Since embarking on this sacrificial journey into the annuls of writing, I’ve come to realize that the incessant banging of keyboards has a profound effect in the process of venting.
It has the same effects that a punching bag would sans the sweat and the liver is also grateful as liquor is not my cup of tea.
But there are times when people ask me about a certain moment in my life when football really changed me as an individual. There were many. Yet a great deal of them were not at a stadium or on the world stage.
Although there was one at the Orange Bowl that stays etched in my mind forever. It was when I went to see Brazil play Japan in the 1996 Olympics. That Brazil team was stacked. Aldaír, Juninho (before he added the Pernambucano), Flávio Conceicão, Dida, Zé María, Amaral, and a young Roberto Carlos were the supporting cast for World Cup winners Bebeto and Ronaldo. This was the PSV Eindhoven player that was in his cocoon and was about to become O Fenomeno. He had the football world at his feet. That opener against Japan was superbly anticipated in South Florida and little would I know, it would become a match that I heard about from my dad from there on out.
To be honest, Teruyoshi Ito’s goal was a blur. I saw chaos in front of the Brazilian goal and the ball squirted through. All the calamity in the world occured there and Teruyoshi Ito would knock the ball into the back of the net for the only goal of the match.
I say it was a blur because my attention shifted to my dad as he began celebrating that goal with a Japanese fan that was vermillion red. Tears were streaming down his eyes as well as every ounce of disbelief that most Samurai Blue fans had prior to that encounter. My dad taught me to love Brazilian football; but if there was something he loved more it was the underdog.
After the match, that fan embraced my dad. Tightly and yet in a fraternal manner. I remember as if it was five minutes ago (my short term memory after many concussions is still … ok what was I talking about?). The Japanese fan looked at my dad as a friend and in his broken English said “thank you”. My dad, in his obliterated Japanese said, “sayonara”. So much for that hysterical bit of cultural exchange.
My dad was not a pundit or a soccer writer, yet he was one of the men that I believe would have done great in that type of role. He was a mechanic. He still is because in the family ”you always need one”. Yet he worked his hands to the bone- literally. He lost the tip of his finger due to frostbite after having to go under back hoes and heavy duty machinery in the middle of winter in Lancaster, Penn. He was the obvious choice as he was the odd man out- the only Hispanic- working in a company where the first language of choice to speak was not English, it was Pennsylvania Dutch.
He felt some of the worst racism you can ever imagine and still held his head up high. Yet at a certain point in his life he decided that he had had enough and he loaded a truck up to head to Miami and look for a new life.
“Sea macho, ” he always blurted. ”Man up!”
When a call didn’t go my way, he always said, “Get up, keep playing. Be a man.” It was not a
He didn’t want a foul or a penalty to bring me down. Although they did. I was very fragile with my confidence as a keeper. I would be very hot and cold. I would be the best in the world. I would let one in and I was the worst out there. He was the force that just told me to suck it up and play.
I still to this day remember the final of a state all-star tournament when I was 15 and he was able to get the weekend off in order to travel to West Palm Beach. He lugged all of the things we’d needed for the trip and there was lots of food my mom cooked and freezed for the weekend.
I remember in the semis, I stopped two PK and the following day I ran into the kids that I played and they looked at me like some type of stud. For a sec, I truly believed it. My chest stuck out like a gamecock imposing his status. Then he said, “Did you win Copa Libertadores?”
“Uh, no.”
- Then you must have a stick up your ass. Because you haven’t won anything.
As subtle as kick to the ball with steel toed boots, wasn’t he. But he got the point across. We won the final eventually, as I would be on the bench in penalties, but it was all fine. I then went to show him my trophy and he said, “You hold it. It looks good on you. That’s because you earned it.”
To this day I remember that tournament fondly.
The Adriano Incident
I happened to watch the final of the Copa América a few years ago with my dad and my long-time friend and now broadcast partner George Metellus. It was just a match that left everyone baffled.
As always, he sat and watched. Silent.
Didn’t say a word while George and I ooed and ahhed as we still do today. Then Argentina would score the second goal of the match in the final minutes courtesy of a César Delgado shot that just ripped into the back of the net. It seemed like a sure thing. Argentina were going to win it against their archrivals. Then a mumble came from my dad. If there were two things that would have hindered his media profession would have been his diction as well as his projection. He was best understood whenever he was mad and made many sailors sound like choirboys.
“Brazil have done enough to win. They’ll score when they get the ball. C’mon, guys. Brazil is Brazil.”
And as if it were clockwork… this happened.
Brazil would then go on to win in penalty kicks. His face was stone cold, but his body language exuded this “I told you so” perch on top of his throne as he watched the Verdeamarelha raise another trophy. George and I were still in shock as he just brushed things off and remained confident. Of course, he could only keep that pose for an a brief period of time only to have him explode into laughter at our incredulous stares and our disbelief. But in the end, we enjoyed that moment.
There were other memories. Like when he sat on the couch and and looked out to that vast nothingness and let a tear roll down his eye after Colombia won the Copa three years before. It was only the second time he did that in his life, or so I thought. The first was when his little girl was getting married just a few months before. But I will leave them for another day.
He was stoic at times. That’s what made his explosions that much more feared. But the guy has always been all heart. He taught us all how to survive and was there to soften the fall. He has done everything, and then some, for many.
So now to see him where he is, instead of having a tear roll down my cheek, I remember those moments and have to smile. Those football moments I shared with him helped me feel a little better and have helped me become the person that I am. For that I am truly thankful.
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