Yesterday, Guaraní, sitting in first place, traveled to the small city of Itauguá to play the small club of 12 de Octubre. “12” was promoted to the first division just a few years ago and has frequently been in danger of falling back to the second. In this particular tournament, however, the Itagueños have been near the top of the table since the beginning. A couple of weeks ago I met a guy named Ramón whose son plays for the “12.” Ramón owns a convenience store near my hotel and struck up a conversation with me once when I stopped in to buy water. I explained my study and he told me his son was a soccer player. We chatted for 20 minutes while Ramón counted and re-counted his day’s earnings. (In-fact, Ramón has been doing this every time I visit his store, morning, afternoon, or night. He never writes down his total immediately after finishing counting so that he generally forgets and has to start over several times before finally recording the result. And “recording,” for Ramón, usually means yelling the number to his employee, Victor, or his wife and asking them to remind him of it later).
Though often insightful, Ramón talks a bit like he counts, repeating the same question several times before finally realizing that he already knows the answer. For our first three or so conversations Romón stubbornly insisted that I was a scout and that, once I saw him play, I would take his son with me to the U.S. to play with David Beckham. I have done my best to dispel this particular belief of Ramón’s, not wanting to make promises I can’t fill. At this point, he is merely hoping that I will be Filipe’s agent when he breaks into the American market.
Perhaps with that in mind, Ramón invited me to go to the 12 de Octubre’s game yesterday, promising to introduce me to the players afterwards. I thanked him enthusiastically, feeling lucky to have made such a useful contact. Moreover, yesterday’s game promised to be a good one with “12” sitting 2 points behind Guaraní with a chance to take over first place with a win.
Guaraní, named for Paraguay’s pre-colonial ethnicity and language, is Paraguay’s third oldest soccer club. It is also one of two major Asunción clubs that are playing well this season. While the biggest two, Cerro Porteño and Olimpia, continue to disappoint in the middle of the table, Guaraní and Libertad have played consistently well. And Guarani’s fans have rewarded them for it. They show up in greater numbers every week and (despite assurances to the contrary from my Olimpista friends), they have consistently outnumbered Olimpia’s supporters over the last couple of weeks.
An hour before our scheduled departure, Ramón called to tell me that his son was not in the starting lineup and he was going to stay and mind the store instead of going to the game. I decided to go alone and got bus directions from Cristian, who works in the hotel. As always, the directions were right on. As far as I know, there is no such thing as a written bus schedule or system map in Paraguay. Most Paraguayans tell me that each bus runs whenever its owner thinks it should. And yet, every time someone tells me something like “take the 12D, get off after the church, walk a block North, stand under the Coke bill-board, and get on the Itagueña Directa, and get of with the people wearing Guaraní jerseys” I arrive exactly where I’m going (though usually late).
So I arrived at the stadium just before the start of the game and, accidentally, entered the opposing fans’ bleachers. Not wanting to pay again, I decided I would watch with the Guaraní supporters and get to know the “12” folks at another game. I stood next to a father and his two sons and watched pre-school-aged kids walk around the outside of the field carrying banners asking fans to enjoy the game, respect each other, and please stop throwing rocks. We were standing against a fence at one end of the field, just a few feet from one of the goals. I was excited to see the game from so close. One of the advantages of soccer’s promotion-demotion system is that it occasionally brings the huge teams to play in small clubs, giving fans a chance to get much closer to the players than they can in metropolitan stadiums.
As I waited for the game to start I noticed a couple of young guys in Guaraní jerseys hanging banners on the fence above. One was wearing huge aviator sunglasses and wobbling precariously; evidence of his thorough pre-game preparation. He backpack overflowed with banners and flags in Guaraní, or “the Aborigine’s”, gold and black. I doubted anyone but an official member of the “barra,” or the small group of super fans who lead cheers and start fights on behalf of each club, would carry around such paraphernalia. When he got down, I tapped him on the shoulder, told him I was researching fan culture in Paraguay, and asked if I could interview him after the game or if he would give me his number to talk later. “You want a good interview?” he asked. “Yeah, I think so,” I responded. “Then you need to come with me, I’ll introduce you to everyone.”
