Soccer - Article four

I made myself a promise on the plane to Costa Rica – I was going to do whatever it took to experience as much as possible here. For the most part, it’s been an easy promise to keep. I jump at the opportunity to go to social events with friends, play music with guys at school, and let parents give me a tour of their houses, which seems to be the custom here. Of course, sometimes the decision isn’t as obvious. People ask me things like, “Wanna try some of this pickled chicken and local beer?” or “Can you play some impromptu guitar in front of the whole class?” I stuck to my promise though, and each time took a deep breath and said “Si.”

But when sign-ups for the school soccer team were tossed onto my desk, I hesitated. Before I left, people had smothered me with cautionary advice: “Make sure you make copies of your passport,” “Don’t buy fruit from street vendors,” “Always put the toilet seat down” (thanks mom). But one warning kept popping up again and again: “Whatever you do, don’t play soccer.” It did make sense – the last time I’d played soccer was in second grade, spending most of the time retying my shoelaces. Not to mention the fact that Latin America is home to the best soccer players in the world. But despite my inhibitions, the next day my name was printed on the roster, its eight letters looking pathetically inadequate amongst the flowing, hyphenated, double last names that surrounded it.

The first day of practice came quickly, and I felt more nervous than on my first day of school here. As I put on my running shoes, I watched the bright-neon cleats of the others do things that seemed physically impossible with a soccer ball. But just as I was about to rank the intelligence of joining the soccer team up there with bull-fighting, I was yet again saved by Costa Rican friendliness. A skinny kid kicked a soccer ball in my direction, just as the young coach shook my hand and practically hugged me as I explained I was a foreign exchange student with no soccer skills whatsoever.

I’m still trying to decide who’s friendlier here – kids or adults. Of course, the friendliness can get a little overwhelming at times, especially since personal space is a much different concept here. As the soccer team sat on the bench waiting for practice to begin, the guy sitting next to me turned and said in Spanish, “Hey man, how big is your foot?” (I actually thought he asked me something else at first, considering the word for foot is pronounced “pee-ay”). Before I could reply he yanked off my shoe, checked the tag, and proceeded to try my shoe on. Suddenly the rest of the bench was curious to see if they, too, would fit into the strange American footwear. Needless to say I spent an uncomfortable, shoeless five minutes, hoping I’d have something other than socks to play in.

Practice started and instead of running drills as I had expected, the coach just pushed us onto the field, and said “play.” The ball was knocked in my direction within the first few seconds and I kicked a beautiful pass … to the other team. That pass stood out as my high-point over the next half-hour, as I proceeded to miss shots, miss slide-tackles, and for the most part miss the ball altogether. It was incredibly frustrating for me – I could understand the situation, I knew what I needed to do, but I just lacked the soccer skills. It actually had a lot of similarities to communicating only in Spanish, both experiences leaving me feeling trapped in the body and mind of a five-year old. It can be maddening trying to contribute to class discussion with the language barrier, or even just maintain a social life. I’ve found it’s surprisingly difficult to hit on girls when your only pick-up lines are, “Hola” and, “Where’s the bathroom?”

For the most part, the game itself had been pretty uneventful. The players continued to defy the laws of physics with the soccer ball, each team doing something more impressive with each possession. But try as they might, neither side could make progress, the only goal a fluke, scored by the other team. Gradually my own focus was changing from trying to kick the ball to finding a way to stop running, my vision blurring from tiredness. I slowed down near the middle of the field as I waited to catch my breath. Suddenly I heard a boy bark “mierda!” as he missed a pass (“Mierda” is the common swear-word here, but I can’t help feeling like it’s some type of Harry Potter spell.). Next thing I knew, the ball rolled by me and in the direction of the other team’s goal. I awkwardly ran after it, aware of people sprinting at me from all directions. I don’t really remember what happened next. I just kind of kicked the ball with the tip of my shoe, and suddenly everyone was screaming “Gringo!” while the soccer ball came to a rest in the back of the net. I’d always thought professional soccer players were being poor sports when they celebrated for five minutes after scoring. I’ll think I’ll cut them some slack now though – I’ve never felt happier than after that goal.