I'm a 'Baller

Footballer. I'm a footballer. Or at least that's the dream I'm pursuing in signing up with an intramural indoor soccer team here at Duke. I responded to a mass e-mail calling for people who'd like to join a squad that needed players. Even though I haven't played soccer regularly for years, I knew this league was just for fun and recreation and so had nothing to lose in taking the plunge.

Our captain, Michael Albert, is a guy from the Business School. Our team consists of men and women from all over the graduate and professional schools and even includes a few undergrads. Because we were sort of thrown together at the last minute, Michael gave us a team name befitting our ragtag grouping: Identity Crisis.

I've written before about my abiding love for the game, especially as its played in the English Premier League. Even without cable since coming back from Peru, I continue to follow all the fixtures online and to obsessively track players' progress through my online Fantasy Football game. Well, the rec league at Duke has given me my first real opportunity to combine my fandom and vicarious knowledge of the game with sustained physical activity -- actually getting out there on the pitch and playing some football.

Not a very physical player the last time I put on the cleats and shinguards, I was a flatfooted defender in the years I played soccer as a kid. Since then, I spent several years as a competitive swimmer and water polo player, struggled through surgery in high school and college, took up tennis and racquetball, and, most recently, turned to long-distance running. Overall, I became more of a physical presence in my sporting pursuits, strengthening leg muscles through individual activities (swimming, running) and developing a sense of movement, strategy, and team-play in the other sports. While most of my footballing tactics will be derived less from experience and more from electronic observation (Fox Soccer Channel, 4thegame.com, YouTube footballing highlights, the aforementioned Fantasy game), I'm ready for the challenge of indoor soccer.

As I prepare to take to the field (or the IM gym's floor, as it were), I hope to mold my play in the style of my footballing hero, the Basque Spaniard and Liverpool midfielder Xabi Alonso. Known as a "deep-lying midfielder," Alonso is not a holding or purely defensive midfielder per se (such as Chelsea's Claude Makelele or Milan's Gennaro Gattuso) but a playmaker who creates space for himself -- and thus his passes and long-range shots -- just behind the attacking midfielder (in Alonso's club, this would be the legendary Steven Gerrard). Milan's World Cup champion Andrea Pirlo is perhaps the world's best-known deep-lying playmaker. Other notables include Barcelona's Xavi and Roma's Daniele De Rossi.

The deep-lying midfielder is not a standout defender. He's an offensive threat who distributes passes from the defense up to the attacking midfielder and, of course, the striker(s). In addition to being an amazing passer, he'll try his luck with long-range shots and will, on occasion, venture into the penalty area to follow up on scoring plays (or, alternately, defensive mistakes by the opposition). You can see the range of Alonso's skills, typical of the deep-lying midfielder, in this video:



Having said that, I'm probably overstating my case when I say I think I can play this position in our rec league. For one, I lack the basic, day-in-day-out skills of a regular football player. And there's no doubt the deep-lying midfielder must possess a high degree of technical skill in order to be effective at his position. Furthermore, though I consider myself to be a decent passer of the ball, I'll have absolutely zero experience playing with my team before our first match. This is a bad omen, I know, but what can you do when the league starts during finals week? Finally, it's worth noting that indoor soccer takes place in a relatively small, enclosed space (where side walls are inbounds); the deep-lying midfielder works best when there's more space available and when his vision can open up defenses and pick out the free player. Indoor soccer simply doesn't allow for that degree of open play.

Enough fantasy strategizing for now. But on to a related topic about fandom and identification. It has occurred to me that even though Alonso is my idol, when I do take to the gym floor in my blue Target-bought kit, I'll bear a resemblance not to him but to some other Premier League footballers with whom I share certain features. Phenotypically, I may have more in common with Eintracht Frankfurt's Naohiro Takahara or Tottenham Hotspurs' Lee Young-Pyo. I don't recognize myself in them, however. Something about my mixed ethnic heritage makes me look more like:


Arsenal's talented left back, Frenchman Gael Clichy


Manchester United's sidelined defender Mikael Silvestre, another Frenchman


Former Villain and current Bolton sub Gavin McCann (a holding midfielder)


Theo Walcott, Arsenal's young forward and one player on whom England is hinging its hopes of national football revival (after crashing out of Euro 2008)


Bolton's substitute goalkeeper, Ali Al Habsi, from Oman


Liverpool's stalwart shot-stopper Jose Reina


And yet another goalie, and perhaps the closest thing I have to a doppelgänger in the Premier League, Everton's and the US national team's Tim Howard

Vote for your favorite candidate for my lookalike, or tell me I'm crazy with all of my choices. I'm an aging athlete, I know, and some of these lads are in the prime of their careers. But I figure it's never too late to start.

