7/5/2006 - Soccer and AFS: an Intercultural Reminiscence

It was a completely new experience for me, my hands were dripping with sweat and I had a nervous smile on my lips. The date was June 25, 1978 and the final game of the World Cup was going to be played in Argentina. The flags at the stadium were either blue and white or orange. It was all new to me, and I suspect to many others there on that day as well. I was going to watch the final game of the World Cup and my country’s team was playing. It was only the second time in history that Argentina had made it to the final match; the first time had been in 1930.

Only minutes to go. My heart felt like it was going to jump out of my chest. I was experiencing many feelings; I was happy, I was anxious for my team and I was good-naturedly jealous of those demigods in shorts down in the field because I knew that I would never be able to play as well as them.

. It was all too much for my 17-year old self, but even so, I was having the time of my life. I was constructing, moment by moment, a memory that would last a lifetime I was not dreaming however, even though I was not in Argentina at the time. I was not even facing a large grass rectangle, and I was not at the stadium in Buenos Aires. I knew that no matter how loudly I yelled, my country’s team would not hear me, nor would they see me waving the blue and white flag that I had acquired specifically for this occasion.

I was in Los Angeles, in a stadium built for basketball and hockey, facing a giant screen that hung from the ceiling. The cool Buenos Aires June had been replaced by the intense heat of the California summer. Nevertheless, emotions were at a fever pitch. It was the tail end of my AFS program year in the United States.

To my right sat my American host father, a fan of that intense and strange game that is also called football but is played with an oval ball that is mainly passed from hand to hand. He was also a fan of that other game, this one a bit more seductive, in which a ball is hit by a bat by players intent on sending it out of the field and into the hands of eagerly awaiting fans. My American AFS father was a “gringo” from Michigan whose sixties dreams had taken him to California and it was there that he opened up his home and heart to me. He understood little about this other kind of football in which 22 apparent maniacs pursued a ball without touching it with their hands, but he understood the excitement of rooting for his Latin son’s home team.

To my left sat, and this had been a curious coincidence, Richard, who was one of my best friends of this AFS year in the United States. He was a tall and skinny guy and had arrived in California eleven months ago, and like me, was an AFS exchange student. He had come from the Netherlands with his suitcase also full of dreams but also full of misconceptions regarding his host country.

Yes indeed, I was going to watch a live feed of the of the World Cup’s final match between Argentina and the Netherlands, 11,000 kilometers from my home country, sitting next to my Dutch friend! Wow! I normally would have hated him, a fan of the opposite team! My friend had an orange shirt on, he cheered his team’s players in his incomprehensible language and he gave me sideways glances when the Argentineans made better moves than the Dutch. But surprisingly, I could not hate him for his allegiances, quite the contrary; I felt that our friendship was growing. I felt that whatever the final score might be, we would always be friends. My host father’s cluelessness about the rules of the game irked me, but at the same time, I gave in to the pleasure of explaining the rules of the game to him. And even though in the U.S. this match would probably not make it into the evening news, me and my Dutch friend knew that most of the world was watching.

I was ignorant of the fact (due to press censorship) that back in Argentina; the governing dictatorship was kidnapping, assassinating and disappearing thousands of people. In dozens of undisclosed locations, our citizens were being tortured because of their adherence to opposing political views. But this World Cup of 1978 was a marvelous respite for my people, at least for one short period of time, to try to forget their suffering and anxiety.

That day Argentina beat the Netherlands 3 to 1. Mario Kempes, our goal scorer, became and instant national hero and an unforgettable entry in my memory scrapbook. Richard bore the loss like a gentleman and our friendship did indeed grow that day. My American host father understood that a match could be an excellent one even if only 3 or 4 goals had been scored in 90 minutes. And in my homeland, in spite of the dictatorship, joy and pride flourished if only for one day.

Four weeks later I was back in the province of Santa Fe, Argentina. Richard was back in Harleem in the Netherlands. I brought back a suitcase, filled with renewed hope and I had left behind many prejudices. Some 9,000 other young people had a similar experience that year.

I shared three passions with Richard: soccer, chess and California girls, although I don’t know if I got the priority order right. My friendship with him continued throughout the years. How did we prolong our relationship? We played chess through the international mail. Yes, we played chess writing our moves to each other on the type of letter that required pen and ink and extra stamps to help them cross the ocean. Those of you who have grown up with the internet and email probably can’t conceive of the idea that letters took weeks to reach their destination on the other side of the world.

I never became a soccer player, in spite of how much Mario Kempes inspired me that day and Diego Maradona after him. Richard did not become a soccer player either, in spite Johann’s Cruyff example. I became a passable economist and Richard found his future in the sea. I never grew distant from AFS, or rather; AFS never grew distant from me. My American father and my California family are still in touch with me.

Argentina happily found its way back to democracy, but the wounds of the dictatorship and the absence of so many disappeared have yet to heal, but we look to the future.

What I have written here is a modest story about soccer, friendship and an unforgettable chapter in my life that I owe to AFS. What is important to me are all the feelings that wash over me as I write these lines. For a few hours I forgot about the demands of my business. I forgot about the millions of dollars, euros or yen that constantly move around the worldwide financial networks. And for a moment I also forgot about the sometimes unfortunate crass and violent behavior of some soccer audiences. The peace loving soccer fans outnumber those who would make a mockery of our sport.

We love soccer because it is democratic, the rich and the poor both can play, those who are thin or fat can play, everyone can play. You can play our game anywhere you find yourself because all you need is a round ball or any other object that has a bit of bounce. You can play it barefooted or with the most expensive shoes. We love the game because anyone can become a star player if he is good enough. We love it because within a small green rectangle eleven people play against the same opposing number and beyond individual ability, teamwork really counts.

We also love this game because every four years, the whole world stops and the names of faraway countries suddenly are remembered or become familiar. In the Ivory Coast they will talk about Argentina, in Iran they will mention Angola and in France they will have the name of Togo on their lips. There will be heroes and there will be villains. Legends will be born and stars will lose their brilliance. People will laugh and cry and experience fear or courage.

Today, 26 years after that fateful day I will always remember what I felt then at the same time that I open my heart to new feelings, watching this year’s World Cup in Germany surrounded by the blue and white colors of our flag and side by side with my eleven year old son. And I wish that 11,000 young AFS participants all over the world, will not feel that a World Cup is the only ingredient needed to unite us in the understanding that we all share a common destiny.

Story written by Victor Oporto who has been an AFS participant and Chair of the AFS International Board of Trustees
Translated from the Spanish by Carlos Porro