Federico led me through the crowds, pushing and shoving to clear a path, and we arrived at the other end of the field where Guaraní’s barra had already been singing and jeering for a half an hour. This barra distinguished itself immediately by the unmistakable smell of marijuana in the air. There were also several guys with long straight hair and dark skin, looking much more like the indigenous folks for whom Guaraní is named than the average white, Spaniard-looking natives of Asunción.
Federico introduced me to his friend Arnaldo, another leader of the barra, who immediately offered me a joint, promising that Paraguayan weed is the best there is. He was markedly disappointed when I declined but forgot it all as the game started.
It was not Guaraní’s night. They lost 4-1 in the end with “12” dominating most of the play. Despite (or because of) their team’s play, the barra was constantly loud and occasionally violent throughout the game. Midway through the first half, “12” keeper stopped play to show the referee a rock that had landed a few feet from him, thrown by an anonymous member of the Aborigen’s mob. The team received a warning and the referee, accompanied by Guaraní’s captain, walked to our end of the field to plead for calm. As Guaraní’s skipper jogged back to his teammates, leaving the referee without an escort, Federico thought it fit to throw his black and gold umbrella at the official. It missed but was confiscated, causing Federico to ask me “why did I through my umbrella? Now it’s gone. Why?” with a pitiful look on his face.
At half time the riot police assigned to the match entered the Guaraní bleachers and stood behind us for the rest of the match. Federico fled the stands, hiding his face, as the police walked up. “That official, guiding the police, last time I was here he took away my hat. He robbed me. That’s why I can’t go back up.” I joined him against the fence at field level and he pointed out one of his banners hanging at the other side of the field. “It’s upside down,” he said, laughing. “It’s upside down because I’m really drunk!”
With the final whistle, Guaraní’s supporters, most of whom had faithfully endured their side’s embarrassment, filed out disappointed but up-beat. The loss leaves them one point behind “12” for first place and they quickly turned their attention to next week’s match with Cerro Porteño. After “12’s” last goal, the Guaraní keeper sat in the middle of his goal, head hanging dejectedly. The barra did nothing but encourage him. Despite his poor performance, and their disposition to violence, the Aborigine faithful pleaded with him to “be strong” and to “think about next week, focus on Cerro, nothing happened today.”
Granted the loss is Guaraní’s first in an otherwise impressive season, but I was struck by the difference between this encouragement and Olimpia fan’s cheers of “useless keeper!” at a match I attended two weeks ago. I was also struck by Federico and Arnaldo’s patriotism, both going on about Paraguay’s beauty and the quality of its people. That, along with the indigenous-looking fans made me wonder if there may be an element of ideology in being a Guaraní fan. Unlike most U.S. cities that have only one or two teams in each sport, Asunción has several and their followings are usually not determined by geography. This may leave more room for politics and identity to help determine fan-ship.
Leaving the stadium, I decided to walk a few blocks before getting on a bus. I found myself with three Guaraní fans who recognized me from the stands. I explained my study to them and they asked if I had many friends in the Guaraní barra. I told them I knew Federico and Arnaldo and they nodded with recognition. Then they spoke to each other in Guaraní for a few minutes. Then one turned to me and said “in case you understood what we just said, we decided not to try to jump you or scam you because you seem like good people and you know people from Guaraní.” “Thanks,” I said, not really sure what else to say but more determined than ever to keep making friends.
lunes, 29 de septiembre de 2008
lunes, 8 de septiembre de 2008
Luque
Sunday afternoon I went to Luque, a small city 40 minutes from downtown Asunción, to see the final of a local tournament. Robert, from Fundación Dequení and a Luque native, invited me, proud to show off his local stadium. It is a nicer and newer stadium than Olimpia’s, and seems very big for the club’s size. Robert assured me that it was always full when Luque played, but I had seen a match or two on T.V. in front of fairly sparse crowds.