Welcome Aboard

My US summer started off promisingly with a trip to the beach. My friend Kristin invited me to join her roommate Jess, Jess's partner Sean, and a bunch of their ecology friends for a week-long stay at a beach house on the North Carolina coast. This was at the beginning of June. As I had just moved back into my apartment on June 1, I thought I'd go to the beach for a couple of days instead of the whole week, reserving some time to get unpacked, reacquaint myself with my cat, and so on. Fortunately, two other beachgoers, the lovely Spaniards Ester and Lisa, happened to want to go for just a couple of nights as well.

The three of us left Durham on a sunny Wednesday afternoon in Ester's car. Our trip to Oak Island was largely uneventful up to the point where we arrived in Wilmington, the major city on North Carolina's coast. Now Ester had printed out MapQuest directions to the address of the beach house -- something to the effect of 1010 Main St. But when we arrived on the island and drove along the coast on Main St., we couldn't for the life of us find the beach house. We drove to the end of the island, into a gated neighborhood whose gate was up and whose attendant was missing. We asked some folks if they knew where our house was -- they could only guess that it lay back at the entrance to the island.

After half an hour of fruitless searching, Lisa finally got a hold of Sean on her cell phone. It quickly became apparent that we were in fact on the wrong island. MapQuest had taken us to Holden Island, not Oak Island -- though, to be fair, both islands' primary roads sport the name "Main St." We were about an hour's south of Oak Island, so Ester, Lisa, and I shared a laugh over the confusion and joyfully made our way to the correct Main St.

That early snafu was the only snafu any of us encountered during our stay at the beach house, named "Welcome Aboard." The weekend experience was, in a word, bliss. Upon finally arriving at Oak Island, our group enjoyed a hearty seafood stew for dinner and, drunk on red wine and laughter, retired to the living room to watch the shark episode of the BBC's amazing Blue Planet series (ah, ecologists!). Kristin, Ester, and I stayed up late into the night drinking and sharing stories about recent turns in our life.

The next day I stumbled out of bed and onto the beach -- literally. Welcome Aboard was situated right on the shore, and it only took a jaunt down some stairs to feel the sand beneath one's toes. Our group spent the day alternating between chatting, sunbathing, and swimming in the pleasantly chilly Atlantic currents. This is a great shoreline photo of Ester, Lisa, and Jess (looking pensive, as always) in the background:



There was something so natural to our leisurely activity as a beach group. Some would go in the water while others stayed on shore. Some would retire to the house for a siesta while others took their naps under the shade of the umbrellas. Some kissed in the water and others walked along the shore. We were friends, old and new, and our movements and conversations were relaxed and sincere.

When the final bunch of beachgoers arrived Thursday afternoon, we took to the sand-pitch and played a lively game of soccer. It was the Red Team versus... er, the Red Team. Hey, at least I got to wear my brand new Liverpool #14 Xabi Alonso jersey, which I got in Lima. Yeah, yeah, it was hot, but at what other time could I imitate my favorite soccer player's moves?


Faint though my figure may be, I'm making a trademark Alonso pass to Ben Best here. Note that he doesn't even need to break his stride to receive the feed. Fernando and Ted are positioned in ultra-safe, Chelsea-type defense, but I'll grant that, especially in this next photo, they look good in their red trunks.


Toward the end of the day, when everyone was cleaning up and preparing for dinner, I brought out my camera and took some photos of our house...



...and of the beautiful sunset-shadowed shoreline.


