My love for soccer began when I was seven years old.
I used to kick the ball against the outside wall of my house when my friends were not around; it was a blue soft rubber ball.
Sometimes I would kick the ball so hard or so bad, that it would end up on the roof. I had to get it back right away because if other kids would get it before me, they could write their names on it and claim it was theirs. If I left the ball on the roof for a few hours on a hot sunny day, it would get automatically bigger. That was something I could never understand.
I used to live a block away from a river. And many times would end up in the river too. One time, I nearly drowned when I ran too far ahead of the ball alongside the river and then dived and swam against the current trying to retrieve my ball. That was the closest I've been to dying. I can honestly say that because of my love for soccer I learned how to climb any roof in the neighborhood. It also pushed me to learn how to swim.
Sometimes, mean old ladies that for some reason didn't like kids having fun, would get the balls from their patios and pinch them with an ice pick or knife. Then, they would just throw the balls back deflated and useless.
My favorite brother is my favorite brother because he bought my first real soccer ball, official size, and made out of leather. I used to use it as a pillow and kiss it every day in the morning when I woke up. Since then, I've always had a soccer ball every single day of my life.
All this happened in the 60s. In a poor neighborhood in Mexico. In those days all of Mexico was a poor neighborhood. The nearest park was many miles away; in fact, I don't remember if there was another one in the entire city. We had no other choice but to play on the hard pavement or dirt roads. We had to be careful not to fall, to avoid painful consequences.
Sometimes I had to play barefoot, because my shoes were supposed to last the entire school year. I was forced to play without shoes by my mom. "If you're going to play football, you better leave your shoes in the house," my mom used to yell from the kitchen when she heard me bouncing the ball and heading out the door. I had to do it anyway, because I knew I would look pathetic at school with my shoes tied with a string to hold the soles and the top part together.
I was probably thirteen years old when I stopped playing without shoes. I remember I used to kick the ball very hard by then and barely feeling any pain on my red swollen feet.
I used to hear people say, "practice makes perfect" well, I used to play every day in my summer vacations, and all weekends for many years, and whoever came out with that silly phrase is a fool. Because nobody played perfect in my barrio.
My dad took to the stadium, to watch a professional soccer game. A Second Division match. I thought they played perfect. They would kick the ball from one goal post to the other a hundred yards away. It was amazing! But even more amazing was that a few years later I would play with some of them, when they had retired, and I had become a better player.
A few years ago it became the favorite sport for kids in the USA. Soccer is truly a universal sport. Now that I live in California, I find very satisfying to have conversations with people from anywhere in the world about the World Cup, and everybody is an expert.
Europeans would incessantly talk about it if you let them. They would forget about wars, invasions and other ancient problems and proudly say whom they admire the most. In the end, the eternal question would emerge, "who do you think was the best player ever?' Most people would say Pele, or Diego Maradona, or Messi, or . . .
I was a fourteen years old when I first immersed in the World Cup. The host Country was England in 1966, and they won it. In 1970 Mexico was the host. I prayed and prayed for my team to win; that's when I learned that God was not interested in sports, because Brazil won.
In 1970, Brazil's third victory in the tournament entitled them to keep the trophy permanently. However, the trophy was stolen in 1983, and was recovered, apparently it was melted down by the thieves.
One of the regrets I have in life is having stopped playing soccer. Soccer should have been a priority in my life for my mental and physical health. But I'm planning to live to a hundred and twenty years of age, so I haven't reached my middle age yet. I might still return to the first passion of my life. Soccer, Football, Futbol, Calcio or whatever they call it in your Country.
If you love soccer, we have a lot in common.
Edmundo Barraza
Visalia, CA. 07-01-2012
http://edbar1952-accomplishedignorant.blogspot.com/
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