In play yesterday was the intra-Luque championship. Various neighborhoods and little towns in and around Luque have local teams that compete each year for the internal crown. I asked Robert which team he wanted to win and he laughed and said “I’m from Luque, remember, I just support Luque.” It emerged in conversation that people from the center of the city consider the local tournament below them, while those from outlying areas take it very seriously. All pretensions and divisions aside, most Luqueños come together to support the main Luque side, though you wouldn’t know it by the number of middle fingers and threats thrown around during yesterday’s internal. Both teams had brough marching bands, much like those at high school football games in the U.S. These dueled for control of the airwaves, leading their respective crowds in song. I am beginning to realize that there are only a few tunes and messages used by Paraguayan teams. Each club has its own version, but it is usually unique only in the strategic placement of mascot names; praising one side and questioning the sexual orientation of another depending on who happens to be singing.
The match was exciting, ending in a 2-0 victory for Herrero, which, by the magic of a points and goal differential system I do not begin to understand, meant that a penalty shootout was needed to decide the championship. The other side, whose shirts looked like Argentina’s but whose name I did not learn, won on penalties and proceeded to block the avenue immediately outside the stadium with a mini-parade. Robert took me to a bus stop and I rode home in time for dinner and a movie (Hellboy, dubbed in Spanish with Italian sub-titles) with Arturo’s family.
In play yesterday was the intra-Luque championship. Various neighborhoods and little towns in and around Luque have local teams that compete each year for the internal crown. I asked Robert which team he wanted to win and he laughed and said “I’m from Luque, remember, I just support Luque.” It emerged in conversation that people from the center of the city consider the local tournament below them, while those from outlying areas take it very seriously. All pretensions and divisions aside, most Luqueños come together to support the main Luque side, though you wouldn’t know it by the number of middle fingers and threats thrown around during yesterday’s internal. Both teams had brough marching bands, much like those at high school football games in the U.S. These dueled for control of the airwaves, leading their respective crowds in song. I am beginning to realize that there are only a few tunes and messages used by Paraguayan teams. Each club has its own version, but it is usually unique only in the strategic placement of mascot names; praising one side and questioning the sexual orientation of another depending on who happens to be singing.
The match was exciting, ending in a 2-0 victory for Herrero, which, by the magic of a points and goal differential system I do not begin to understand, meant that a penalty shootout was needed to decide the championship. The other side, whose shirts looked like Argentina’s but whose name I did not learn, won on penalties and proceeded to block the avenue immediately outside the stadium with a mini-parade. Robert took me to a bus stop and I rode home in time for dinner and a movie (Hellboy, dubbed in Spanish with Italian sub-titles) with Arturo’s family.
Wins for the Home Side
Sunday started, as usual, with the trek up-town to watch the youth team play at Club Mariscal Estigarribia (I have finally learned the name of the park/club that I have been practicing at since my first week). I got up early and was on a bus by 6:20am to arrive at the field before the 7:00am scheduled start. This weeks opponent was relatively weak. They looked positively tiny next to our sides players, some of whom probably shave more regularly than I do, despite being “16.” Paulo, the goalkeeper, actually showed up for this game, despite having been absent for a week straight. Mariscal E. won 3-1, their first victory of the season, the players suitably joyful as they at their post-game empanadas and watched the younger kids play.
I decided, for the first time, to stay the whole day instead of leaving immediately to go watch Defensores play. The Peruvians were already out of the running for the elimination tournament and it seemed unlikely that they would put forth much of an effort, despite the fact that they were facing another Peruvian team (rivalries in the tournament are undoubtedly within, rather than between, countries). So I stayed at Mariscal and watched 4 more matches, starting with the under 8’s and working up to the under 13’s.
The little kids, needless to say, already have more foot-skill than I will probably ever have and weave through and around each other impressively. But they play on the full-size field and, technique not-withstanding, they are still kids. It would probably take the fastest of them 30 seconds to dribble the length of the field, even without swarms of other 8-year-olds kicking, stomping, and sliding in their path. So the games are slow and rarely display more than one goal. But that does not keep the kids and their parents from taking things extremely seriously. I have amassed a sizeable vulgar vocabulary, in both Guarani and Spanish, simply by listening to Norma, a club member and soccer mom, as she encourages (and curses) her son and his teammates. An extremely polite and helpful person in non-fan contexts, Norma turns into a font of profanity each time a 3-foot-tall forward mis-fires or a snot-nosed keeper fails to hold on to a soft shot.