We again ate well that night: everyone pitched in and contributed to a meal that included grilled tuna, cooked vegetables, and delicious hogfish filets that just melted in your mouth. Here's a photo of Fernando and me playing sous chefs to the master himself, Sean McMahon:



We spent the next day, Friday, in much the same fashion as we spent Thursday. This time, instead of soccer, we played surf basketball, whereby Kristin held a floating basket steady while two teams tried to stuff a squishy ball into it. Andre's team benefited from his height, but the waves themselves were the great equalizers, often leveling a player who had thought he was standing on steady ground. For our intense waterlogged workout, our group was rewarded with another memorable seafood dinner, this time featuring Spanish-style shrimp prepared by Lisa and me.

By the time Saturday rolled around, those of us who had arrived late in the week rued not having more time to spend at Welcome Aboard. We were all at peace with ourselves, and in tune with each other, even after only having spent a few days together. The one positive twist to our leaving was the fact that we didn't need to clean the house from top to bottom -- a basic maid service was included in the rental fee.

On my way out of Welcome Aboard, with bags and boxes of leftovers and appliances in tow, I glanced at the rental information sheet that was affixed to the refrigerator by magnet. The sheet listed phone contacts and instructions for how to properly close the refrigerator door. But in naming the actual house in which we were staying, the sheet (accidentally) read "Welcome Abroad" rather than "Welcome Aboard." The typo was fitting, I thought, given that my experience there made me feel as though I had, for one weekend, escaped from reality and retreated to a paradise of communal living on the beach.

El Clásico de Lima

On Sunday, May 6, my friend Alonso Cardeñas invited me to go with him to el clásico, the football derby match between cross-town rivals Alianza Lima and Universitario. I had had a long night of partying on Saturday, but there was no way I'd pass up seeing my first South American football match -- and a derby to boot! I dragged myself out of bed at 2 and, luckily for me, only had to put on shabby clothes before heading out the door. Alonso warned me that football matches attract pickpockets; thus, I should wear only a shirt and jeans and bring only the money I needed for the ticket and some food. For added effect, he told me I shouldn't shave either. I guess there's nothing more intimidating in Peru than a chino who looks like Grizzly Adams. I was ready to go.

Football derbies are always special sporting events. They are the epitome of sporting passion and occupy pride of place in local and regional history. Derbies also bring out the most intense emotions and expressions of pride in fans: they are louder, and more vociferous, in their cheers, applause, and chants when their opponents also happen to be their neighbors. Buenos Aires teams Boca Juniors and River Plate are known to host the most spectacular, and sometimes violent, clashes. The Lima clásico is hardly known outside of the country, but I had no qualms. A world football fan myself, I value any and all opportunities to see a live match.

Alonso's father was kind enough to drive us to the stadium. Amazingly, he and Alonso are veterans of the 1986 (Mexico) and 1990 (Italy) World Cups. They even got to see the final of the '86 Cup between Argentina and West Germany. This was the famous 3-2 match in which Argentina's Diego Maradona helped his country win with the "Hand of God" goal -- a goal that had gone in off his hand, without the referee noticing. Clearly I was in good company.

Alonso and I got out of the car about six or seven blocks from the stadium. We immediately found ourselves in a throng of people who were making their way to see the game. It was delightful chaos. Streets were closed, police were patrolling on horse and on foot, and ticket-hawkers lined the sidewalks advertising (by shouting) their goods.

Alonso stopped at one seller and asked for tickets. We were presented with two options: cheap tickets for the open "South" section of the stadium or slightly more expensive tickets for the "West" section. At first I went for the West tickets, as I figured I'd want to watch the match with the full pitch in equal view. Alonso hesitated and said, "But this is Peru. The quality isn't very good." (That is, I didn't need to worry about seeing everything that happened on the pitch.) He then clarified his statement by saying that we'd have much more fun in the South section, where Alianza's fans, known as the "Comando Svr," sang, chanted, and beat drums throughout the match. (I later learned that the fans spell "Sur" with a "v" instead of a "u" because their fiercest rivals, Universitario, also go by the nickname "La U.") Once Alonso told me this, I knew exactly what to do. I bought myself a ticket for the South section.

We made our way to the long line of people waiting to get into the South entrance. I was probably the only non-Peruvian in the lot; this was truly a locals-only thing. Alonso and I wound our way around the block and took our place in the line. While we were waiting, I bought an Alianza Lima jersey from a vender and put it on over my shabby shirt. I was now in my true colors. It's not that Alonso is an Alianza fan and so I had to be one too; rather, Alianza has a history of being the "people's team," whereas La U was/is known to attract the more shi-shi classes in Lima. As Alonso would say, "I am a man of the people."

