The second effort

The second effort.

In July 2008, after postponing it on different occasions, perhaps for work, perhaps for fear, perhaps for something different, I decided to travel to visit my father.

It had been a few years, about 4, since I last saw him. He supposed that some things had changed. Time does not pass in vain. For him, as for me, especially for me, all this time without seeing each other had represented a series of events in our respective lives that had immersed us in an involuntary distancing with sporadic phone calls that were summarized in a few minutes and as a whole not they added, perhaps, more than a couple of hours in all these years. But, although more and more technologies bring us closer and we can make use of video calls, there was little I could do against my father's lack of connection with technology and the internet and against the poor telephone reception that existed in the village where he lived. Most importantly, though, there was little he could do about how much I missed him.

What do video calls know about a big hug?

I needed to feel one of his hugs on my back. I wanted to hear the same old stories again and, perhaps, some new ones that had happened to him or had been invented at this time and thus renewed his repertoire of stories. I wanted to hear it. I wanted to see him in the eye. I wanted to toast with him with a good "vinho verde" (wine of the region). I wanted to dine with him a roast suckling pig in a restaurant that without realizing it we made our place and that today, now that it has left for eternity, is still the place I turn to find it again.

I wanted to thank you.

I wanted to tell him that I love him.

Here is a lesson that I understood in time, but perhaps I wanted to understand before:

Parents are sought out. Where they are and who they are with.

Parents are to give them time. At least one meal for an hour on Sunday, it will be worth it.

Parents are to be provided for well-being and happiness.

Parents are to be honored with our actions, with our trades, and with our family.

Parents are meant to not be judged on the personal lives they have chosen to live.

Parents are should not held responsible for our own lives, these are ultimately ours and mostly the result of our decisions and the efforts we make. Well, everything, everything is the result of our effort.

My father, named José, a Portuguese national, lived in Bairros, a small village belonging to the Trofa community, about a 40-minute drive north of Porto on the M50 road. In 1929 he had been born there, on August 20, in the same place where for a few years, and since the separation with my mother, he had decided to live.

My father had left his village at 18 in search of better life opportunities and had migrated to Latin America along with tens of thousands of Europeans who, by the middle of the century, had also migrated to Venezuela, the jewel in the crown of the Latin American economy. that was projected as a prosperous nation and one of the richest countries in the world in the middle of the 20th century, thanks to the recently discovered oil.

As is understood from here, migrating is in my blood. Even if there is nothing good about the word migrate, sometimes you have to do it. For you and for those you love.

My father had lived in Venezuela, specifically in the city of Valencia, in the state of Carabobo, in the north of the country, from his 18 to just before his 50 years. He was married to my mother for almost 30 years and as a result of that marriage, mostly happy, we were born: Pepe, my older brother, who along with my father was the man from whom I learned the most, loved and admired in my life and from whom whose adventures, teachings and memories that I treasure, we will talk about him in one of the following chapters; and me, Roberto.

I was the youngest and it is worth mentioning that I was the spoiled one.

Continuing with the story I want to tell you, after a flight with a couple of connections, the rental of a car and a few minutes driving on the road, I arrived to Bairros. My father's village. I had only a few days to be with him since I had to return to Mexico. Therefore, I set out to try to make the most of my stay and his company.

We chat. He asked about his grandchildren, my children. He asked about Omaira, my wife. He asked about work. He asked about the food in Mexico. We spoke, as expected, of Venezuela; that unlike the prosperous Venezuela to which he had migrated and through which he had left Trofa, today it was submerged, for more than a decade, in an authoritarian regime and suffering an unprecedented humanitarian, migratory and economic crisis that sadly, it persists to the days that I write this book. Venezuela suffered - and continues to suffer - and that occupied a large part of our conversations.

But hey, Venezuela occupies a privileged place in my heart and in my thoughts, consequently, it, my first homeland, has its own chapter.

Being with my father was, among other things, learning. He had habits that since childhood I found admirable and extremely interesting. To tell the truth, I would have liked to have them. For example, my father played the violin. He had learned to play from his childhood as part of his basic, classical post-war European education. Since I can remember, since my childhood, he liked to listen to Mexican, Mariachi to be precise, Jorge Negrete, Pedro Infante, Javier Solís and José Alfredo.

