The World Race has been full of meeting new people, working with new ministries and traveling to new places. In a year full of new experiences and many “firsts” there have been few things that have been consistent throughout the world. One of those things has been soccer. Here is my attempt to sum up the race by writing one memory of playing soccer in each country throughout the past eleven months.
In Costa Rica we took a drive outside the beach town of Jaco and up the coast a little ways, winding through hills and thick jungle brush. My teammates and I went down a small dirt road where we saw an old man riding on a wagon pulled by oxen. He had a cardboard sign explaining that photos of the old fashion traditional transport was not free. We arrived at the school placed next to the worst looking beach I had ever seen, full of trash as far as you could see washed onto the shore. It was an odd sight after spending some time at the beautiful resort beaches closer to town. The kids at the school we were volunteering at were dressed in their school uniforms, light blue shirts and black shorts while the girls wore long black pants or skirts. The kids were running absolutely wild in the small amount of space they set aside for their soccer match. The three middle aged female teachers never glanced up from their magazines as the ball whizzed past their heads and the kids trampled through the lifeless garden. They played a very simple and competitive system. Four vs four, two tires on one side mark a goal and two thin palm trees opposite mark the opposing goal. If you score then you survive for the next match, if you get scored on, you leave and wait your chance for revenge. I played with a couple of the girls who were highly respected among the boys. I naturally became competitive which hyped the kids up even more and we battled throughout the day before and after classes. These 10 to 13 year old Costa Rican children were the most talented kids I played with on the entire eleven month trip.
In the touristy town of Granada, Nicaragua I walked quickly down the wide brick road with my squad mate Michaela attempting to get back to our gated ministry location before dark. We were probably catching up with our families by using wifi at the squad famous “Garden Cafe” where lots of us would go by to get a soft brownie, decent coffee and check a book out from their library built on trust. On our way back we walked into a soccer match under the recently lit street lights. I asked if I could play and they gladly welcomed me in. The goals this time around were a pair of broken in shoes on each end. This game was full of laughter and fun. There were three or four kids about eight years old and two older guys which looked to be the fathers of a couple of the boys. If it wasn’t for physical features it would have been impossible to tell an age difference during the laid back hysterical match full of fancy moves and lazy defense. Michaela sat on the sidewalk and played with some of the smaller children who were most likely under their fathers supervision for the evening. We walked the rest of the way back sweaty and happy. We talked about how cool it was to see the kids having so much fun with their fathers in the midst of a culture where this interaction was rare. So much for getting back before dark.
I had the opportunity to play a lot in Honduras. Playing soccer was like a sweet refuge during a month where roaming outside of the small host home was a sin too great to describe. I had permission to walk about fifty yards up the hill to a small dirt area where the neighborhood kids would congregate after school to display their skills. One day in particular we didn’t go to the normal ground. Our hosts brought my team and I along with some of the younger boys to a steep hill overlooking the surrounding neighborhood. Beneath us were rusted tin roofed houses stacked on top of each other like lincoln logs along the mountain side. On the narrow peak of this hill was a cement rectangle with metal empty netted goals on each end. I joined a game with some skillful older guys, the game was quick and technical. Each time the ball went out of bounds the boys would run for sometimes five to ten minutes at a time to get it back to the field that seemed more like a helicopter launching pad. The neighborhood boys quietly watched the game. It was a hilarious change in attitude from the goofy teenage pride that I was used to witnessing during their games after school.
The Filipino’s could control a ball with their feet but basketball was much more popular. This obsession with a game created for giants was interesting due to their unfortunate size. All throughout the country there were hoops screwed onto buildings and small houses. The government created local courts all throughout the country with roofs and bleachers which we used throughout the month for feeding programs, serving spaghetti with meat and marshmallows on a stick in mass quantities. However there were a couple of guys at the boys home who loved to play soccer. I would compete with them one on one in a caged cement area underneath the boys home. These guys were rough, we played against the fence and always barefoot. You had to kick the ball through a plastic chair to score and they were not phased by the hard surface, sliding around and laughing their heads off. In the end it’s probably a good thing basketball became so popular in the Philippines, otherwise there would be a lot more bruised bodies and broken ankles.
