Manuel was laid to rest
this afternoon. Funerals are strange events, really: a rather surreal
juxtaposition of live memories from decades ago and someone you've known all
your life unbelievably dead in a box. They are meant to be a celebration of
life at a time when physical life has indisputably come to an end.
We knew each other practically from birth. The
eldest sons of inseparable twins, both named after our paternal grandfather and born within 6 months of each other and living a
five-minute walk away from each other, we inevitably
shared many moments of our younger lives.
During Mass, memories flood tsunami-like: 2 boys aged 5 sprinting along the pavement from his grandmother's small green-grocery to Kola's wine-shop. He's somewhat upset because I win: the six-month difference in our ages tells. From the height of my physical and moral superiority I magnanimously let him win the next time round. It must have been the only occasion when my sporting prowess - and moral qualities - outshone his. He was better at football and that was what really counted when you were 14. Of course he went on to become a highly-respected basketball referee and official. My sporting curriculum, on the other hand... Let's move on to other things.
He was better at life too: married till the end to the lovely and sensible Jennifer whom he met at sixth form when all three of us were students there. A devoted husband and doting father and grandfather, he enjoyed a stable family life. He taught regular classes in Primary Schools, then P.E. in a number of educational establishments, and ended his career as a much-loved assistant head of school.
One
achievement he must have been very proud of was his induction in the
Maltese Olympic Committee Hall of Fame. Nationally, he made his name as a
basketball referee and official famed for uprightness and a gentle firmness. In
a way he made mine too: I cannot even begin to estimate the number of times
when I was asked if, or it was assumed that, I was the basketball referee;
there was even one bizarre occasion when someone insisted that I was the
referee because it was me he had seen officiating a match on TV only the other
day - and walked off in a huff when I kept explaining it was someone else.
Beyond young adulthood our paths did not often cross but you could count on him when you needed him. A decade or so ago, my work colleagues and I organised a sports day for sedqa alcohol clients and their families. Right on the eve of the event we were informed that, for some reason I have now forgotten, the equipment required to hold the activities would not, after all, be available. I was at my wits’ end. In desperation I contacted Manuel. Within minutes he provided enough sporting gear for us to utilise the next day. Without his prompt help some 50 people would have been very disappointed indeed.
I last met him some 3
years ago at a family wedding. As we chatted and reminisced he looked the picture of health and seemed very happy and
serene. He was in shape, did not smoke or drink in excess and could
look forward to many years’ enjoyment
of family and his beloved field, birds and basketball. But the Grim Reaper was
devising his own nefarious plans.
I never made it to
hospital to see him. I was recovering from a bout of the flu and did not
think it proper to visit him and risk making things worse. In hindsight it
was rather silly of me: he was very near the end and nothing would have made a
difference. Perhaps it was because I was hoping against hope that he would
somehow pull through. Or maybe it was all an unconscious stratagem to avoid
seeing him at death’s door: a quite irrational and pathetic act of denial
of my own mortality.
He’s gone now; at least
his physical body lies in a cold coffin deep in the damp soil. But his faith
and mine assures us that he’s still very much alive on another plane, minding our places
and patiently waiting for us to turn up.
So I
hope to see you again, Manuel. We’ll chat and reminisce again. Perhaps we will
even have the opportunity to race again along some long, celestial
pavement. Only this time you’ll have to sweat blood – or whatever it is they do
up there when they’re making super-strenuous efforts – to beat me. Au revoir,
cousin, au revoir.
