Youth Soccer the South American Way - Episode Two

by Rebecca Thatcher Murcia 10/23/2007

Editor's Note: Top Drawer Soccer contributor Rebecca Thatcher Murcia is the author of 13 books for children and young adults, including the recently-published "Ronaldinho." She recently moved with her two sons from Pennsylvania to Colombia to be near her late husband's family. This is her second article on youth soccer in that country.
She is also working on a memoir on her trip for future publication as a book.



I was standing on the sidewalk just below the colonial-era Catholic church that dominates the small central park in La Mesa, Colombia, with about fifty other soccer families, waiting for the five buses that would take us to a tournament about an hour away. We had all been told to be at the park by 6:30 a.m. It was already 7 a.m. on that rainy, cloudy morning, and there was only one bus.

"I hope the buses aren't too late," one older sister said to me. "Once we were so late for a tournament we missed two games." Her words made my heart jump for a moment. But I told myself to remain calm. This is not U.S. youth soccer, and you left your minivan with all your tournament accoutrements in Pennsylvania, so you need to just relax and see what happens.

I brought my children, Mario, 10, and Gabriel, 12, to this small town near my in-laws' farm in August, two years after my soccer-loving Colombian husband, Saúl Murcia, died of cancer at our home in Pennsylvania. I wanted my children to spend time with their relatives, improve their Spanish, and enjoy the adventure of living in another culture. They had been playing tons of street soccer in the cement-surfaced microfutbol court in front of our house, so I did not see the need to sign up for youth soccer. Both boys played for club teams in the Lancaster County area and for the Harrisburg City Islanders youth academy teams, which sent them to three higher-level tournaments over the summer.

But Gabriel's friends at school kept insisting he join the local soccer club, known as the La Mesa Viva Soccer School, so one day Gabriel and Mario and I went to a practice. "I don't want to go to a soccer school here," Mario said in the bus on the way to the stadium. The adjustment has been harder on Mario, whose blond hair, light skin, and weak Spanish skills made things a little more difficult for him at first.

We met Hernan, who coaches Gabriel's age group and he explained to us that Gabriel, despite a U13 in the United States, is a U11 in Colombia.

"Is this just a school, or do you actually play games?" I asked.

"We play games on Saturdays and sometimes we go to tournaments," Hernan answered.

We sent Gabriel off with Hernan to the U11 practice. I sat down on the bleachers with Mario, unaware that Hernan's words had changed his mind.

"Can you ask about me, too, Mom?" Mario said. "I want to play."

We found the group that looked like Mario's age and went up to the coach, Raul. "Can Mario practice with you today? He's thinking about signing up," I told Raul.

"Of course," he told me, and then turned to Mario. "Go over there and work on chest traps with hat boy," he said, pointing toward the end of the line of kids tossing balls back and forth. I sat down on the big, permanent cement bleachers to watch. I noticed a group of kids who appeared U6s scrimmaging unsupervised on one half of the little field behind the stadium's main goal. Another group that looked as though they were U8s was scrimmaging on their own while Raul worked with Mario's age group.

I was surprised to see so many young children playing without a coach present. I even thought that the coach had probably had an emergency and failed to show up at the last minute. It's amazing how you can be in another country and still assume that things cannot be that different.

But over the next few weeks I came to appreciate Raul's system, even though it still does not appear ideal. He coaches all three age groups on his own almost every practice. He gives each group something to do and then rotates from group to group. At the start of the practice, he will often send Mario's group off for a 20-minute run. I was impressed with how many of the kids can run at a good 10-minute mile pace for 20-minutes easily, though there are always stragglers who don't like to run.

After we had been to about four practices, and I had paid the monthly fee of 10,000 pesos (about $5) for each child, Raul handed out a letter informing the parents about the upcoming tournament. In a style I plan to copy when I return to my coaching job at the Ephrata Youth Soccer Club in Pennsylvania, the letter stated, "Respected Sirs, In the most attentive manner I direct myself to you to solicit permission for your child to attend the Sporting Exchange." The letter went on to state that the cost for each person going on the one-day trip would be 18,000 pesos, or about $9. The price included lunch.

