In a father’s absence, family plays soccer in his native Colombia and Pennsylvania By Rebecca Thatcher Murcia
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t was one of the many gut-wrenching moments that happened during the year in which my husband, Saúl Murcia, died of cancer after a long stretch of surgeries, medications and unrelenting pain. My sons, Mario, 7, and Gabo, 9, and I were at a small reception after we buried Saúl on June 10, 2005. The pastor of our church asked Gabo what he wanted to see at his father’s funeral. I felt terrible for my nine-year-old. A small child should never have to plan a parent’s funeral, I thought. Gabo looked serious for a moment and then smiled. “Let’s have a soccer game.” It seemed incredibly incongruous to play amidst the tragedy of the death of my husband, their father, who had grown up enjoying constant soccer games in Colombia and had remained a devoted fan during a long career as a waiter, chef and international aid agency administrator. But our pastor, Barry Krieder, smiled at the suggestion and agreed with Gabo. Two days later, after a long memorial service filled with prayer, stories and music in Saúl’s memory, dozens of people went to a nearby park and played soccer in his honor. During the five years since Saúl died, soccer has not only been a comfort and a way to forget our troubles, it has also helped us
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make lasting connections in Colombia, his native land, and provided a way for our family to come together in good times and bad. Two years after Saúl died, we went to live in my sister-in-law’s neighborhood in La Mesa, Colombia, the small city near Saúl’s parents’ farm. I wanted my sons to improve their Spanish, learn more about their father by being around his family, and get to know their father’s native land better. As we were unpacking our suitcases, we heard a knock on the door of our new rental house, which sat directly in front of the neighborhood soccer-basketball-volleyball court. “You want play soccer?” our new neighbor, Carlos, asked in his best school-boy English. Gabo and Mario nodded wordlessly and walked out the front door with Carlos. They played the first of what would be hundreds of soccer games with the neighborhood boys. But they didn’t just play soccer during that year, they also played baseball, football and basketball. After dark, long games of tag, hide-and-seek, and kick the can would go on until parents insisted the children come inside. Sometimes I felt as though I had landed in the middle of an endless summer camp retreat. Later, Gabo and Mario signed up for the town soccer team and played and practiced under the tutelage of the resident soccer expert. On the field, the children seemed remarkably similar to American soccer players. Off the field, there were surprising
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similarities, but much was strange. When the town soccer coach backed the losing candidate for mayor, the school closed for a few months while he negotiated his way back into the job. But Saúl didn’t just love playing the game, he was also a huge fan of his beloved national team. Just a few days before he died he spent a few treasured hours chatting with the Colombian national team players during their visit to New Jersey for a friendly with England. So we were delighted to go to see the Colombian national team during the best part of what ended up being an unsuccessful World Cup qualifying campaign. Playing at home, almost two miles above sea level at the Bogotá stadium, the Colombian national team defeated Argentina and tied Brazil. Both times we were thrilled, although Gabo commented that the song: “Argentineans are sons-of-b****” was stuck in his head for hours after the second game. When we came back to Pennsylvania a year later, the boys were fluent Spanish speakers and had learned a lot about their father and his country. Plus they had sharpened their soccer skills. Both boys were soon doing well in school soccer and having a fantastic time playing with their clubs in Pennsylvania. They played for Ephrata school teams and the Ephrata Youth Soccer Club. Mario’s U12 team won the Lanco league championship soon after he returned. And Gabo was the leading scorer on his middle school team. When we went back to Colombia two years later, the soccer
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connection seemed to have become even more important. We arrived a week before the town’s big annual tournament, which attracts teams from throughout the country, and the coach and the local boys were delighted. Mario played centerback for the U13 team, despite having minimal experience in that position. And Gabo played midfield and forward for both the U15 and U17 team throughout the four-day tournament. I was amazed at how graceful and accepting all the players were, despite Gabo and Mario sometimes starting even though they were such recent arrivals. Suddenly five years have passed since that sunny day in June when we played soccer at Saúl’s funeral. Mario and Gabo are teenagers on the cusp of manhood. It has not been easy but soccer has been a bright spot, something that brings our family together, both in memory of Saúl’s past and in anticipation of our own future. [Rebecca Thatcher Murcia (www.thatchermurcia.com) plays for the over-30 Blue Thunder team in Lancaster County, coaches for the Ephrata Youth Soccer Club and writes articles and nonfiction books on soccer, history and other topics. She is working on a memoir on the family’s year in Colombia. Gabo and Mario both played for the Ephrata High School soccer team this fall.]
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