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Futbol
on the Underside
by
Drew Meltzer
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.
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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