Mariscal did well on the day, winning 3 and tying 1 of its matches. Afterwards, the club parents sold chicken and “rice salad” (which consisted of white rice sprinkled with basil and lathered with butter) to raise money. I bought myself and plate and sat on a bench to eat and show the day’s pictures to a multi-aged group of players and parents.
I decided, for the first time, to stay the whole day instead of leaving immediately to go watch Defensores play. The Peruvians were already out of the running for the elimination tournament and it seemed unlikely that they would put forth much of an effort, despite the fact that they were facing another Peruvian team (rivalries in the tournament are undoubtedly within, rather than between, countries). So I stayed at Mariscal and watched 4 more matches, starting with the under 8’s and working up to the under 13’s.
The little kids, needless to say, already have more foot-skill than I will probably ever have and weave through and around each other impressively. But they play on the full-size field and, technique not-withstanding, they are still kids. It would probably take the fastest of them 30 seconds to dribble the length of the field, even without swarms of other 8-year-olds kicking, stomping, and sliding in their path. So the games are slow and rarely display more than one goal. But that does not keep the kids and their parents from taking things extremely seriously. I have amassed a sizeable vulgar vocabulary, in both Guarani and Spanish, simply by listening to Norma, a club member and soccer mom, as she encourages (and curses) her son and his teammates. An extremely polite and helpful person in non-fan contexts, Norma turns into a font of profanity each time a 3-foot-tall forward mis-fires or a snot-nosed keeper fails to hold on to a soft shot.
Mariscal did well on the day, winning 3 and tying 1 of its matches. Afterwards, the club parents sold chicken and “rice salad” (which consisted of white rice sprinkled with basil and lathered with butter) to raise money. I bought myself and plate and sat on a bench to eat and show the day’s pictures to a multi-aged group of players and parents.
Olimpia's Woes
On Wednesday I went back to see Olimpia again (this time leaving behind my cell phone and carrying with me exactly enough money to for three (just in case) bus rides and a ticket for the cheapest section). Cristian and Juan Carlos were busy managing a dinner party for a visiting Menonite youth group (believe it or not, there is a “Menonite Colony” in rural Paraguay), so I went alone. My knowledge of Asunción transportation is still far from adequate and my first choice of bus turned off in the wrong direction about a black after I got on. I got off and walked back to the main avenue to try again. After about 5 minutes, three buses came around the corner, one of which was singing.
As far as I could tell, the 20 or so fans that filled the back of the bus with black and white jerseys and fight songs maintained the same (high) decibel level throughout the 15 minute bus ride, the 10 minute shuffle through security, and both 45 minute halves of the match. They quieted down briefly at half time, if only because most had to push their way through the crowd to discharge the pre-game beer that had now made a thorough run of their bodily systems.
Olimpia is having a rough season. Going in to Wednesday, they had only one win in the current Paraguayan tournament and were on the brink of elimination from the South American Cup. The week before, they had sacked their old coach and brought in Ever Almeida, an ex-star goal keeper. During his legendary career, Almeida and Olimpia twice won the Copa de Libertadores (A Latin American championship) as well as several Paraguayan titles and one world-wide club championship. Still, this week’s newspapers and posts on sporting websites showed only tempered optimism.
At least on Wednesday night, the “tempered” part tuned out to be more appropriate than the “optimistic.” Olimpia created multiple chances in the first 20 minutes, but never looked like scoring. Once an Olimpia forward raised his hand pleading for a corner kick, almost before the shot had left his own foot. His confidence that the attempt would go wide was matched only by that of the opposing goal keeper, who hardly moved. Disappointing as it was, the first quarter of the match was Olimpia’s best. They hardly had a chance in the second half and went down 2-0 on defensive errors; one a dumb tackle in the box that awarded Guaraní a penalty, the other a series of flubbed clearances by defenders combined with a fumble by the keeper and ending with a Guaraní forward dribbling the loose ball into the net, un-molested.
