After spending all morning doing some last minute planning on the roof of my hostel, I decided it was time for recess and headed out for a run. I jogged past sprawling docks and fruit stands – or glorified wheelbarrows really – piled high with bananas, plantains, and papayas; past a huge, snow white church and a walled, stinky garbage facility; and then over some railroad tracks into a poor, yet brightly painted suburb nestled into the foothills surrounding the city.
As I navigated the gravel streets, I sequestered an avalanche of comments directed toward the football jersey: a bright yellow Atletico Nacional shirt, which I had bartered for on a whim the day before. People gave fist bumps and supportive comments concerning a team I was becoming sure was the most beloved in all of Colombia. I would respond as my command of Spanish required – with a smile and a simple gracias. But I was only beginning to appreciate the hospitality won through football.
As I came to the neighborhood’s limits, I observed a bunch of kids – most looking about middle school age, some a bit older – having a kick about on a dirt pitch. I watched for a couple minutes before inquiring if “puedo jugar”. As the question was directed towards nobody in particular, nobody in particular responded. So I deferred to the two adults supervising, who, discerning the apparent language barrier (or wall rather in my case), wisely nodded their heads and pointed to the gate. And so I was subbed in, and after clumsily introducing myself, my Colombian debut began.
I decided not to go to hard, being older than most of the kids and wanting to leave a favorable impression. However, after a humiliating nutmeg that I took personally, I decided to make America proud and hustled with relish. Everyone was yelling and showboating and the parents, who were observing from the safety of the sidelines, celebrated their kid’s goals with nepotistic zeal.
As I ran back home thirty minutes later, I reflected on my football exploits in other parts of the world. In Scotland, I remembered a glorious kick-about with a clan of University of Edinburgh students, who invited me back on the following weekend for a muddy derby against a rivalry friend group. In Djibouti, I played with a group of impressively spry middle aged men on a tiny turf pitch who’s passing and teamwork put the younger group I also played with to shame. In Tanzania, our safari guide invited us to play with his Sunday morning team and the tourists did battle in the blazing sun for an hour and a half before admitting defeat, subbing themselves off, and watching from the sidelines until the match ended. The kindness, inclusivity, and alacrity that characterized each of these little football clubs was very special and gratifying, and I always walked away from each match smiling and waving goodbye to new friends. So I’ve begun to learn a thing or two about the universal language that is goals, slide tackles, and otherwise goofing around with a football, and beginning to appreciate the hospitality guaranteed to those gap year students who participate.