We show up in Chef’s hotwired car. He was trying to tell me a story of how someone broke into his car and failed at hotwiring it. After spending a whopping 20 BsF (4 USD) to buy a new ignition, he must now put the key in the ignition, turn it, clamp together two wires that hang loose under the steering column, then scratch two separate wires across each other, all with the clutch depressed, and WROOM, Chef has done what the thieves couldn’t, he has stolen his car.
After another ride out of Crazy Taxi, void of seatbelts to follow suit (sorry mom, they don’t have them here), I step out of the car to look down upon a beautiful basketball/futbalista court with the most pathetic surroundings. To the right is a suspended construction zone with a garden of rebar, one single standing column amidst rubble, an old dirt trail and a Bobcat with smashed windows. Directly behind, and to the left as well, is a dried-grass-and-trash moat protecting the court from weary travelers, crazy Chavistas and… Americans?
Walking down the jagged, misshaped stairs to the court I notice I am being warmly greeted with the typical, “what the hell is this Gringo doing here?” look that I love so much. Head down, and ready to school some kids in a little futbol, I see the irony of my though. These are kids, 12-16, and they’re wearing school uniforms, they’ve already been taken to school today. Haha, the thought makes me chuckle, provoking another round of my beloved “Gringo” look.
I walk over, grab my boots, nonchalantly drop my trousers, pull up my gym shorts, lace up then stand up to a few more “Gringo” looks. This is the closest to racism I’ve ever been.
Chef, now coach, starts practice. Seeing these 15-year-olds makes me wish that I had shaved my face a day earlier. I feel out of place, to say the least. After a brief warm-up, we begin the game. Its 4v4 with goalies.
Now let me explain to you what I’m playing on. Saying we were playing on a cement court wouldn’t be accurate. It is made of cement, yes, but friction is void. My feet are butter and I’m playing on a frying pan. The floor has been waxed. I was unaware this technology existed in this city. And I thought playing football on a hockey rink was hard. This is the clay court of soccer, and for a 165-lb guy, these 100-lb kids are dancing around me. Inertia's a b****.
The night progresses without many interesting events. I am back in Maplewood Community Center playing indoor soccer. Repeating 4 consecutive winters of my past. A few slip ups here, a few goals, I learn some things, slip on my ass here, meg that kid later. Once this kid, maybe 16, and I are racing to the ball. He throws an elbow, forgetting for a second the size difference, I throw one back. Poor kid didn’t come near me for the rest of the game. Regardless, these kids are still dribbling me. Like I said, inertia is my kryptonite to these kids.
Having lost a match, usually about 7 minutes long, I sit down to catch my breath. I am abnormally tired and sweaty. My shirt is soaked through, my feet are on fire, and I am developing a stink. I feel so out of place as the coach’s nephew, a 12-year-old gordo kid, and I try to have a conversation in Spanish. Once again, I am poking my head over the six-foot wall that is my language barrier.
I look out at our surroundings again. It is 8 PM and dark. Power outages are frequent and I am in a very poor area of home. Luckily the game is still going and the power is on. However, this being Venezuela, things could change in an instant.
I look out to the tree that our hotwired car is parked under. I see massive brown winged things dropping out of the tree. What are these? Then I see. A brown bat with a foot-and-a-half wingspan flies above us. I become a child at the zoo for the first time. If I knew how to say, “oh my god, look at that, holy crap,” in Spanish, this is what I would be saying. But instead I sit there mouth open with a dumb look on my face. Either no one sees it or no one cares. Regardless I am impressed. This never happened at Maplewood Community Center.
As a few players leave, the game turns into more of a skill show than an actual game. People are pulling some of their best moves. Suddenly it’s a group of wannabe Ronaldinho’s and the ball doesn’t move. Things really slow down, it becomes less fun for those who don’t have the ball, and more people leave. Around 9 o’clock Chef calls practice.
During the drive home I think of the Discovery TV shows where different hosts travel to different countries, eating their food or learning their fighting styles or going to their festivals and parties. Someone needs to do that with football. Maybe this is my being bias (or a runners high from an altitude workout), but I think there are as many stories to be told in the food or arts as there are in the sports. Especially the most popular, ahem, and best, sport in the world.
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