The soccer not particularly compelling, I spent much of the second half watching the crowd. Standing to my left was a large, goatee’d fan whose shaved head revealed bulging veins after each Olimpia mis-play. He usually followed his short, furious bursts of profanity with a cigarette, emptying most of a pack before leaving the stands. Early in the half, his asked a friend “this is the first team playing, right? I can’t tell,” and was apparently pleased with his own wit, repeating the sarcastic query 5 or 6 more times before 90 minutes. To my right were a group of kids about my age who seemed to gain more pleasure from taunting stadium vendors than from watching their team self-destruct. They would scream “soda!!” at the chipa vendors and “milk!!” at the hat salesmen, snickering proudly when one actually turned to tell them he didn’t have any. These are apparently common stadium antics. Cristian did the same a week and half ago, yelling at vendors who chanted “coca cola” to ‘remind’ them they also sold Fanta and water.
I left the stadium quickly after the final whistle, not wanting to keep anyone waiting at home. The Olimpia fans seemed more dejected and depressed than angry and there wasn’t much violence. Still, since the match, many have worried, out-loud and in print, that the “barra de la O,” as the most fanatic are called, will turn to out-and-out destruction if their side continues to disappoint.
As far as I could tell, the 20 or so fans that filled the back of the bus with black and white jerseys and fight songs maintained the same (high) decibel level throughout the 15 minute bus ride, the 10 minute shuffle through security, and both 45 minute halves of the match. They quieted down briefly at half time, if only because most had to push their way through the crowd to discharge the pre-game beer that had now made a thorough run of their bodily systems.
Olimpia is having a rough season. Going in to Wednesday, they had only one win in the current Paraguayan tournament and were on the brink of elimination from the South American Cup. The week before, they had sacked their old coach and brought in Ever Almeida, an ex-star goal keeper. During his legendary career, Almeida and Olimpia twice won the Copa de Libertadores (A Latin American championship) as well as several Paraguayan titles and one world-wide club championship. Still, this week’s newspapers and posts on sporting websites showed only tempered optimism.
At least on Wednesday night, the “tempered” part tuned out to be more appropriate than the “optimistic.” Olimpia created multiple chances in the first 20 minutes, but never looked like scoring. Once an Olimpia forward raised his hand pleading for a corner kick, almost before the shot had left his own foot. His confidence that the attempt would go wide was matched only by that of the opposing goal keeper, who hardly moved. Disappointing as it was, the first quarter of the match was Olimpia’s best. They hardly had a chance in the second half and went down 2-0 on defensive errors; one a dumb tackle in the box that awarded Guaraní a penalty, the other a series of flubbed clearances by defenders combined with a fumble by the keeper and ending with a Guaraní forward dribbling the loose ball into the net, un-molested.
The soccer not particularly compelling, I spent much of the second half watching the crowd. Standing to my left was a large, goatee’d fan whose shaved head revealed bulging veins after each Olimpia mis-play. He usually followed his short, furious bursts of profanity with a cigarette, emptying most of a pack before leaving the stands. Early in the half, his asked a friend “this is the first team playing, right? I can’t tell,” and was apparently pleased with his own wit, repeating the sarcastic query 5 or 6 more times before 90 minutes. To my right were a group of kids about my age who seemed to gain more pleasure from taunting stadium vendors than from watching their team self-destruct. They would scream “soda!!” at the chipa vendors and “milk!!” at the hat salesmen, snickering proudly when one actually turned to tell them he didn’t have any. These are apparently common stadium antics. Cristian did the same a week and half ago, yelling at vendors who chanted “coca cola” to ‘remind’ them they also sold Fanta and water.
I left the stadium quickly after the final whistle, not wanting to keep anyone waiting at home. The Olimpia fans seemed more dejected and depressed than angry and there wasn’t much violence. Still, since the match, many have worried, out-loud and in print, that the “barra de la O,” as the most fanatic are called, will turn to out-and-out destruction if their side continues to disappoint.
lunes, 1 de septiembre de 2008
Sunday
On Sunday, I got cut from another team. The teenagers’ opponent decided I did not look the right age and refused to allow me on the field. It was a shame because neither of their of-age keepers (or at least, neither of the keepers with papers calling them 16) showed up. The result was a 3-2 loss to a much bigger and richer club, after the bench-warmer-turned-keeper who filled in for the day fumbled two soft shots into his own net.
Defensores lost as well, (their hired talent failed to show up for the early morning match) officially eliminating them from the tournament. On the up side, this means that they will start practicing every Friday night. They invited me along, filling the last soccer-free day in my weekly schedule.