In Vietnam I didn’t have the opportunity to play for the first couple of weeks. A good majority of the month was spent traveling from one ministry to the next throughout the slim country. The “sleeper busses” were plagued by neon lights, loud recognizable movies dubbed over in Vietnamese and constant honking. It was a lot like “the night bus” from Harry Potter without magic and fun. I was in Da Lot, much colder than Saigon (Ho Chi Minh), and I had been renting a bike to get me to ministry. On one particular day I remember having a rough time. I don’t remember exactly why, I just really needed to get away. Thankfully I had the evening off so I did what I normally do when I’m not having the best day, I attempted to release as much energy as possible. I hopped onto my bike that only goes straight when you tilt the handle bars at an annoying angle to the left and pumped my legs as fast as I could. I got to the center of town and decided I would bike around the lake. About half way through I noticed a pagoda (Buddhist Temple) up on a hill and decided to go check it out. Once I made it to the top I saw something else that I was much more interested in, a large artificial turf soccer field. I parked my bike and went to watch some of the local teams practice on this beautiful field overlooking the city. I decided it was too much torture to sit around and watch so I went for my bike to leave when an older man came over to me and without being able to verbally communicate, motioned for me to come and play with him and his two boys. Our game of four transformed into a game about sixteen and after each goal scored the opposing team had to bend over, while your enemies fired free shots at your backside from a short distance away. We played long past dark and once we could no longer spot the ball everyone parted ways. I laughed out loud as I rode my handicapped bike down the hill thanking God for knowing just what I needed at just the right time.
In Cambodia we volunteered at an orphanage outside the capital, Phnom Penh. Directly across the dirt road from the orphanage was a large dusty soccer field with two large wooden poles on each end. Every evening the kids from the village along with the children from the orphanage would congregate at the field. Each kid owned a bike in the area since it was a necessity for the trek to and from school. Bikes scattered along the outside of the field along with naked infants sitting in the dirt playing with plastic toys. Farming was popular in the area and each afternoon the game would have to be paused due to cattle walking through the middle of the pitch. Old men came out to watch the games and sometimes joined in and participated. I genuinely enjoyed those games before dinner each day. I played so much that I literally ran holes through my shoes, eventually all of my socks had holes in them as well and by the end of the month, when wearing my shoes I could distinctly see the bottom of my dirty feet.
After a long series of connecting busses and a long train ride I met up with the guys from the squad in Kuantan, Malaysia on a mission to search for new potential ministry hosts in the area. On my first night I quickly set my backpack in the hostel and went for a walk during sunset. It was a strange city, full of cars (I had become accustomed to mopeds, motorcycles and bikes) driving on the opposite side of the road than what I’m used to. That first night I walked a short distance down streets that I would eventually come to know better than most streets in my own home town. We walked miles and miles each day, meeting people and praying over the city. Once I decided to find my way back to the hostel I saw two Indian boys juggling a ball outside of their dark and moldy looking apartment building. I walked toward them and might have freaked them out a bit, but within minutes I was laughing with them practicing different moves and skills. They practiced their English with me by asking who my favorite teams and players were within the European clubs. I didn’t juggle the ball with them for long before it was pitch dark. Each time I walked by the apartments I wondered if I would see them kicking a ball, but I never quite timed it like I did that first night.
In Thailand I barely played soccer with the local Thai people. But I did play a lot with the Burmese. Mae Sot is very close to the boarder of Burma (Myanmar) where lots of refugees cross over to find safety from their war torn homeland. Our volunteer work this month had a lot to do with the Burmese youth in Thailand, assisting to bring them opportunities for their future. We had bikes available and I spotted a soccer field deep within a Muslim neighborhood (much like the dirt field in Cambodia) a couple of days before. I was able to find the field again one afternoon and soon I was a regular at the field and I knew just what time they played. These evening matches were not just for “kicks and gigs.” These guys came out to play to prove themselves and build up their self worth by facing off against the best players around. They were very tough and the majority chewed a local tobacco that left their teeth stained a nasty dark red. They welcomed me to play in the beginning hoping to embarrass me in front of their lady friends watching from the sidelines next to the feeding goats and chickens. The neighborhood mosque had speakers blaring prayers that could have been mistaken for soccer commentary in a loud stadium. I knew the game was over each evening when the families gathered to the mosque for their evening prayers. They would say bye without smiling and I would ride the bike back bruised and battered looking forward to our next meeting.
