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Futbol
on the Underside
by
There is
something about the stimulation created by soccer on the South American
Continent. Whether it is the air, the meat, or the Mate, the
overwhelming love of the sport is everywhere. Buenos Aires, a city
of massive urban sprawl, a city with hardly a field of grass to play
on, amazingly turns out excellent futbol players seasoned from the time
they can walk. In this city of seven million, one sees
impoverished children and ghetto-like neighborhoods with run-down
apartment buildings, their once white walls, grimy and stained after
years of neglect. Although South America is not completely
infiltrated by the larger economy of North America, there is a plethora
of digital satellite dishes pointed towards the sky. Still, the
poverty is rampant and the only thing that even closely resembles a
soccer field is fenced-in parks with concrete floors and goals that are
smaller than regulation. Drew Meltzer I was visiting Argentina for a wedding. I spent my time dancing in Buenos Aires bars till the wee hours and hardly found the time to put my foot to a ball, that is, until the Rehearsal dinner. Boarding a bus, I left Buenos Aires for Rosario, stopping en route for the pre-wedding party at a real Argentinean ranch with stout, healthy animals and open fields. Many people ventured out on trotting horses. Laura, the bride, was the best and most accomplished equestrian. Sitting down for dinner, breathing in the fresh air, I looked expectantly at the fare. There were two kinds of sausage and different cuts of steak. Everything was delicious. After dinner, gourds of Yerbe Mate, an Argentinean tea, were served at every table. At the back of the ranch, there was a small field with two small soccer goals. Adjacent, there was a body of water to avoid. Finding a ball, my companions and I decided to play. There were about ten of us, nine men between the age of twenty and thirty, and one very athletic woman, all of us American. Playing below the equator, I felt an unprecedented energy. I ran, dribbled, passed, and shot effortlessly. A short, stocky man dressed in Argentinean clothes, with a dark complexion, a scruffy face, and a mullet approached us and seemed to want to play. Yes, I thought, we are playing with a real Argentinean! I looked to him as an inspiration, as someone who appreciated the sport as much as I. Trying to excuse my American playing style, I jokingly said to him in a self-deprecating way, “We play like Americans.” When we finished the game, we shook hands and praised those who played well. Believing I had attained my goal of playing soccer in South America with a real South American, I was very pleased. The following day I found out that my soccer companion was merely dressed as a gaucho. Like me, he was an American wedding guest. |
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