It was a glorious summer, and it was the summer I became an honorary Spaniard.

We lived in Aravaca, a diminutive pueblo ten kilometers west of Madrid. It had narrow, winding cobblestone streets, an old church perched on a hill, two movie theaters, a few bars that served wonderful tapas, and friendly people. Down the road were the even smaller towns of Pozuelo de Alarcón and Majadahonda.

My friend John Comiskey lived in Pozuelo, in a small house called Villa Janet Joan. It had walls around it, and geraniums. I never knew who Janet Joan was; John lived with his mother and sister, and while I wanted to know, I never felt comfortable asking about his father. It was a dark house, and I rarely saw his mother. His sister Cathy lent brightness to the house; She was a diminutive, friendly sort who was quick with a smile and always made me feel comfortable. She liked John.

John had lived in Spain for a very long time — perhaps his entire life, I never knew. He was one of those enigmatic multicultural students at the American School of Madrid who was clearly an American, but to my knowledge had never been there. He was a rough and tumble sort, the kind of kid who is always in trouble but whom everyone likes. I liked him a lot. In fact, I admired him.

We didn’t become friends until the summer of 1971. It was the summer that Crosby, Stills and Nash’s Suite Judy Blue Eyes hit the record stores, and the song became our theme. We were part of a cadre of friends who spent every waking moment together, usually at our friend Judy Thompson’s house, where we listened to that album over and over and over again. It was also the summer that Mungo Jerry sang about the summertime, and Rare Earth told us to Get Ready.

Somewhere along the line, John and I became friends. We spent a lot of time together that summer, riding our bikes back and forth between each others’ houses, going camping at Cotos with mutual friend David Collins, eating garlic-laden boquerones and champiñones at the Bar Valdepeñera, and just doing normal teenage stuff. I really came to feel close to him; my parents liked him very much; I think they sensed the kindness and compassion that was buried deep within him. I remember watching with a certain amount of wonderment as he gently held our maid’s newborn baby for the first time. It was a moment I’ll never forget, because it just seemed incongruous to me that this tough guy would want to hold a baby, much less enjoy it.

One of the things that John introduced me to was the very Spanish game of futbolín, otherwise known as foosball or table soccer. In Spain, there were futbolín arcades just like there are video game arcades today. Ours was owned and operated by Juanito. I never knew his last name; besides running the futbolín arcade, he was also the local electrician.

Juanito’s place was on the main street of Aravaca. It had a whitewashed front, and inside there were two billiards tables, a jukebox, a coke machine, and four futbolín tables. I suppose it was the Spanish equivalent of an American pool hall. The kids that hung around there were a little rowdy, but then, so were we. Juanito maintained order in the place because everyone respected him, and knew that he’d thrash anyone who questioned his authority. Besides, he was — bar none — the finest futbolín player I have ever seen.

For those of you who aren’t familiar with the game, let me take a moment to explain its finer points. The futbolín table is a box on legs about four feet long, two feet wide, and eight inches deep. There is a hole in each end that serves as a goal. On each side, there are four handles attached to solid metal bars that have soccer players strung on them. The four bars allow each side to control the goalie, two goal defenders, a rear offensive line of four players, and a three-player forward line. Either two or four people can play at a time. The object, of course, is to "kick" the ball into the other team’s goal, preferably by passing the ball from line to line. There are a few taboos in the game, but the most grievous offense is to spin a handle wildly to kick the ball. That’s the mark of a real amateur.

Juanito could pass the ball back and forth between two adjacent players on the same rod so quickly that it was almost invisible. He would then smack it with a resounding ‘whack’ and send it flying into the goal, sometimes so hard that it would move the foot of the man blocking its passage. He was legendary.

When John and I became friends, he decided that I needed to learn the game, and that the man to teach me was Juanito. So one afternoon after school, John took me down to Juanito’s place for my first lesson. I had never been in there, and I was nervous. But when John introduced me and told him what I was there for, I became downright terrified. Juanito looked me up and down with a stern gaze, grabbed me by the arm, and placed me on one side of a table. As the rest of the room looked on, he proceeded to trounce me without mercy. I couldn’t block any of his shots; I couldn’t even get a foot on the ball. The room started to snicker, and I began to feel incredibly clumsy and stupid.

Then, just as I was beginning to feel as low as I could have possibly felt, he looked up and shushed everyone in the room into silence. They shut up instantly, and became attentive, like Marines following the lead of a Drill Instructor. Directing John to take over his side of the table, Juanito came to my side and began to teach me the game of futbolín. He showed me how to shoot the ball, and how to set up for a shot. He showed me how to defend the goal for any offensive ball position, and how to pass it from one player to the next. Slowly, I began to learn, and slowly the game felt less awkward.

In the months that followed, we played every day. I learned that one of John’s secret desires was to someday beat Juanito at the game. John was very good; he always clobbered me. Juanito, on the other hand, was great. He would play futbolín with John with a big grin on his face, carrying on a conversation while blocking every shot John fired at him. Eventually, he would get bored and ‘bang-bang-bang’ fire ball after ball into the goal, sometimes without looking. I don’t know if John ever beat Juanito; I really hope he did.

That was a hot, endless summer, and we divided our time between the pool in my backyard, Judy’s house, and Juanito’s arcade. When we played futbolín, our rallying music was Get Ready by Rare Earth. It was one of those songs with a pounding beat that really got our blood boiling, and to this day I swear it made us play better.

When summer ended, we returned to school, and while John and I remained friends, we drifted apart as friends do in high school. It was our senior year, and we had college to think about; we still played futbolín, but sporadically. John, who had always loved motorcycles, bought an old black bike that we named "Frankenstein;" he worked on it for months, and finally got it running. I remember sitting in Physics class listening to an interminably boring lecture, and looking out the window to see him across the street in the fields, riding up and down on Frankenstein in the overgrown trenches that had once been Spanish Civil War battlements. It was another of those images that will never leave me.

Graduation came, and I returned to the United States to go to college. John remained in Spain. I thought of him often during my freshman year; now, 24 years later, I still do.

A few weeks ago, my wife and I were shopping when she suddenly grabbed me by the shoulder, pointing at the full-size, commercial quality futbolín table standing before me. I looked at her, and she must have read the longing in my eyes, because an hour later I was assembling it in my basement. It went together easily; the last step called for me to open the foil envelope of grease to lubricate the rods. Scornfully, I tossed it aside, and went upstairs to get a rag and a dish of olive oil. That, after all, was what Juanito did. And it worked.