We left the field and went back to Arturo’s house to eat a roast and watch “The Day After Tomorrow” on Telefuturo.
Defensores lost as well, (their hired talent failed to show up for the early morning match) officially eliminating them from the tournament. On the up side, this means that they will start practicing every Friday night. They invited me along, filling the last soccer-free day in my weekly schedule.
We left the field and went back to Arturo’s house to eat a roast and watch “The Day After Tomorrow” on Telefuturo.
Which Super do you Work At?
On Saturday I went to Fundación Dequení’s Fútbol Callejero tournament. A couple of times a month, they organize a day of street soccer for the kids working in their supermarket baggers programs. I met Robert and a few other Dequení staff members at the foundation at 7am and we road in a minivan, along with 12 kids and 8 disassembled soccer goals, to a nearby park.
When we arrived, I helped hang banners and assemble goals and then was sent to Robert’s field to help him manage the game. Armando, who runs the show on soccer days, came over to review the rules and procedures. “These games aren’t just about goals,” he said. “We don’t want anyone going home hurt today so I want to see clean games, I want to see solidarity and respect, and I don’t want to hear profanity,” he explained. “Robert will be keeping track of your values, which matter just as much as goals,” he added, most of the kids nodding that they understood. “But of course,” he continued, “the team that scores the most goals, wins. And the other side goes home. I mean, that’s obvious,” he added, the kids again nodding their approval.
Before the action started, Robert added that he would also be watching how each team celebrated its goals. Having grown up watching Deon Sanders and TO collect fines and enemies for their “excessive celebrations,” I naturally assumed that Robert would be penalizing us for embarrassing our opponents or wasting too much time with our post-goal antics. As in turned out, however, the only celebration rule seemed to be: “the more-extravagant the better,” (a fact I quickly realized when one team, following an easy goal tapped in from a couple of yards out, picked up the scorer and danced the perimeter of the field with him on their backs).
The Dequení folks were nice enough to let me join the kids playing, and I offered to play be keeper for a team that was short a player. The teams are divided by supermarkets, and some are smaller than others. The smallest, including mine, formed mixed teams. This meant that my teammates assumed I worked in a super, and each asked me, in turn, “which super do you work at.” Sometimes they phrased it more like “where are you from,” and were completely bewildered when I offered up my nationality, rather than workplace. Needless to say, it was not an international crowd; neighborhood and type of supermarket form the most important boundaries and harshest rivalries in the Dequení games. So I was something of an oddity. Several kids asked if I was from Brazil and one simply told me I was Argentinian.
My team won its first match and, as our opponents returned to the bus stop on their way home or to the afternoon shift bagging groceries, moved to the next field to play another winning team. “I´ll play goalie in the second half,” a small kid the Super Seis in Luque offered. “Don’t worry,” I told him, “I actually like playing in goal, so if no one else wants to, I’ll stay there.” He agreed.
It may be a mark of how well-developed this country’s soccer is, that in Paraguay, there actually are real goal keepers. In Panamá, it often took pushing and shoving to decide who would be relegated to goalkeeper, and almost everyone would tell you they were a forward, if you asked them. In Paraguay, even kids younger than 10-years-old seem to have chosen or been assigned the position they are best at. It is often actually the most capable keeper (rather than simply the fattest kid) who stands between Paraguayan posts. So, when I told my team I would gladly stay in goal for the rest of the day, they understood and didn’t feel the need to thank me.
My day finished with a game between the Dequení staff and a bunch of local men who come every Saturday to beat up on the social workers before starting the nights binge. Not surprisingly, I spent the game in goal. As far as Fundación Dequení is concerned “the blonde kid only plays keeper.”
When we arrived, I helped hang banners and assemble goals and then was sent to Robert’s field to help him manage the game. Armando, who runs the show on soccer days, came over to review the rules and procedures. “These games aren’t just about goals,” he said. “We don’t want anyone going home hurt today so I want to see clean games, I want to see solidarity and respect, and I don’t want to hear profanity,” he explained. “Robert will be keeping track of your values, which matter just as much as goals,” he added, most of the kids nodding that they understood. “But of course,” he continued, “the team that scores the most goals, wins. And the other side goes home. I mean, that’s obvious,” he added, the kids again nodding their approval.
