Rendering of GEHA Field at Arrowhead Stadium included in Kansas City’s bid to the FIFA World Cup committee. (Kansas City Sports Commission)
I recall few moments from the first futbol (soccer) game I saw in person. In retrospect the oddest would start with my grandmother. She was the one who took my brother and me to our first live match, a barnstorming tour of Latin America by the almighty Brazil team. Played by World Cup winners, and led by a young Pele, the match was memorable. The spectacle included a ribald performance by the great Cantinflas, the sidekick in the wondrous movie “Around the World in 80 Days,” and probably the reason our grandmother took us.
Years later I confess the only thing I remember vividly and with no hesitation was a burlesque skit where Cantinflas, trying to remove a flower from the barely there gown of a robust model, pulled the dress to reveal nothing. The darn lights went out right as the gown began to fall off her shoulders. I remember my grandmother laughing hard. I didn’t catch the joke. I wished the lights had stayed on.
I remember shouting Pele’s name. That’s why my brother and I were there. Pele was something like God to us kids, when futbol was everything. The pecking order was set by the game. I could defend like crazy though I was not as good a dribbler as a few others that kicked the ball at Simon Bolivar Park up the street. They were the captains. Not always the best choice.
We fantasized about the World Cup. South America has every right to be soccer mad. A true world game. Of 22 FIFA World Cups played, South American teams have won 10. That is democratic in feel. And it puts me in an odd place when I think of my immigrant journey.
Futbol was not played here in any organized way familiar to me. The closest thing was kickball, which really was baseball masquerading. Dodgeball was the next game taught to us. Both were fun but they were not futbol. I found the substitute for futbol in a similar sounding game. A brutal game my brother and I were introduced to when our mother sent us off to a boys’ school.
I remember our orientation being a straightforward affair. The orientation leader said, “There are boys here that are pretty tough. The one way you can make a name for yourself and ensure you don’t get picked on is to play sports. Now a lot of boys join the boxing club, others play football or wrestle.” Without hesitation I asked, “Tell me more about football and wrestling.”
My first game was a trip. I knew the rules of the game and had gone to Municipal Stadium and seen the Chiefs play. But apart from throwing the ball, I had never really played the game, not even tackled anyone. Ever. The coach, a wise man, put me on defense and told me go after the ball carrier. I was good at it and my passion for the game ensured I was an eager student. I picked it up quickly. I confess I was a baseball fan first, but I could not hit the ball with any consistency. But hitting people, I was good at that.
The move to the boys’ school coincided with my hometown team taking on the Minnesota Vikings in the Super Bowl. Nobody believed Kansas City would beat Minnesota. Minnesota was invincible. They were going to teach Kansas City how to play the game. Kansas City won handily and ignited a fealty that lasts to this day. I wandered that 50-year walk in the wilderness until the Chiefs returned to glory in 2019.
The language of football broke down the impediments that made me feel a stranger in an even stranger land. Though my allegiance is unwavering and my interest uncompromised, I confess that the game does not come close to the excitement, desire and longing that burns in my heart to see Colombia win the World Cup. It was my first team. We all played for Colombia in the imagined World Cups we improvised in Bucaramanga.
The introduction of cable TV and its dedicated channels broadcasting the beautiful game around the world kindled my desire. I remember vividly Maradona’s “Hand of God” goal against England. I still see a friend, Nigel, an Englishman if ever there was one, losing it, the spirit drained out of his body. All life compromised.
I will never forget the debacle of 1994 when Colombia lost to the U.S., and yes, I cheered for Colombia and was crushed when they lost. Nigel’s spirit visited me, and I understood his pain so deeply. I felt worse when Andrés Escobar, the one responsible for the goal that gave the U.S. a tight grip on the outcome, returned to Colombia only to be killed by a gangster upset about the goal.
I was fortunate enough to have the right channels when the prodigy Lionel Messi began playing his club futbol at Barcelona, the club I follow. Year in and year out I watched slavishly as many games as I could find even if it meant going to some bar, “a complete unknown” just because they had a TV playing a match. Every time the World Cup comes around, I fantasize. I dream. I long for Colombia to make a dash for glory. To atone for the pain of 1994.
Imagine the lunacy if Colombia makes it to the quarterfinals and their game is played here at GEHA field. The symmetry of that moment is an arc, serendipitous and tantalizing. To see the futbol game in the home of football would be a fitting gift. An ironic twist of fate.
And the fanatic in me will let his hair down and run through the streets, berserker style. Please forgive me if you see me in that state. I don’t know this firsthand, but you will feel the same when the USA wins one. I’m still waiting for mine.
