crab sandwich

For a soccer player, toenails are fleeting.

A blue-black toenail lets you know you’re doing something right. The dull ache tells you that you’ve been cramming your feet into boots a size and half too small. The tenderness just outside the big toe knuckle says, “Keep playing. It’ll get better.”  Sometimes the color gets progressively darker and the toenail falls off with a squish and a thwip. Other times the hue fades and the nail just sort of hangs on, waiting for new growth to push it out.

A little over a month ago, I was on a sunset jog through the dusty streets of Cabinda.¹ On my way back to the Staff House, I deviated slightly and saw floodlights a half block ahead. I heard the familiar thuds and yelps and hollers of a soccer game going on.

As I trotted to the court, I hooked my fingers through the chain link fence and looked on with with a knowing smirk, hoping to catch someone’s eye.

The (concrete) pitch

“Do you play? Do you want to play?” Is what I understood.

“Yeah,” I answered in broken Portuguese. “I play a little, but I can’t go tonight. When do you play?”

“Every day.”

“OK. I’ll come tomorrow.”

I showed up the next night … and the night after that. Monday through Thursday nights they get together under the lights around 7pm, breaking out the futsal and playing until their legs run out. Through that game I was told of others.

On Saturdays there is a game on a rock-strewn dusty patch with tiny goals and trash littering the pitch that gives Kelli tetanus nightmares.

The dirt pitch

Sunday’s game: super fun five-on-five on a large, smooth, fast court that’s under a roof.

It’s amazing how cool and refreshing the breeze can feel when you’re sheltered from the blazing equatorial sun.

Lots of space to work with

Roughly four teams rotate every 10 minutes

We play with a futsal

Locals watching the 11-a-side game on the other side

Surprisingly well organized and civil (most of the time)

I even managed to get in on a game that’s on a mythical grass field. Just last night, my friend Cabeche (who’s been my main soccer game source) and his buddy picked me up in a beat up truck and we drove 30 minutes to a neighboring municipality. Just past a police checkpoint, we came across the field: a narrow but long stretch of bright green grass with 3/4-sized goals and nets.

After a promising start, we got rocked: 20-11 or something like that. The early twenty-something team we were playing against ran us into the ground.

Grass: under the lights.

It’s good to be playing again. It keeps me sane. Now if only my knees and ankles and back and wrists² would hold up.

No matter where I’ve lived, no matter how shitty my language skills, soccer has always been a way for me to connect, communicate and understand.

I’m glad I brought my boots.