Sometimes it’s not the things you plan on doing when traveling in a new city that end of being the things you remember. Sometimes it’s those spontaneous adventures that define a city in your mind…
The botanical gardens in Caracas were wholly forgettable. All of the descriptions of plant species were in Spanish and the entire garden ran along a busy four-lane street, the constant drone of engines and horns a reminder of the surrounding metropolis.
As I left the gardens to lazily walk back to the hostel a half a mile to the east I noticed what looked to be a park across a wide street and a hard court tennis surface soccer pitch, about the size of an indoor soccer field, filled with players churning up and down the field. This I couldn’t pass up.
As I drew close I saw what looked to be university buildings and I remembered seeing on a map that the biggest university in Caracas, and in all of Venezuela at that, was across the street from the botanical gardens. I cracked open the gate and found an open area in the bleachers. The game was in full swing, both teams exerting authority over the tempo at times. The small set of bleachers could have held fifty people or so, but that afternoon only twenty were in attendance, mainly the girlfriends of players. But there seemed to be another contingency as well, more players, though not in uniform.
The game lasted thirty minutes after I arrived, with only one goal being scored in that time span. Some of the players had great skill and could command control of the ball fluidly, but I couldn’t help but think that I could definitely hold my own out there.
After the game a group of guys took the pitch, shooting and passing, seemingly with no agenda to play. An African-Venezuelan with well-worn Puma’s and trees for legs, hollered to two more guys still sitting in the stands. Both were in jeans and began to roll them before heading to the field. I thought maybe they were going to get an adhoc game going, but I only counted nine players, one less than needed.
My heart began to race as I realized that I might be able to get in this game. I was too nervous too simply offer my services, but when the African pointed to the stands with one finger extended I raised my hand with no reservation and trotted on to the pitch.
“Hola” I tentatively said to the guy in Puma’s, “Solo hablo un poco Espanol.”
The ten of us broke in to two teams and I introduced myself to the rest of my team. One of my teammates, adorning a European jersey, asked me a question far too rapidly for me to understand and when he realized I had no idea what he was saying, made motions like a goalkeeper.
“No problema, pero Estoy mejor alli” I said, pointing towards the center of the pitch.
“Pues. Es solo para un gol, y entonces, hay otra persona alli” my teammate said.
Soon the game was afoot and I was playing a position completely foreign to me. I was nervous and excited and my emotions were all wrapped up in the pit of my stomach. The first shot on goal I stopped with my feet, kicking it out of bounds. After this quick shot the game was played in the middle of the field, neither team being able to keep possession for more than a few passes. Then, rather quickly, one of my teammates made a bad pass and one of the guys in jeans stole the ball, dribbled towards my goal and struck the ball past me.
I felt terrible, but my teammates weren’t upset, I really didn’t have a chance. After the goal the team rotated and I was able to get out in the field, where I felt much more comfortable. I was beginning to sweat in my jeans and I could feel my chest stretch.
Two minutes after letting in a goal I positioned myself on the left side in the striker position when the right wing received a ball from a guy in the back. My teammate, Euro jersery, made a quick play on the ball faking out his defender, giving him enough room to get a pass across the field to me. The ball seemed to be moving in slow motion as it came towards me and I booted it directly from the pass to the lower right corner of the goal, beyond the outstretched arms of the goalkeeper for the tying goal. Wow did it feel good. Really good.
By the time one of the team’s reached five and we had a break I was severely winded. Kneeling on the sideline I needed to catch my breath.
“De donde eres?” Euro jersey asked me, breathing hard.
“Estados Unidos” I told him.
“Donde?”
“Oklahoma.”
He looked at me blankly.
“Pero, tambien vivi in Chicago.”
“Ahhh, Chicago!”
“Y tu?”
“Caracas.”
Puma shoes was also standing on the sideline with us and asked, “Como se llama?”
“Ira” I said, accentuating the r, almost making it sound like a d.
“Marco” Puma shoes told me, touching his chest.
“Yo soy Abel” Euro jersey said.
“Van a esta universidad?” I asked, pointing to the university buildings.
They both attended, one studying statistics, the other journalism. Our conversation was cut short because we played another game, a few players leaving and a few players joining. After the second game more of the players left and we were stuck without enough to play.
A discussion ensued between a few of the guys and afterwards Abel told me, “Come, we go other field.” As we walked, Abel asked me about Chicago and we talked about the Cubs and the White Sox and he told about a friend of his that visited there in December and couldn’t believe how cold it was. I could only smile and say, “Es verdad!”
We partially walked through the campus and ended at another complex, with two soccer fields, both the same size as the first and the same concrete. One of them was nicer and the bleachers seated more than double the people. There were more people at this field and it looked as though we definitely weren’t going to get in a game there. The second pitch had no fencing to one side, had no bleachers, and the concrete was ripping up in some areas. A heated game was happening on it as well. After another discussion it was decided we would return to the first field with a few more people and play there.
After another game the majority of players migrated from the field. Abel offered to show me some of the campus, so we left the pitch together. My feet were throbbing a bit and I was dripping sweat under my jeans and over my shirt.
the continuation of the story is a jpg.journal… sorry for the awful scrawl. hopefully it is still legible. sometimes i don’t even realize how scratchy i am writing!
Abel and I spoke for nearly an hour and we set up a time to meet at the university the next day to play again. The next day I returned, with a new pair of shoes, and I was ready to play. Unfortunately Abel never showed up, though he did email me to let me know why and to apologize. He not showing though, did not distract me. I returned to the main pitch and watched and waited. When I noticed a group of guys at the pitch in poor shape across the way seemed to be looking for another player I quickly volunteered my services.
After two and half hours my feet were dreadfully sore and the cheap, Converse All-Star knock-offs I bought for the game looked as though I owned them for a year, which surely isn’t a bad thing!
I hobbled back to the hostel in the late afternoon for a shower and a change of shoes. By far, walking to the field the day before was the best decision I made in Caracas and those two days were the highlight of my time in Caracas.