Before the action started, Robert added that he would also be watching how each team celebrated its goals. Having grown up watching Deon Sanders and TO collect fines and enemies for their “excessive celebrations,” I naturally assumed that Robert would be penalizing us for embarrassing our opponents or wasting too much time with our post-goal antics. As in turned out, however, the only celebration rule seemed to be: “the more-extravagant the better,” (a fact I quickly realized when one team, following an easy goal tapped in from a couple of yards out, picked up the scorer and danced the perimeter of the field with him on their backs).
The Dequení folks were nice enough to let me join the kids playing, and I offered to play be keeper for a team that was short a player. The teams are divided by supermarkets, and some are smaller than others. The smallest, including mine, formed mixed teams. This meant that my teammates assumed I worked in a super, and each asked me, in turn, “which super do you work at.” Sometimes they phrased it more like “where are you from,” and were completely bewildered when I offered up my nationality, rather than workplace. Needless to say, it was not an international crowd; neighborhood and type of supermarket form the most important boundaries and harshest rivalries in the Dequení games. So I was something of an oddity. Several kids asked if I was from Brazil and one simply told me I was Argentinian.
My team won its first match and, as our opponents returned to the bus stop on their way home or to the afternoon shift bagging groceries, moved to the next field to play another winning team. “I´ll play goalie in the second half,” a small kid the Super Seis in Luque offered. “Don’t worry,” I told him, “I actually like playing in goal, so if no one else wants to, I’ll stay there.” He agreed.
It may be a mark of how well-developed this country’s soccer is, that in Paraguay, there actually are real goal keepers. In Panamá, it often took pushing and shoving to decide who would be relegated to goalkeeper, and almost everyone would tell you they were a forward, if you asked them. In Paraguay, even kids younger than 10-years-old seem to have chosen or been assigned the position they are best at. It is often actually the most capable keeper (rather than simply the fattest kid) who stands between Paraguayan posts. So, when I told my team I would gladly stay in goal for the rest of the day, they understood and didn’t feel the need to thank me.
My day finished with a game between the Dequení staff and a bunch of local men who come every Saturday to beat up on the social workers before starting the nights binge. Not surprisingly, I spent the game in goal. As far as Fundación Dequení is concerned “the blonde kid only plays keeper.”
Happy Birthday
Wednesday night, I went to a meeting of the Directiva de Defensores de Lima. Though I didn’t know this ahead of time, the Directiva essentially consists of the 5 oldest, least talented Peruvians on the team. It’s members started the team a few years ago and pay to play. The rest of the players are chosen for talent talent, regardless of country of origin, and are often paid.
The meeting took place at Javier, a directive member’s house. It was his mother’s birthday and the meeting was supposed to double as a party for her. In reality, she had to cook and serve a group of 6 of her son’s friends while they argued about whether or not to pay off their next opponent. The night before, at a league meeting, the other teams had decided to take 2 points away from Defensores as punishment for a fight they had gotten into with the Bolivians the week before. This meant that Defensores would have to win by 3, and two other teams would have to lose, in order for them to go on to the elimination round. Several Directiva members wanted to offer the other team’s captain money to intentionally give Defensores a penalty kick, should they be short a goal. This was not about the best team winning, not about proving that we were good enough to triumph against the odds. This was about obtaining a foot-tall brass cup; an object too precious to leave in the hands of something as unpredictable (and often uncooperative) as merit.
In the end, however, Arturo and a friend visiting from Spain convinced the rest of the group not to waste any more money on the season. They would, instead, try their luck on Sunday and hope to pull through. Next the members decided that I would not, after all, be able to play with them. They told me it was because I wouldn’t be here until the end of the next tournament, but I sense that may be a polite way of saying that they can’t spare a roster spot for a un-talented, un-paying, gringo.
After almost two hours of meeting, the birthday celebration lasted all of 20 minutes. We brought the cake and the presents, took pictures, sang, and sent mom back inside to do the dishes. The Spaniard and I tried to help clean-up but were told firmly to return to the “party,” which continued without its honored guest.