The line eventually started moving, albeit very slowly. I discovered then that Peruvian police don't mess around. Any line-cutters or trash-talkers were beaten with batons or policemen's bare hands. I tempered my shock when the kids who were the object of these beatings laughed at their tormenters and generally acknowledged their rascaliness. This response was, for me, an interesting lesson in Peruvian social relations, and specifically how people here deal with police and (the threat of) violence.

Once Alonso and I got in the stadium, we squeezed our way through the frenzied crowd and got seats on the top of the South section. The stadium's nickname is Matute, and it can hold up to 35,000 people. This is actually on the low-end of stadium capacity; Universitario's stadium, for example, can hold 80,000 people. At any rate, across from us, in the North section, was a huge swath of La U fans. Police surrounded their section, making sure that violence didn't erupt between rival bands of rabid supporters.

The match kicked off at 3:30, and for the first twenty minutes or so everyone was on the edge of his seat, waiting for the match's breakthrough goal. Unfortunately for Alianza, the team was playing like shit and La U controlled the game both offensively and defensively. In particular, one Renzo Benavides, a striker, seemed sluggish and out of form, as he never completed his runs in a way that showed he really wanted the ball. Fans started to give him shit, all the while calling him by his somewhat undesirable nickname, El Gordo, or fat one. (When Benavides was later substituted in the second half, he was whistled off the pitch and, rather than join his teammates on the bench, elected to go straight to the locker room.)

As the match wore on, Alonso and I grew bored, but the Comando Svr remained vibrant and upbeat. This was genuine blood-support. As the saying goes, these people bleed the colors of their team. Their efforts seemed to pay off close to the half-hour mark, when Alianza was awarded a penalty after a foul in the penalty area. La U's goal was directly in front of our section, so we got to see the action unfold before our eyes. Unfortunately, after a moment of hushed anticipation, the penalty-taker missed the goal entirely as the ball sailed wide of the net. "CONCHA SU MADRE!!" roared the crowd. We were devastated.

After halftime, the pace started to pick up again. Only La U was the one to strike first. Their defender headed in a goal from a corner (which bounced off the heads of two other La U players), made possible by some truly shambolic defending by the Alianza squad. The La U supporters rushed to the front of their section in a wave of red, a typical South American way of celebrating a goal. They then picked up their singing and urged their team to get another one.

The match was dire for the next half-hour. Alianza was desperate to get a goal, but La U's defense was rock-solid. Even the Comando Svr seemed resigned to a home loss. On the few occasions when Alianza produced a close shot on La U's goal, all one heard was a blast of "CONCHA SU MADRE!!" from the crowd -- a reflexive, primal scream decrying our bad luck.

In the 88th minute, however, completely against the run of play, an Alianza midfielder scored a fine goal from just outside the penalty box. The South section was awakened from its relative slumber and we all jumped up and down and cheered, somewhat amazed that we were able to claw our way back into the game.

But, as is so often the case with the shifting fortunes of sport, our hearts were broken not three minutes later, when La U produced a classic counter-attack and scored the winner in stoppage time. We were so taken aback (from the highest of highs to the lowest of lows) by the goal that we couldn't even muster a "concha su madre" in response. We were deflated; our fate was sealed.

After the match, Alonso and I made our way out of the stadium with the rest of the Alianza fans. We walked in a kind of daze, slightly depressed that our team had lost the derby in the second-to-last minute of play. Still, we appreciated the action -- two goals in five minutes! -- that we did see in the end, and I was glad to have experienced my first South American football match.

Later that evening, in Miraflores, a guy driving a Volkswagen passed by Alonso and me on the street. He must have seen my jersey, and so he shouted something to us, in Spanish, which I could neither hear well nor translate. He kept repeating his question, but I kept responding with a blank face. Alonso, too, couldn't tell what the driver was saying, perhaps because he was still distracted by Alianza's defeat. The Volkswagen guy drove away after a handful of these blank exchanges. Just a few seconds later Alonso said, "Oh, he was asking us, 'Who won the game?'"