Familia de futbol

As I approached, no words were needed. I gestured, and the ball came scooting towards me. Fifteen minutes of crisp passes, some flighted balls taken down by chest or thigh or hit back first time, and skillful juggling on his part (rudimentary on mine), elapsed before we even said a word.

I love my wife. And she loves the beach, and, well, me. So, when we are fortunate enough to go on a vacation, we scratch each other’s backs, doing things she loves, and things I love. It is a major bonus that she loves the beautiful game as well.

Thus, we headed to Florida this past April. She had lived in Jacksonville for nearly six years and longed to show me where her adult life took form. And, of course, she wanted to re-visit her happy place, St. Augustine, and feel the sand between her toes. And maybe find a few shells. Or hundreds, you know, whatever.

I had never experienced her St. Augustine, and I wanted to experience Universal in Orlando. So, we did. I made sure I had packed my Sporting Kansas City hat and a few jerseys, and we were off.

Whether you want to experience the modern evolution of the country’s oldest town via preserved history and an eclectic offering of culinary tastes, both large and small; shop; or taste the succulent sights of sun rises and sun settings on a salty beach and all the activities the water offers, St. Augustine is the place to be. It is a seductive mix of much of what life has to give.

And Universal Studios’ three parks – Universal Studios Florida, Islands of Adventure, and Epic Universe – delight the senses, fulfill the imagination, and incite wonder.

It was a trip I will never forget. For we grew in our experiences together. And I grew through the beautiful game. Let me tell you…

As we walked throughout Universal, the palettes of color the parade of people provided was a dizzying array of expression and representation I endeavored to take in, because it’s me, and I want to take it all in. The Palmeiras jersey, the pride of the Mexico jersey shone so boldly, the here and there Inter Miami or Orlando City jerseys, and, of course, my favorite – the Liverpool jerseys. Just the sheer number of soccer jerseys and hats from Scotland to Mexico to Brazil to Spain to Japan to England (yes, even the Manchester ones) and beyond was inspiring, represented exponentially more than any other sport. And, yes, there were a few moments of fist bumps or “Liverpooooolllllll” exchanges as I encountered fans of the Reds. The effect was one of belonging, an implied camaraderie felt deeper than just fabric or the plopping down of exorbitant funds to display the shield. For the fervor that lives in me for ‘football’, ‘soccer’, and ‘futbol’ I know lives deep in them.

The game even bonded me to those I had little connection with: the young cheerleaders and their mother at lunch day one were Birmingham fans. As I left the large group of young British friends I had talked with while waiting in line for Stardust Racers, I asked what club they supported – the shower of shouts for Chelsea, Fulham, Tottenham, and Manchester City left me smiling big and left them the same. The heart-shaped hands shown towards me as we parted is a vision forever imprinted on my soul.

One moment at Universal was particularly enjoyable as I spotted a gentleman in a shop, perhaps a few years my senior, his look haggard as his hands were full of things husband and father’s hands get full of in a shop while on vacation. He was donning a Dundee United jersey – the current club of Sporting Kansas City fan favorite and likely club legend Johnathon Simpson Snedden Russell. Once I mentioned Johnny: connection. Our mutual affection for Russell was immediately apparent. Gordon shook my hand and straightaway – with that Scottish flair – stated that Russell was in the Matchday 20 that day after a battle with injury. Gordon was clearly excited that Russell had returned to the club and clearly thrilled to come across a fellow fan. I showed him a picture from my phone of Russell and me, inspiring a look of awe from Gordon. He came back to me more than once as we perused.

Sure, there were a few chats with baseball fans, maybe a few football fans. But they did not hit the same. Soccer fans – and maybe this is unique to those living in the U.S. – seem to relish being a part of some secret society. Secret to the point of those who are not, don’t know what they are missing. Yet… more. The minds lock in on the love of the game, unencumbered by promoting one club or one country over another. Though the chiding, and more, is often just as present as a Packers fan to a Bears fan.

“But the unique bond soccer creates across cultures that is not just a connection, but a shared understanding of and an appreciation for the game and a knowing of the deep misery and unbridled joy that soccer brings.”

We left Orlando for St. Augustine. Being only yards away from our condo, beach was every morning, sometimes afternoon, every night, and every rest as the waves provided a soothing lullaby during our sleep. The afternoon of day three came quickly, so we made for more beach time.

As we stepped past the cushy sand to the solid, but giving sand that characterizes the tide- drenched beaches of St. Augustine, we plopped down, draping our chairs with our colorfully cool beach towels.

Shortly, I spied the unmistakable, artful glide and bounce of a soccer ball. Some 60 yards to the right was a buzz cut, fit, and distinguished guy kicking around on his own. And he was talented. We soaked in the sun for 25 minutes, and there he was, still working on his game, feinting, rolling the ball with his sole, stepover after stepover, clearly enjoying his time on the beach with the game he loves. Must be a regular.