Curiosities of life, perhaps since then he predicted my destiny. And hims.

One of my greatest pleasures with my father was to share a room, each one in a rocking chair, having a drink, a coffee or a wine, quiet, listening to their favorite song, “el plebeyo”, written by Felipe Pinglo, a Peruvian composer in the 1930s, but immortalized in the voice of Pedro Infante.

El Plebeyo is a fantastic song, sadly as current as it was almost 100 years ago when it was written. Which means that we have made little progress. It basically talks about 4 themes: First, love that does not and should not admit social or economic borders, since it tells the story of a poor man who loves a woman from an aristocratic family; The second topic is human equality, “my blood, although commoner, also stains red” -quote- What a message !, so real, so current; He also speaks of inequality, "Lord, why are human beings not of equal value?" We can reflect a lot from this question; Finally, El Plebeyo claims his right to equality saying "Loving is not a crime because even God loved ... Why do they want to steal from me, the faith of the heart?"

"The Bolero is life" said Gabriel García Márquez. I think my father knew.

I must confess that listening to Mexican music is remembering my father. I do it from time to time, especially in the mornings when for one reason or another I remember him or I am about to remember him, either because I saw something that made me think about it or because I am cooking something that he liked to eat or that he taught me let's cook. He wasn't exactly a great cook, I must admit.

This taste and ability of my father to play the violin lead me to tell you the following story that exemplifies what I call "the law of the second effort."

While in Portugal, at my father's house, I found out that in Porto they would offer a staging of the musical "Um Violino no Telhado" or, what is the same, The Fiddler on the Roof, a Broadway play inspired by the writer's stories Ukrainian Sholem Aleichem. I thought it would be an experience my father would like. I liked the idea of sharing an afternoon at the theater with him and going to dinner at a good restaurant on the banks of the Duoro after the show.

I proposed the idea to him. He said no.

I could understand it. I understood that he preferred to stay in his house and in his village, in the comfort that this represented to him. I understood that perhaps being the work a musical did not interest him. I preferred not to insist and find out how to spend that next Sunday together doing something else. Maybe go to eat at the "flor do ave" and watch the hours go by talking about anything. However, come Sunday, he told me:

What was the name of the play that you told me? -I immediately understood that he wanted to go-

Do you want to go? -Asked-

It would be nice, right? -He answered me-

I guessed how difficult it would be to get a ticket to the show that afternoon. But hey, we had to try. Because I thought it was a good idea to share that work with my dad and because he was finally interested in going.

We had breakfast. We chatted over the table with a coffee each. We moved. And after noon we took the road to Porto.

We arrived in Porto, immediately we went to the Sao Joao National Theater, where they would present The Fiddler on the Roof that afternoon. Naturally, and as expected, there were no tickets. I walked over to the box office. I asked a young box office for 2 tickets who, although hasty but very courteous, told me that the tickets were sold out.

As expected, I insisted saying: Young man, I bring my father with me, without a doubt, it would be a great joy for him to see this work. He really doesn't have a couple of tickets? It does not matter that they are in separate seats.

Sir, we don't have, "he replied," I'm sorry, I can offer you tickets for the following weekend, "he added.

I went back to where my father was sitting waiting for him to come back for the tickets.

There are no tickets-I told him-

I watched his face grow sad and decided, instantly, not to let a couple of tickets take away from me the experience of sharing a play with my father. Especially that work that he supposed would be a singular joy for him.

"But now we figure it out", I added.

I walked around the locker thinking what to do. Maybe I could find someone who was reselling, I thought, but resales are prohibited and heavily guarded in Europe, I replied to myself. Suddenly, unintentionally, but willingly, a harsh conversation between a young Portuguese woman and somebody through the telephone, which I understood was her boyfriend on the call, caught my attention.

Here it is -I said-

I waited loitering around her, but keeping my distance, until she hung up the call. Whoever he was, she dumped him, he had lost her. The young woman cried, insulted him and finally ended him on that same call. I practically already knew the sentimental life of that young woman and Thiago, her alleged boyfriend, now her ex-boyfriend, who had stood her up.