The meeting took place at Javier, a directive member’s house. It was his mother’s birthday and the meeting was supposed to double as a party for her. In reality, she had to cook and serve a group of 6 of her son’s friends while they argued about whether or not to pay off their next opponent. The night before, at a league meeting, the other teams had decided to take 2 points away from Defensores as punishment for a fight they had gotten into with the Bolivians the week before. This meant that Defensores would have to win by 3, and two other teams would have to lose, in order for them to go on to the elimination round. Several Directiva members wanted to offer the other team’s captain money to intentionally give Defensores a penalty kick, should they be short a goal. This was not about the best team winning, not about proving that we were good enough to triumph against the odds. This was about obtaining a foot-tall brass cup; an object too precious to leave in the hands of something as unpredictable (and often uncooperative) as merit.
In the end, however, Arturo and a friend visiting from Spain convinced the rest of the group not to waste any more money on the season. They would, instead, try their luck on Sunday and hope to pull through. Next the members decided that I would not, after all, be able to play with them. They told me it was because I wouldn’t be here until the end of the next tournament, but I sense that may be a polite way of saying that they can’t spare a roster spot for a un-talented, un-paying, gringo.
After almost two hours of meeting, the birthday celebration lasted all of 20 minutes. We brought the cake and the presents, took pictures, sang, and sent mom back inside to do the dishes. The Spaniard and I tried to help clean-up but were told firmly to return to the “party,” which continued without its honored guest.
First Day at Work
On Wednesday I went to Fundación Dequení to sit in on a meeting about the soccer tournament they run for street kids. I had gotten bad bus directions from a friend and ended up having to call a cab to make it the rest of the way. I arrived at 5 minutes late, but, as it turned out, the meeting had been postponed and the boss, who had invited me, was not expected until later. Only one employee had arrived on time. I exchanged numbers with Robert and he showed me pictures of previous soccer tournaments and other Foundation activities.
Then another employee walked in and Robert told him I was a new volunteer. “Hi I’m Zack,” I said. “Hi, I’m a socialist,” he replied, lifting up his Dequení polo to show me a “Palestinian Liberty Now” t-shirt underneath. “Just so you know,” he went on, shrugging. Robert chuckled and Nelson, the socialist, went around the corner to his desk. The rest of the staff trickled in and introduced themselves, though none quite as memorably as Nelson.
After a half hour or so, the boss still had not arrived and Robert explained that she would arrive later but that if I wanted to, I could go home and come back the next day for the meeting. Nelson leaned around the corner and asked if I could accompany him to his supermarkets. Aside from soccer tournaments, each staff member in that office is in charge of visiting and looking after the baggers in several supermarkets. “The bus is boring, I want some company,” Nelson said.
I agreed and we spent the rest of the morning touring several neighborhoods of Asunción. Afterwards, we bought food and ate lunch in Nelson’s apartment, which looks like my bedroom from high school: walls covered with old concert announcements, band posters, clippings from socialist newspapers, and pictures likening George Bush to Hitler. We ate and debated politics, my broken Spanish not doing liberal-democracy’s cause any favors.
Then I took the bus home, planning to go back the next morning for a real meeting.
Then another employee walked in and Robert told him I was a new volunteer. “Hi I’m Zack,” I said. “Hi, I’m a socialist,” he replied, lifting up his Dequení polo to show me a “Palestinian Liberty Now” t-shirt underneath. “Just so you know,” he went on, shrugging. Robert chuckled and Nelson, the socialist, went around the corner to his desk. The rest of the staff trickled in and introduced themselves, though none quite as memorably as Nelson.
After a half hour or so, the boss still had not arrived and Robert explained that she would arrive later but that if I wanted to, I could go home and come back the next day for the meeting. Nelson leaned around the corner and asked if I could accompany him to his supermarkets. Aside from soccer tournaments, each staff member in that office is in charge of visiting and looking after the baggers in several supermarkets. “The bus is boring, I want some company,” Nelson said.
I agreed and we spent the rest of the morning touring several neighborhoods of Asunción. Afterwards, we bought food and ate lunch in Nelson’s apartment, which looks like my bedroom from high school: walls covered with old concert announcements, band posters, clippings from socialist newspapers, and pictures likening George Bush to Hitler. We ate and debated politics, my broken Spanish not doing liberal-democracy’s cause any favors.
Then I took the bus home, planning to go back the next morning for a real meeting.
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