It's In the Game!

June 3, 2025

One of my dreams for this world travel adventure—even before day one—was to play pickup soccer (or fútbol, as the rest of the world rightly calls it) in every country we visited. I imagined playing alongside my son Ryan, a talented midfielder whom I’d coached since he was a toddler. We even bought a soccer ball we planned to bring along, with the idea that after each game, players from that country would sign it. A traveling ball of memories. What better way to connect with strangers on their home turf—literally and figuratively?

But the dream was quickly dashed. Turns out Ryan is something of a closet introvert, and the idea of joining strangers in a game where he didn’t speak the language held zero appeal for him. With luggage space at a premium, the ball went adios before we hit our third country.

Still, I held onto the fantasy of joining games on my own. But each time I saw a group kicking a ball around and voiced my interest, my family rolled their eyes or audibly groaned. I was relegated to the sidelines—watching wistfully from afar.

It wasn’t until our final country, just weeks before returning to the States, that the opportunity I’d been waiting for fell right into my lap.

We were staying in a remote fishing village called Calovébora on Panama’s Caribbean coast. One afternoon, I left our rented casita for a run on the beach. The path passed by a dusty open field that served as the local sports ground. A spirited game of fútbol was underway—about 20 boys and young men, barefoot, playing on an uneven patch of grass and dirt, with coconuts marking the goalposts.

Just as I was passing by, a player kicked the ball out of bounds—right toward me. I juggled it a few times and volleyed it back. A few players raised their hands in thanks and kept playing. It seemed to be a rotating game of five-on-five-on-five, with the winning team staying on. I watched for a minute or two, then one of the boys from the bench came over and asked in Spanish if I wanted to play.

“¡Sí, por favor!” I replied, and jogged over to join the team.

After quick introductions—my teammates were Juan Carlos, Xelcio, Roberto, and a teen whose name sounded like “Adidas” but probably wasn’t—we took the field. The level of play was fast, technical, and surprisingly intense for such a sleepy little village. Most of the players were late teens or in their early twenties; the oldest I asked was 28. I, at 55, was easily twice the age of most of them—but I held my own and even earned a few nods of approval.  They seemed to like getting the ball to me, but I wasn't sure if that was because they thought I was good, or because of fascination with the lone gringo or because of respect for their elders. Likely the latter. In any case, we played for over two and a half hours in the humid heat until darkness finally brought the game to a close.

Afterward, I chatted with a few players using my best Duolingo Spanish. They said they played every night and invited me to come back the next day.

Despite feeling like I’d been run over by a truck the following morning—turns out middle-aged recovery time is not what it used to be—I showed up again, barefoot and ready. But that day, a softball game had taken over the field. I thought about asking to join, but the vibe wasn’t quite as welcoming, so I turned around and walked home.

The following afternoon, as I headed to the small village store, one of the boys from the soccer game ran up to me, speaking rapid Spanish and motioning excitedly toward the beach. A group of them was setting up for a game in the sand. He half-dragged me over, and my heart lifted when I saw many of the same smiling faces from the other day waving me in.

We played until the sun set, barefoot on the sand, chasing the ball through crashing waves and laughter. It was glorious.

Soccer—and sports more broadly—are a kind of universal language. They offer an instant connection, a shared rhythm, a way to communicate without words. No matter the country or culture, when you step onto a field and play, you’re no longer a stranger—you’re part of the team.

I wish Ryan had joined me on that beach—I did ask, but he politely declined—but even solo, this experience meant the world to me. It was a long-held dream realized, not in a stadium or under bright lights, but in a dusty field and on a quiet beach with strangers who became teammates.

In a world of borders and barriers, a ball at your feet is sometimes all you need to feel at home.