The Soccer Game

I love Batey 7; I love the people in Batey 7, and I want you to share with you my experiences in this community so that you love them too. Since we have a lot of time and not a lot of electricity, sports is how people pass many of the cool evening hours. And by some fluke of the universe, they have actually invited me to play too (actually the real reason is that I am one of the only people in Batey 7 who owns a ball pump, so when they would come to ask me to inflate their ball it was just too awkward not to invite me; but after a while their pity invites became real invites when they saw my impressive skills—no wait, that can’t be right either). So for your entertainment I have written a composite of several soccer games that I have played. I hope you enjoy reading about them as much as I enjoyed playing in them.

“Aren’t you going to play soccer?” The girls ask me as they pass by my house. My heart leaps at the thought of having friends for the next couple of hours—friends who are older than two and won’t decide to pick up all the puzzle boxes in my house and pour the pieces onto the floor; friends who are older than eight and won’t want to play a memory matching game for three hours straight and then tell me I’m mopping my floor the wrong way—but I contain my excitement with a simple smile and an “Ok!” After I inflate their ball I strap on my cool-but-rarely-used orange running shoes that I use either when I work out or have to kill a spider. We walk together down my street to the “Play,” the big empty piece of land that we play on (get it?). Already a crowd of kids have formed, all wanting to be on a team. We mill about in the center of the field while several people spend a half an hour placing the orange cones that represent the goal posts in the exact correct position. There is a lot of arguing involved, but eventually the dispute is settled and the cones are placed, only for a five-year-old looking for mischief to come up and move the cones as soon as the older kids walk away.

Today we play girls versus boys, though we have picked teams in previous games. The Dominican Republic is the only country in which I consistently get chosen first in sports. I don’t delude myself into thinking it’s because of the value I bring to the team. As the only current American living in Batey 7 I assume I’m chosen more for the novelty, kind of like a Banana Bunker (look it up) or a snot-flavored jelly bean: not exactly the most useful thing to go after but it’s something fun to laugh with your friends about.

Our self-elected team captain yells us all into position (it’s not angry yelling, that’s just the volume of conversation, especially in sporting event), though I’m not sure why we are spending so much time arranging ourselves when I know we will all leave our positions as soon as the ball goes into play. She puts me up front as a forward, which anyone who was around for my Charlie Brown soccer-playing era will think is a big joke. After a bit more yelling and a bit more rearranging of the orange cones, the ball is tossed up into the air. We have to wait for it to bounce three times until we can touch it.

One…

Two…

Three…

What starts now is one giant scuffle to get the ball. When a girl gets the ball, her usual first instinct is to kick it as hard as she can down the field. When a boy gets the ball, his usual first instinct is to try out all the fancy moves he has until he fools around too much and the ball is taken from him again. I take the time now to thank God once again for putting me in a country where soccer is not the official pastime; my skills are fortunately pretty comparable to a group of kids who are more accustomed to playing baseball.

Although they are happy to have me on their team the girls start the game by rarely passing me the ball, so my two main jobs right now are to make sure I don’t fall down when the ball is nowhere near me, and to check every now and then to make sure that my tank top hasn’t slipped down and is giving someone an unsolicited show. Other than that, I have a lot of time to stand back and watch the game.

The ball never seems to be in play for too long before someone sends it sailing to the other side of the Play and we have to wait for someone to retrieve it. The game also stops frequently to allow for discussion, argument, and loud cursing matches. If someone gets really upset with someone else they can pick up the soccer ball and throw it at them, or they can look for a decent rock to throw if the situation calls for it. I watch for a while, stepping in now and then to use my nonexistent authority to end the disputes. During one argument a random boy and fellow bystander points at me and laughs. I don’t know why. After five more minute of ignoring me and fighting, the game continues.

When the ball comes to me by accident I try to play it cool, get the ball under control, and send it back out to a teammate. I actually am able to do this several times without looking like an idiot. What I’m saying is the ball really goes to the person I wanted, or at least it looks like I wanted to send it to them. My skills are minimal but they are enough for one boy to comment at one point, “Wuey, pero la americana sabe!” A rough translation of that is “Wow, I expected this American to fall flat on her face the first time she tried to kick the ball but after a half hour she’s still standing upright!”

When the boys score a goal against us the girls call for a time out and a team meeting. Everyone huddles up and gestures furiously for me to join them. I bumble over to their huddle but all we do is put our hands in, cheer, and run back out to the field. I am confused, but I guess there’s something to be said for team spirit. After a few more minutes of playing I think they realize that we didn’t actually make a new plan for victory and so they call for another time out and team meeting. They huddle up, gesture furiously, and I bumble over. This time our team captain has an inspiring speech that I don’t really understand, but I manage to put my hand in just in time to cheer with everyone else.

The game continues. My team starts passing me the ball a little more and I even score a goal. It was disputed of course, because the ball had knocked the orange cone out of place as it went “into the net,” but in my best Dominican debating voice I argue my case, and after that nobody questions it.

The ball goes back down the field and is picked up by our goalie. She sends it out, kicking it high and hard, and headed right for my face. Not wanting to risk breaking my brand new Dominican glasses that are slightly too big for my head and slide down my nose every thirty seconds, I turn my head and let the ball awkwardly hit the right side of my skull and bounce away, which I choose to believe looks impressive and self-sacrificing.

Just as I begin to wonder how much time we have left before the sun will set completely, the game stops abruptly and everyone on the field simultaneously starts to walk away. The ball is picked up, the orange cones retrieved. I look around, wondering if I had missed a signal or something, shrug, and continue on my way, covered in sweat and dust and maybe, just maybe, with a tad more street cred.

At least enough to get me invited back to the next game.