The water called; we answered. But all the while, I kept glancing towards the ball moving smoothly over the sand. It called to me. So, after challenging the waves that buffeted our legs and forced us into laughter as the shock hit us again and again, I told my wife that I had to go say hello.

As I approached, no words were needed. I gestured, and the ball came scooting towards me. Fifteen minutes of crisp passes, some flighted balls taken down by chest or thigh or hit back first time, and skillful juggling on his part (rudimentary on mine), elapsed before we even said a word. He played under the legendary Jerry Yeagley at Indiana. Won a few national titles there. I think he said his name was “Ron”, but I am not even sure of that. Our five-minute conversation went to origins through the state of the game in the U.S. today. He was jealous of my coming involvement in the World Cup in Kansas City. We shook hands, and five minutes after I walked away, he took off on his fully packed bike. And I was jealous, because at a few years older, he was in far better shape than I. And a beach is a better field than my yard, or any pitch, really.

The moments left me with an intimate feeling. “Ron” will live forever in my mind. Because he was a great bloke, whose clear love for his family came through during our talk, and because our beautiful game is a game of intimacy. It’s an intimacy not inhibited by pads, not kept at an arm’s length, not one that separates with a net or a glove. An intimacy not broken by a continually shifting cast of characters, just 11 v 11 supplemented by game-changers. The beautiful game is an intimacy fostered by a ball and at least two people, by contact; and blatant, unmasked expressions of personality; propelled forward by the most passionate of fan bases.

The vacation doom is inevitable (and so is your watch daily telling you you’re supposed to be at work.). You have to head back home. It sucks. But we had a wonderful trip and home is home. Yet, the slight unease of any flight is who will end up sitting next to you on the plane: three seats, a couple, and a question mark. Row 17, seats A and B. I had the middle seat for the ride home, because I am a gentleman. Or that is what we got assigned; I don’t remember. I watched the other fliers file in, wondering who.

A late-20-something sat down. We exchanged greetings. He seemed a bit uneasy during takeoff, but he soon settled down and turned on his computer. What movie or show would I try and pull off shadowed glances at, or just annoyingly blatantly watch? First leg, Arsenal v Atletico Madrid, Champions League Semifinal.  Once again, the soccer gods shined down on me.

‘I’m a soccer fan, too.’ What a dumb way to introduce myself.

So, no. I went with, “Is [American midfielder Johnny] Cardoso on the pitch for Madrid?”

A fair amount of the rest of the flight included my blatant glances, fully welcomed, and talk of the match and his feeling sorry for my Liverpool’s drop in the table for the season. It was nothing too in-depth. But, it was an instant bond, like a brotherhood. It is difficult to define. Yet, felt true. He had lived in Kansas City most of his life, and I think he was in IT. Those details were not the talk. There were more important matters at hand: 1-1 Final. Arsenal’s fate would have to wait. As would my new friend’s need for glory. We parted pleasantly, better for the interaction.

The trip had ended. Reflection time (who am I kidding, I will reflect on the time eternally.): I think the takeaway here is not just the unifying nature of sport. Not just the shared joy and shared misery of people across a particular fandom. But the unique bond soccer creates across cultures that is not just a connection, but a shared understanding of and an appreciation for the game and a knowing of the deep misery and unbridled joy that soccer brings. Only soccer fans appreciate the dedication and love of other soccer fans. All runs deep, because soccer fandom is a passion unlike any other.

Although I am fortunate to be chosen as a volunteer for the World Cup here in Kansas City on the FIFA side, I will not sit at home during the rest of the matches I am not involved in. I will co-exist with the commotion outside my door, will tolerate the traffic that might ensnare the area. Will walk the thousands of steps, jump on whatever transportation necessary. All to embrace the crowds at a match, at FanFest, at Power and Light, and across the great streets of Kansas City, downtown and all around. For within those crowds is growth. Within the sea of faces, connections will be made. Maybe friendships fostered. Shared experiences will stir the soul. And both myself and those I encounter will carry with us the goodwill gained that we will the harvest when we encounter trying situations and people with whom we struggle to connect. Thus, soccer is not just a passion. It is a resource.

What we share grows. What we share and receive back grows in us.

Being a part of the soccer world is a privilege, not one I take for granted. It has enriched my life beyond definition. I defer to another love – music, and the great John Lennon – to encapsulate much of the point here, how the football, futbol, and soccer family enriches:

“Pools of sorrow, waves of joy are drifting through my opened mind
Possessing and caressing me

Sounds of laughter, shades of life are ringing through my opened ears
Inciting and inviting me
Limitless undying love which shines around me like a million suns
And calls me on and on across the universe”

from “Across the Universe” Lennon/McCartney