As I stood there in the rain waiting for the buses, I thought, I can handle this as long as my kids are within my sight. Gabriel then ran off to be with his team, which would apparently have one small bus to itself. I chased him down and gave him a 20,000-peso bill to pay the driver. (It's still hard to get used to handling these big bills) Then I went back to my place with the other parents. The club officials were loading most of Mario's team onto a white bus. But Mario was at the back of the line and he did not get on. Raul said, " Senora Rebecca, you can sit in the front of this bus. "Gracias," I said, and climbed into the front of the white bus as Mario was led away to the red bus.

The bus sped through the switchback turns to get from La Mesa, which is at about 1,200 meters above sea level and has an average temperature of about 73 degrees up to Sibaté, which is near Bogotá at 2,600 meters above sea level and has an average temperature of 57 degrees. First we passed farms with flourishing plantings of tangerines, coffee and bananas. Then we climbed up through some mountains to the high plane surrounding Bogotá. The scenery changed to cattle ranches with lush grass and tall trees. After about an hour, the bus pulled into the small parking area of the Weeping Willow Recreation Area.

As soon as the bus stopped, the loudspeaker blared: "La Mesa is here, so the tournament can begin."

I was surprised, but then somebody said the announcer was joking. The games had already started.

The field markings were very informal, just dirt ruts that appeared to have been dug in lieu of using white paint. Gabriel's U11 age group played 11 v 11 on half of a full-sized field. Mario's U9 age group played 9 v 9 on a field that was about one quarter the size of a full-sized field. Since the two adjacent fields that had been formed out of the one big field shared the same dirt touch line, the parents had to sit along the end lines. The referees were young, wearing regular street clothes, and only occasionally decided that fouls merited free kicks.

Mario's team started out playing Juventus, a strong, physical team with two highly-skilled twin brothers who looked like they were about 12 and played like they were about 16. La Mesa lost 3 to 7, though Mario scored the second goal when he headed in a service from the right corner and the third goal, which as they say in Colombia, was "served to him on a tray" when the right forward beat the keeper and passed the ball to Mario's feet.

Next I watched Gabo's team, which had tied its first game, play the older Juventus team much more evenly. At one point Gabo's team was dominating so completely that a family of about six people stood obliviously on the field about six feet from the La Mesa goal. But nevertheless, they lost 3 to 4.

I hate to generalize about the soccer, but I will say that I saw some individual skills, like a lightning-speed back heel pass, that took my breath away. But there did not seem to be a lot of tactical organization on defense or offense. My impression was confirmed by my husband's cousin Miguel, who played hundreds of soccer games with Saúl when they were both in high school.

"Gabriel is used to playing as part of a system, which is not how we Colombians play," said Miguel, who drove out from Bogotá to see his favorite nephews play.

At 1 p.m. all the games stopped. The coach handed out the lunch tickets and everybody who had not packed a lunch formed a long line outside the cafeteria. You handed in your ticket and you got a paper plate of rice, a boiled potato, a delicious, salty fried slice of plantain and a chicken leg. I think it was my first hot lunch at a soccer field.

Mario's team got hammered 1 to 8 in its second game, so they had no more games. Gabriel's team played a third game against a young but highly-skilled yellow team. The yellow team scored two goals as Gabriel's team was getting organized. Then Gabriel won a ball on a breakaway and shot the ball low at the right corner of the net as the goalkeeper came rushing out. Nevertheless, they lost 1 to 3.

At that point I was looking around and thinking I had noted all the differences between my first Colombian youth soccer tournament and a typical U.S. youth soccer tournament. Gabriel came up to me and said, "Mom, did you notice what all the adults are drinking?" I looked around and noticed that sure enough, just about every adult around was holding the dark-colored bottle of Aquila beer, the official sponsor of the tournament. I thought of all my friends in the U.S. who would appreciate the Colombian way of winding down a youth soccer tournament.

And I didn't even have to drive home.