I doubt your uncle. Google translate has:
Ricky Rubio has been assigned to the G League to train with the Cleveland Charge, the affiliate of the Cavs... A good sign for his return to the courts.
entrenar=train.
I checked with my uncle. It’s afternoon there in Spain and he was overjoyed to hear from me. He is a widower now and he holds our conversations dear.
We spoke first of the weather and then of his work (he owns a winery) and then eventually we got to Ricky.
He loves Ricky. He can’t say enough about him. Speaks of him almost as a nephew.
When I asked about the meaning of the word, it was as if he was expecting the topic to come up. Like a great defensive player who had watched hours of tape on my best moves.
His brow furrowed and his lower lip disappeared beneath the top, as I’d seen only twice before during our phone conversations I so enjoyed.
I could see his leathery hands as with his right he resettled his half filled glass of Rioja Gran Reserva and with his left he took a great pull on his Cuban cigar. He began nodding his head, at an increasingly sharp rate. Then he was grating his jaw.
I regretted asking the question.
He squinted his eyes, not at me, but at a distant memory. “Google,” he said, “no SABE una MIERDA SOBRE el monstruo de hielo.”
As he said those final three words, he raised his glass up toward the sky.
He waited for his words to settle in, as if they were a fly landed suddenly in a glass of wine made of bitter, unripened grapes.
I sat silent in my office.
“Aesa es la palabra que usábamos en las montañas.”
With every fifth syllable he pounded the ceramic table, ejecting cigar ash and wine into the air.
He widened his eyes and tilted his head, awaiting my reply. I could see tears threatening to pour from his eyes.
I had not noticed that the cigar and wine were out of his hands now.
“Te amo sobrino,” said my uncle, with whom I had spent so many summers working the fields.
“Pero por favor, nunca más.”
I ask you
@jjvors , what shall I tell my uncle now?