This Is American Soccer, US Soccer, MNT, WNT, and MLS - Tackling the subject of Soccer in the US, and worldwide.

Most of the e-mails I receive from people offer up their stories in hopes that I will write about them. I welcome this mail. As a writer, I am always searching for great stories, be it soccer or otherwise. And although I do receive a good amount of e-mails regarding the blog, it still amazes me that people are interested enough, if that is the right word, to take time to write just to say ‘thank you’ or ‘good work’ or ‘hello.’ A few weeks ago, a young man named Andrea Cantatore (or Dre) wrote me. His message was short and to the point. “I play soccer when I get a chance,” he wrote. “But it isn’t very often. I wanted to thank you for writing some good articles.” This in itself is not the reason I thought people might be interested in him. It was the only other sentence in his e-mail–the one I can not quote or paraphrase because of security risks–that engaged me to what might lie beyond his simple words.

Dre’s situation is not necessarily unique, but it is special. In many ways, his story is similar to millions of people out there. He works long hours, and when he can, he plays some soccer. All of us have obstacles and responsibilities between us and playing the game we love, but few of us have the delicate responsibilities and abject obstacles that Dre deals with on a daily basis. This is his story in his words, albeit with a little help from me.

a far off land

0400. Time to wake up. If the Air Force has taught me one thing, it’s to love the early morning. When I enlisted, I knew I would learn countless things, but this was not one of them. I wanted a change of pace in my life and to be part of something bigger and better. That something was serving my country and defending day-to-day life for my family and friends. I love it. But too, I found that I love the predawn serenity of the desert.

I have been stationed in the Persian Gulf (sorry, but due to security concerns, this is as specific as I am allowed to get) for about a month and a half. Previously, I have been stationed in Alaska, Mississippi and Texas. This is my first time stationed abroad, my first time living so close to conflict.

I grab my mesh backpack, packed the night before with my indoor boots and shin guards, and walk or jog over to the gym. I absorb the serenity of the darkness as I cross our completely empty compound, which soon enough will be bustling with hundreds of people. The ground is covered with bright, white rocks everywhere you look. They reflect the little light available at this hour, making them appear to glow. The rocks are on top of a light layer of sand which comes up like the devil when it is windy, which is almost all the time. The compound is clean, almost spotless. All of this adds to the surreal pre-dawn environment. This is not like anything I have ever seen before. I now live in a different world than the one in which I grew up in. Before I got here, the desert was only a dream, something I saw on television, but now, it is New Jersey that is a dream.

My days are long. Like a counselor at an overnight camp, I’m never really off duty. When those rare moments of reprieve come, and they usually come before dawn, I make the most of them. I play soccer. It means the world to me. All of my free time goes to playing or getting more opportunities to play.

Entering the gym, which is not unlike a high school gymnasium in the States, and which we only use for sports and recreation, my eyes search for the goals that lay folded against each wall. Basketballs and volleyballs sit in baskets on each end of the tin bleachers. There is only one soccer ball and it is falling apart. In one corner there is a volleyball net wrapped up; in the adjacent corner sits a refrigerator filled with cold water. I pull the backboards up to the ceiling and set up the goals.

I’m always first in the gym. I lace up my boots and just take in the quiet for a minute. I warm-up alone before the rest of the guys show up. As a group, we go through conditioning, ball drills, and set pieces. Then, we play within some game scenarios. After we finish playing, we talk about how practice went and discuss current events.

The guys out here are great; we all support each other on and off the field; I am lucky to have them as teammates. Being away from our families is hard. This only puts more priority on having a good team that you can count on to help in those times of longing that will inevitably come. Once a week we play pick-up games at night, trying out new moves to see who can back up all the talk that fills the down time off the field. You pass a guy on the compound and a few words, all meant in fun, are spoken. Egos smile with the ability to stretch in a playful manner. The word playful is not the most common adjective in this world.

The competition is harder some days than others, but as long as I get to play as much as possible, I am content. There are a few of us that take the pick-up games very seriously. Competition is no small word in the military. Many of us live for competition. You run up and down the court covering someone, and they want the ball just as bad as you do. That is when you step up your game and ascend to the next level, forgetting the reality of where you are, playing to your maximum potential and proving to yourself that this is your game. It is
in these moments when I feel closest to home, closest to that dream….

We would chase my father for what seemed like forever. I was 3 or 4-years-old, and my father used to play keep away with me and my brother, a soccer ball the only thing coming between us. In a small town in northern New Jersey, he taught us the fundamentals like passing and defense, and always emphasized the value of working hard to achieve our goals. Some things stay with you forever.

I have strong memories of Sunday mornings in the fall with my family. We weren’t in church. We belonged to another community. We did something else that was just as spiritual to me. Sunday mornings meant soccer. We would wake up early for breakfast and then be off to go play. I didn’t know it, but maybe that was the first time waking up early was enjoyable. My younger brother and I played; my father coached. I recall watching my brother’s games and warming up on the sidelines. The kids and parents of the other players would talk and cheer while we stretched in preparation for my match. This was my church. Love was all around. We were too young for winning and losing to matter too terribly much. When my teammates arrived we would kick the ball around. As game time approached we would go through a series of drills to get ready for kick-off. It’s funny, no matter how old you are, no matter how much you change, the game remains the same. Jersey or the Persian Gulf, hemispheres apart, soccer is soccer, forever young. You have no idea what that means to me.

My brother’s game would end; I’d talk to him about it and then step out on the field for a few last-minute drills. The referee would blow the whistle; my father would call us in to a huddle, tell us our positions, give us all pep talk, and then we would get to our spots. I loved the nervous excitement right before kick-off. I still get that way today and it makes me remember how much I love to play.

Although some things have changed, so much really has stayed the same. Rehashing these childhood memories makes me think of high school. Soccer is the chain linking my life together. My teen years are still fresh, only a link or two behind me. We had these rules that stated the coaches were not allowed to be with their teams until two weeks prior to the start of the season. So we just held practices without the coaches, just like we do here on the base. We would get teams of five or six guys together and then play for three or four hours, two or three days a week. It was a great experience because you could meet all the players in the program and get your timing down. I built friendships that will last forever. I have friends from high school soccer that I will never forget and five years later still keep in touch with. I know the same will be true when the Persian Gulf is just a memory. I loved playing every practice we had. No matter how tired we got, we just never wanted to stop playing. And that too is the same today. I look back and can remember the sun setting. There were a bunch of us that just didn’t want to leave because that was our passion and we could never get enough.

Now, the sun might be rising instead of setting, the field is now a gym, and I’m 23 not 17, but I still don’t want to leave the game or my friends. I play on the base with other military personnel and people that are based here from different countries. It is American soccer at its finest. It’s that melting pot of all the talent and skills from around the world. All the military people here are from different places in the States and they all play a uniquely different game of soccer. It comes from growing up in areas with different cultures and paying attention to the details of the people that taught them the game. Those teachers and their game are emulated as we mature. It is all too obvious here.

In that same way, I love watching people or hearing about people back in the States excelling at soccer and conquering different plateaus in the soccer community. I want America to be the most diverse and successful nation in the world. The strides that our game has made in the last decade have us pointing in a positive direction. One day people from outside the US will want to play on our fields and soil and that is what all of our soccer nation should be striving for.

More than anything else (and if I have one thing to share), all of this tells me that people need to appreciate the opportunities that they have and make the most of their time when they are practicing or playing. Playing the game you love is a gift and we should all respect that. Stationed here, being in the military, didn’t teach me that, but it reinforces it every second of every day.

If you would like to write Andrea or simply send him your support, all e-mail can be directed to mangost@hotmail.com.