Pursuing my interests and seeing my opportunity, I approached her in the kindest way and said:

Hi there. Excuse me, but I unintentionally overheard your conversation on the phone and understood that a person will no longer be coming to the function. Excuse me. But I wanted to bring my father to see the play, he is the man who is there - I said pointing to my father - but I have not had any luck. If you won't occupy your tickets, could you sell them to me?

I insist, forgive me for approaching you in this way, but I really wish I could please my father with this.

In the previous conversation I applied everything that my experience and reading about persuasion and negotiation I have learned, for example, Influence: The psychology of persuation by Robert Cialdini or Power, by Robert Green, had taught me.

I apologize for the scene -said the young woman-

Don't worry, excuse me for the intrusion -I replied-

Here, I give you this ticket. I will not use it -she told me-

Thanks, will you use yours? -I asked for-

Yes -she answered- My parents and my brothers are inside, so I will go in, she added-

Yes, I understand. Thank you, thank you really, I said.

The young woman said goodbye and entered the theater, the show was about to begin.

Well, we're only going for one more ticket-I thought-

I went to my father and told him Dad, I already have a ticket. If I don't get another one, you can go in and I'll wait for you out here.

If you don't go in, neither will I, he answered.

Incredulous but optimistic I went back to the box office.

Young man, I already got a ticket. I only need one. For my dad. Do you have any available space? -I asked for-

This time the attitude of the young box office was better. He was kinder and he was interested in helping me. Sure, he was less busy. The show was about to begin.

I have just a place, sir, he said to me.

Give it to me, please, I said, overjoyed to know that the second effort had worked, once again.

My father and I entered the show. Our seats were separate but inside the theater we were able to remedy this by exchanging places appealing to the goodwill of the attendees and we watched the play together.

That night with my father watching The Fiddler on the Roof at the Sao Joao Theater in Oporto, in Portugal, is one of the memories that I treasure the most in my life.

It was all thanks to that second effort.

I am an engineer by profession and conviction. I like numbers. I try, or at least I have tried, to base my life and my decisions (as much as life can allow you that) making use of statistics, probability and the change of variable. And throughout these years, both from personal and professional experiences, I have reaffirmed time and again the effectiveness of what I call the law of the second effort.

From the point of view of physics, effort does not do work. This is totally true. You can strive for something and not get it. It happens, and a lot. However, I strongly believe in the second effort. This refers to trying at least one more time. Whatever is. What you want. What you are looking for and it is not given to you the first time. It is always worth making a second effort if it is what you want and what, in an act of collective consciousness, is best for you and for those involved.

Something good you are going to get from them, even if you don't achieve your goal.

Vince Lombardi, winning coach of the first 2 super bowls in history with the Green Bay Packers, to whom I incidentally owe the inspiration for the title of this chapter, “the second effort”, said that 75% of success is mental . According to him, a vision that I share and I appreciate the teaching, we must “discipline the will” “by refusing to give up”. Try. He insists. Persists. The law of the second effort will do its part.

The story I narrated for you about my father, The Fiddler on the Roof, the girl who broke up her boyfriend on a phone call, the box office and my second effort to get 2 tickets to the Sao Joao Theater is a clear example, and of which surely you reader have many, of the effectiveness of the second effort.

In my first effort, the ticket clerk was very busy with the line at the box office where people came to exchange their tickets purchased online.

In my first effort, Thiago, the now ex-boyfriend of the young woman who gave me the ticket, still did not warn that he would not arrive.

In my first effort my father kept waiting to get into the theater.

In my first effort, I was still unable to experience a play with my father.

Had I stayed with that first effort today I would not have that memory.

With my first effort I would continue, today, very sorry.

However, with the second effort, the ticket clerk was free, without the pressures of the long lines and had the necessary time to find at least a space for me.

With the second effort, I was able to find a girl who was arguing with her boyfriend about standing her up and having access to a ticket, which above all was free.

With the second effort, I was able to get my father to see Um Violino no Telhado at the Sao Joao theater.

Thanks to that second effort, I treasure in my memories my father with his gaze on the stage while we laughed at Perchik, Tavye and his five daughters.

I invite you to always make the second effort.