Soccer and Tea

Amman, Jordan.

I have never been very good at soccer. For about twenty years, I had convinced myself that it was because I was American, and the sport simply wasn't very common in my country. Indeed-- I persuaded myself further--it was perfectly understandable why I wouldn't have even basic skills. Yet as I stumbled on a deflated soccer ball--only to lose it to a 12-year-old opponent--I realized that nationality probably had nothing to do with it. I was just bad.

"Andrew!" called another young boy on my team, "get it back!" Unfortunately the ball was long-gone. My more athletic opponent was dribbling the ball toward his goal, and after he shoved aside an ailing member of my team, his shot was open. From my angle, his attempt was a miss--too far to the left. Yet to everyone else it was close enough. The goal had been somewhat variable the whole night it seemed, but never to my advantage.

"Mabruk!" called boys of his team and mine, "Well done!" Someone threw the ball back onto the street and we were at it again. Surely the ball had been white once, but the sun had set long ago, and a few months of dirt on the ball disguised it further. And in this neighborhood--among the poorest in Amman--there were no streetlights. The boys, however, saw no reason to stop playing.

After a few awkward minutes of chasing after an invisible ball (apologizing frequently for stepping on my young team-members), Ahmad--someone's older brother--appeared in the street and declared the game over. He asked everyone to thank their American guests (my friend Wes and I) for their contribution to the game, and to run home before their mothers worried too much. I was quickly smothered by the thanks of twelve-year-olds. "Thanks, Andrew," said one boy sincerely. "You were great," said another, who gave me a high-five as he walked down the street. There wasn't a hint of sarcasm in the boy's voice, and I assumed that in the dark the boy had confused me with my more atheltic friend Wes.

Ahmad watched the boys disperse and called us in for tea. Although I understood tea-invitations were central to Arab culture, I partially wondered if he wasn't trying to help my ego by offering an activity that required no athleticism. Surely anyone could drink tea. Wes and I assented, and followed him though the gate and into the backyard of his home. It was still winter then, and the cool night breeze made us remember it. Thankfully, Ahmad's family had prepared a fire next to a small shed. Only fire and company, it seemed, could survive the cold nights.

We spoke few words that night, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Ahmad and his family were happy to learn where we were from and to enjoy silence with us. Once they asked if we liked Jordan. We sincerely replied that we did. We knew they were our friends and we were theirs, and with this in our hearts we were content to let the cool wind blow and seek fire from the same hearth.