Those Days of Paella and Football

Those Days of Paella and Football


On Calle Ocho
in a now deserted stretch of Little Havana,
behind the rock mural in the shape of a pterodactyl wing,
once existed Malaga Restaurant.

Its paella is part of my culinary memory.
There, my father, his second wife, and I—
without his second pair of children—
dined each Saturday before Hurricane games,
before the crowd’s roar split the night.

It was the only time I remember
him truly alive, actually happy—
feasting from the communal serving
bulging with yellow rice, lobster, mussels,
scallops, peas, and other steaming savory vegetables.

This ritual,
this brief communion,
was when I spoke to him most freely.

The three of us
stuffed ourselves
on the open-air second-floor terrace,
sparkling with imported azulejo tile
that twinkled back to the night sky.

Later, we’d sit in the humid Orange Bowl,
just under the shade of the 50-yard line rafters,
with thousands of others—
and bake.

After the game,
we walked back to his Mercedes convertible
parked in the front yard
of one of the ancient houses
on the oldest street of the city.

The car, light blue,
had ample room up front for him and his new wife,
but barely enough in the back for me.
Even cramped, knees pressed to chest—
I never felt so majestic.

We watched the last of the crowd
flow around us,
waiting for those whose cars
were parked ahead
to leave.

Then we’d be the last to go,
long after the beachgoers—
sunburned, blistered,
glowing with heat and salt—
had vanished.

We passed the University,
heard the student crowd
in the Rathskeller,
either exalting victory,
or more likely,
drowning defeat
in beer after beer.

The new wife rarely spoke.
She existed then as a head scarf.
Hidden.
Her quiet—
not cold, not warm—
just the silent foil to our ritual.
I never knew if she
watched us
with envy, boredom, or grace.

This was before Jim Kelly,
before his four Super Bowl losses,
before the Hurricanes
grew into five-time National Champions.

Before I learned
that joy,
and paella,
are best served communal.

Now, years later—
after divorce,
remarriage,
chemo,
burying the ones I couldn't live without—
I married a chef who makes the most excellent paella.

I find joy in the uncrowded table we share, 
still delighting in the pre-game feast
and doing the Hurricane Howl 
with my wife and dog, Cane—  
whenever the orange and green get in the end zone. 

And if lobster and scallop and saffron 
are expensive or unavailable,
gladly eat  chicken with leftovers