I had heard a lot about Africa and their obsession with soccer and it did not disappoint. It was just what I had pictured it to be. I was walking with a group doing door to door evangelism in a small town in Zimbabwe. I saw a handful of kids simply sit down in the sand and stare at me. I walked over to them and said the magic word, “football?” Out from the huddle of youngsters a round object created from trash bags tied in nots rolled out to my feet. I picked up the ball and punted it into the air. A couple of the kids naturally budged and wanted to run after it but the hesitation of the group kept them seated and staring. I simply went after the ball and kicked it again and the braveness of one kid infected the entire clan. A war broke out among the kids kicking the ball barefoot in the sand with worn and torn clothes hanging off their skinny bodies. I laughed as about fifteen kids battled their way individually to pass the ball back to me. Eventually we took the game down the hill to a very large flat field where we played a more organized game with rocks for goals on each end. The kids were quick and athletic and full of energy. My host didn’t rush me to go to the next house but instead watched as I evangelized in the best way that I knew how.
Right across from the beautiful bridge overlooking Victoria Falls and the Zambezi River we entered into Livingstone, Zambia. This city was full of the hustle and bustle of painters and wood carvers constantly begging to sell their creations to white people who looked to them more like floating money rather than curious travelers. I took a purple striped taxi to visit one of the teams ministries in a village not too far from town. I went deep into the neighborhood and held hands with a boy who popped out from his group of friends to help guide me to the field. This team was doing sports ministry at a huge dirt field at the end of the neighborhood. The field was buzzing with kids all over playing soccer and climbing on us like we were firm rooted neighborhood trees. After the kids were done playing I began kicking a ball around with some older guys, the village club team. They invited me to participate in their team scrimmage and I joyfully joined. I didn’t quite know what I had gotten myself into. I ended up playing a full game with a referee included. I was sprinting around as fast as I could and the game became physical, giving me flashbacks of college. It was the most competitive game that I played in over the past year and I left with fresh blood on my knees and some lumps on my shins. They invited me to come back and play at anytime but I never was able to make another visit, my body thanked me for that.
We entered into the last month of the race in cramped style. I took an old bus with a couple of others to Cape McLear, the southern point of the famous Lake Malawi. I went on this trip with our logistics team to help assure a spot for our final debrief before returning home at the end of the month. Once we arrived I went through my routine after long travel days, I dropped my pack and went for a walk. Almost instantly a group of young boys swarmed me and handed me a worn and crumpled piece of paper, explaining in penciled English, that they were raising money to travel to a soccer match they had previously qualified for. I told them I would have to check and see what Kwacha (Malawian Currency) I had, but I would love to play soccer with them before the sun went down. They were delighted and I quickly walked with them through a massive short cut that they most likely designed themselves. Once we arrived at their house, more quickly than the crow can fly, they showed me their room as they grabbed the ball and two large poles with trash bags tying them together at the top to connect the goal. They told me their were six of them in all without a father and mother, their older siblings who live nearby take care of all of them. They took me to the field beneath their house already consumed by kids running ramped everywhere. The kids were very skillful and it was obvious they grew up playing together and knew each other’s strengths and weaknesses. I stood there and smiled at one point during the African sunset with a jarring mountain behind me and a colorful lake in front, creating shadows of the kids three times their actual size. Once we could no longer see the ball the kids had arranged for a penalty shootout. I almost laughed out loud as bad memories of shootouts still consumed my mind even though I was half the world away and years beyond high school disappointments. I walked back up the hill with them and officially met their guardians cooking and laughing over a wood fire nearby. I slipped them a couple of dollars in Kwacha for transportation to their upcoming match, knowing full well that my money was not going to waste.
This sport truly must be, “The Worlds Game.”
