Soccer

So the other day, I came home late and one of the pot smokers stopped
me on the path to my house. He kinda surprised me. He's the one who
gets in fights and usually has a machete in his hand. But he's usually
pretty good humored. This time he was just standing outside his house,
mildly drunk, with a mad dog on a short leash which kept barking at me.

He asked me why I don't ever play soccer when he's there. I felt major
relief. "You always abandon us," he said. "I've seen you play, and you
really play, but you're never there when I'm there," he said.
He stopped occasionally to tell his dog to be quiet, but not quite
often enough. He couldn't tell, but Im sure the dog noticed I was less
than comfortable with this homie.

I didn't really know what to say. It's pure chance that I'm not there
when he's there and I didn't really have the guts to tell him that
sometimes I can't play because I have piano lessons. When did I turn
eight again?
So I said I'd get out there a couple times this week at least.

And then we started talking about the typical stuff, how much flights
cost to the US, what I miss most, if I have a girlfriend, do I like
the food here, etc. Then we said goodnight and I went flying up the
hill to my house away from that fierce barking dog.

So today, true to my word, I went to the tiny, triangle-shaped, dirt
court to get kicked in the shins and prove my manhood with the rest of
the teenage kids. Again, how old am I? Pot Smokey the bear was there,
playing goalie for the team that chose me, and he along with the rest
of them mispronounced my name millions of times every time I touched
the ball. I don't hear anyone's name as much as I hear mine, which
makes it hard for me to learn names. Plus everyone has at least a
couple nicknames. You might be called by the animal nickname which
your entire family shares, or your own personal nickname, or a
shortened version of your real name. So I just stick with what I know.
It's too much. Plus, I have no idea about the politics around who gets
to call you what, so I'm sure I break the rules every once in a while,
but I'm the gringo. And so far I don't have a nickname.

Anyway, I haven't even talked about the game yet! Or not even the
game, but everything about it. Soccer here is different. You play with
a flat ball, because they don't roll so fast, and you play 8 vs 8 on a
stepping stone sized field, barefoot, or in crocs, or in the
mismatched shoes you were going to throw out 3 years ago. And you,
reader, may be thinking, Josh, don't judge their shoes. But
afterward, most of these guys change into the nicest, cleanest Nikes
I've ever seen.

There's no mercy in these games, because most guys are related, so
blood and bruising is expected. Today, I stopped two shots, one right
after the other, with my head. I got my eyebrow in front of the first
one, and I stopped the next one with my ear. I have a little cut on my
swollen eyebrow now. I look like a champ.

There is also a steep, slippery, tree covered hill which drops down
from the field to the highway. Balls go over every 15 minutes, and
whoever kicks it chases it, while everyone else stands up top and
yells, "have you found it yet?" on my turn to go ball chasing, I lost
traction and slid some 15 yards on my back. I have a long cut that
runs up the back of my leg, literally from my knee to my waist band.
Soccer shorts do not protect. I was surprised at the sheer persistence
of whatever sharp thing that was that did not give up. I got to the
bottom and stood in the gutter between the hill and the highway
pulling out full saplings from who knows where. Hoots and hollers came
from up top, followed by the other ball. I can only assume they kept
playing after I left.

So I assesed the situation, figured I was alright, gathered both
soccer balls from the gutter, and began climbing up the hill, when I
realized I didn't have a hand to hold on with. I made it up about 10
yards before I slipped again, let both balls fly, and slid back down
to the gutter on my belly. Im still discovering cuts and scrapes. Of
course, what came next? Hoots. Hollers. And honking cars. Here it is
totally acceptable to celebrate a stranger's mishaps. Nothing
offensive is meant by it.

Rather than climbing up that treacherous path once more, I grabbed
both balls and began to jog up the highway, the long way back to the
game. When I arrived, I was rewarded with cheers and pays on the back,
and the last sip of the community water bottle, an old (I kid you not)
motor oil container that somebody brought from home. It was a pretty
refreshing sip.