometimes with his hand, other times with his body, and if he didn't make it, he laughed anyway.
He shouted "almost!" or "that was mine!" He never complained, never asked to be treated differently. He was part of the game, period.
Days passed, and Tato became a fixture on the court, always full of energy, always with a good attitude, with that spark that made you think. This kid understands things we adults don't even realize.
One day I sat next to him and asked him:
How do you manage to always be so happy?
He lowered his gaze a little, as if thinking carefully about what he was going to say, and then he answered:
I'm not always happy. There are days when I struggle to get up, and others when my soul hurts and I don't want to see anyone.
But I learned something... he paused. I learned that if I dwell on what I can't do, I miss out on everything I can do.
And that would be a defeat, so every time I go out, even if I'm broken inside, I choose to laugh out loud, not to pretend everything is okay... but to remind myself that I'm still alive, and because I want life to know that I haven't given up.
With those words, he left his mark on me.
That boy, who, according to the world, had everything to lose, had already won, because he had something not all of us have: courage, that courage that drives you to look in the mirror every morning and say, even if it hurts, here I go again.
Since that time, whenever I feel like I can't go on, I remember Tato, his crooked smile, his impossible penalties, and that phrase that's been tattooed in my head.
"I'm not always happy... I just want life to know I haven't given up."
