Peace Corps Guatemala: An American's First Footsteps

I’m looking down from the school’s balcony at the kids playing soccer. It’s Segundo versus Tercero Básico today (7th versus 8th grade), just like it is every day, and right now Mike has the ball. A lanky kid with an infectious smile who is the perfect amount of recalcitrant, his pent-up energy radiates off of him as he runs. He dodges Ramiro from Tercero, touches the ball with his right leg, then kicks it with his left. He passes it to Dylan, another kid from Segundo, who does the same sequences of complicated steps and kicks it back to Mike. He shoots, scores, and pumps his fist. That is the extent of the celebration: It is of the utmost importance that the game resumes immediately.

These kids sometimes take ten minutes to go to the bathroom during my class, but the ball was back in session 30 seconds after Mike’s goal. They don’t care that it’s snack time or that thunderous clouds have rolled in, they don’t even notice the girls who are watching. Every second on the soccer field is gold, and the kid retrieving the ball knows it’s his duty and moral responsibility to return it as quickly as he can. Few words are spoken throughout the game, yet the boys emote and relate to one another in ways they never can in the classroom. Javier is an impenetrable defenseman, which solidifies trust amongst his teammates. Jefferson doesn’t like to be in the middle of the action, so he thrives as goalie. Adial’s quick feet score goals, allowing him to shine when he spends so much time hiding. Even when someone plays atrociously, they keep going. Even if class is terrible, they keep going. They forgive their teammates and they forgive themselves, because nobody knows what will happen once that ball is back in play. I leave, wondering what my soccer field is. They don’t notice.