El taller de crónica futbolera “Más allá del gol de Yepes” buscaba, además de desarrollar técnicas de escritura y herramientas para analizar un jugador o un partido, desacralizar el fútbol de entretenimiento y mostrar que, más allá del marcador final, resultan valiosos el disfrute del fútbol, los gestos ocultos de los jugadores, las celebraciones íntimas de los técnicos, la ceremonia de los camerinos, las actuaciones de los protagonistas y antagonistas y por supuesto, el abrazo despersonalizado de la hinchada. El taller reunió sin quererlo a un niño de 11 años, a tres adolescentes bogotanos y a uno neoyorkino, y a un administrador deportivo de Soacha. Un grupo diverso y heterogéneo unido por el amor por la pelota.
Por Ganesh Mejia-Ospina
Edad: 16 años
Manhattan, NY
Team: Barcelona FC
Favorite players: Ricard Puig and Frenkie De Jong
Obstrucción: Mi primera vez en el estadio
2010 came, and I was 7. I remember little of that time except my new and bright love for football. The summer of that same year the world cup had started in South Africa, and frankly, I could have cared less. I was happy playing the sport. Watching football was an abhorrent task that required my 7-year-old self’s patience, and as readers will most likely know, that is not a trait commonly found in children that age. Playing, on the other hand, was pure gold. My father, and at that time coach, would play with me 1v1, abusing his unruly long legs. And while I thought he was clearly a disgusting cheater, I still enjoyed playing. He tried to convince me to watch the games and I refused. Except on July 11, when not surprisingly, he abused his power again and dragged me to a friend’s house to watch Spain against the Netherlands.
I remember little of the setting. The room I was in was dark and small, and not big enough for the many spectators watching. The screen in which the games were being projected on was huge for my 7-year-old self and heightened the atmosphere of the oppressive dark room. Innocent and naive, I started to watch with arms crossed and mouth firmly closed. But as my father most likely knew, my emotions would change to reflect joy and wonder. The Spanish team was playing, as I later learned, a form of beautiful football. Some call it “tiki taka”, others “total football”. I firmly attached myself and fell dangerously in love. I can only describe it as a dance with high risk/ high demand. Spain would pass the ball using one to two touches, maneuvering quickly and provocatively around the Dutch team. Xavi to Iniesta, who touched it to Busquets, moving it to Puyol, who switched it to Pique. Each Spanish player perfectly positioned to receive the ball and move to another and even better position.
Naturally, the Dutch, in desperation and confusion, resorted to dirty and disgusting play. During the course of those 120 minutes, the Dutch became the greatest antagonists in my life. More than Darth Vader, Voldemort, Captain Hook, and the Monster that inhabited my closet. I hated Robben, Van Persie, De Jong, Blind, Sneijder etc.… This hate climaxed when Alonso was karate-kicked in the chest and De Jong received a mere yellow card. And while the Spanish dance was working, it wasn’t a walk in the park. Holland had chances and almost scored in the 60th minute, making Casillas pull off a spectacular save from Robben.
It was a fight to death, as any world cup final should be, and both sides labored on and on, fighting for that lucky strike that would win them the game. 90, 95, 100, 105, 110 minutes passes, and nothing, the tallie still scoreless. Until in the 116th minute, Fabregas found Iniesta, perfectly onside, one on one with Cillisen. The whole world seemed to inhale, desperately gasping for the ball to hit the back of the net. Iniesta impatiently forgot to wait for the world to exhale, and in flash the ball had found the back of the net, Iniesta screaming inaudibly amidst the screams of the crowd. I was, to say the least, star struck. So many indescribable emotions at the same time. Any football fanatic can relate to this roller coaster of emotions. The final breakthrough that defines a dramatic goal. And the first time I experienced it was that night, with Iniesta’s goal. Many times, I ask myself: Why does kicking a ball around a rectangular field of grass result in this roller coaster that so many want to experience and watch? I think back to that goal, to that single moment in time, and the answer is perfectly clear.
