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Monday, May 16, 2011

Soccer, my father and me

We are born fanatics.
This, I learned while accompanying my father on a three-hour ride every Sunday for a soccer match.
I was seven years old and after such a long trip, I was bored out of my mind, but the excitement to see him play and score a goal was incredible.
Going with my father to his soccer matches was an adventure, we had fun and we played hard.
However, not all is enjoyable for us girls regarding the all-loving sport of our fathers.
The establishments where soccer was played (a long time ago) were created for men; decent bathrooms were rare commodities and  ‘bushes’ or ‘holes’ were our best friends.
We squatted around and did our business: that was the way for my child-self.
My sisters and I ate hot dogs with candy until we were bursting full, and then, we seated around the field (while holding our tummies) to admire the beauty of a game that, for us, was dangerous and enticing at the same level.
Amateurs’ games sometimes ended with 31 total scored goals (an outstanding number that we thought was the way - even Professional soccer - was played), and while sometimes our father was not part of the winning team, the emotion that filled the space around them, with victory cheers, hugs and back slaps made us happy nevertheless.
The winning team would take home a big golden cup, proof that even without formal training, they could be – for just a little while – the champions of their world.

My father was our childhood hero.
He was born a fan and has tried to teach us to be fans: loving the game, the emotions, the excitement, the scores and the team.
He might not have succeeded to make me a fanatic of his soccer team, but I’m a soccer follower, and even at 5,000 miles away from my home, when Argentina plays,

I still feel that I’m rooting for my father, who sometimes won, but others just played hard but lost.

My father who was born a fan, and will die one.

Note: this is my first article published at Revista 10 www.facebook.com/revista10

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