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Making History in Havana: El Final
By Dr. David Kilpatrick (@DrDKilpatrick)
“What I know in my heart is that soccer was good to me, and great to the world. Soccer took a poor kid, gave him a purpose and showed him marvels around the world. It led to lifelong friendships, and it created great memories with my family. During my lifetime, I saw how soccer brought people together into communities, and made them more sensitive to the world around them. I saw, time and again, how the sport improved countless millions of lives, both on and off the field. For me, at least, that’s why soccer matters.” – Pelé, Why Soccer Matters, p. 292
We had traveled all this way, first and foremost, for a soccer match. Cuba vs. Cosmos may be a friendly, but the occasion had me enduring the anxious anticipation of a cup final. If ever there was a time you don’t want to miss the bus, this was it. So Bryan Alcantara and I were sure to be back at Hotel Meliá Cohiba with hours to spare. Even if we were too anxious for an appetite, lunchtime meant a bite at the lobby bar was a sensible choice.
Cosmos Director of Operations, Sofia Sanchez Parkes was with her cousin, Greg Blanco, finishing up what looked like divinely delicious local sandwiches. Engaged in conversation as they were, they invited us to join them, and we were grateful they did so, as Greg was describing visiting his father’s home. Greg grew up in Garden City, N.Y., the son of an exile who had never returned to Havana. All these years later, a childhood address passed on from father to son, meant this trip gave Greg the chance to see where his father grew up.
While Greg was connecting with his Cuban roots, he was also, like so many of us, feeling disconnected from family back home. No matter how many times you’ve had your passport stamped, travel nowadays so often means you’re only as far away as a wifi connection or Internet café. While I was worrying over my son’s geometry exam, my daughter’s social studies quiz rescheduling crisis, and my wife having to take on the role of a working single mom, Greg had a most pressing concern back home on his mind, even if we couldn’t tell. His daughter, born with a tiny hole in her heart, was scheduled for a cardiology exam that morning. Finding out just Friday afternoon that our visas had been approved, his wife opted against rescheduling the exam, and had to take their daughter to the exam without him. Spotty wifi had allowed Greg the chance to connect briefly to receive miraculous news. The hole in her heart had closed. We wept with joy over the news. Every traveler knows the heart strain of being away from those you love. To hear of a heart healed brought pure joy and a powerful reminder of what matters most.
We were all advised to wear Cosmos green for the game, so I went up to my room and changed into my lucky jersey, the same shirt I wore for Soccer Bowl 2013 in Atlanta. Riding up with one of my favorites on the current squad, Hagop Chirishian, everyday chat about the weather quickly led to the condition of the pitch.
I asked Cosmos head coach Gio Savarese at a press conference, “What was it like when you trained on it?”
Savarese said the hosts had agreed to cut the field lower to a level we’re most accustomed to, but he respectfully dismissed any concern or advance excuse over field quality.
A somewhat successful wifi login effort for a quick text home, a needless reminder to watch the match on live TV, and a text popped up from a friend with a URL link that wouldn’t work with the weak connection, but the text in the URL told a tale: “blatter-resigns-as-fifa-president.” Unable to access the article, I went downstairs to the lobby, wall-to-wall with all similarly green-clad, and the FIFA rumors were flying. The day after the FBI’s FIFA investigation was revealed, I was asked by HeadLines Today India if Blatter’s resignation or dismissal was imminent. Perhaps my argument that abdication exposes and renders one vulnerable, so Blatter’s resignation was improbable, might be quickly proven wrong.
“Did you hear the news?” I asked the first person I bumped into.
“About what?”
“Apparently, Sepp Blatter just resigned.”
“So what?” was his deadpan response. “It’s an international organization.”
Reactions ranged from relief and delight to despair and indifference. Maybe this means positive change is on the way. Or maybe we’ll all just get fooled again. What does an individual matter to an international business, anyway? Some were angered by the corruption while some were angered by the timing. We’re about to experience something momentous and this FIFA nonsense might pose a distraction. Some were all the more resolved to show the other side of soccer, to transcend the ugliness of corruption, the disgust and disappointment with the flawed custodians of the game, and show the world all the beauty inherent in the Beautiful Game. To show, as Pelé does everywhere he goes, why soccer matters.
And then, descending the escalator, arrived our heroes, clad in white guayaberas with a Cosmos patch over their hearts. Ah, this must be the patch Cosmos Director of Marketing Rafael Morffi mentioned the night before at dinner. By word-of-mouth, he found a tailor, some old man in a derelict neighborhood willing to sew them on these shirts, on the third floor of one of countless homes without a front door or windows, chatting away, the son of Cubans on his first visit to his ancestral homeland making friends with the locals to prepare for this moment, the local handcraft worn by the players as they prepared to board their bus to the stadium. Raúl led the squad down the escalator while the lobby applauded the squad in local costume. The team posed for a group photo then we all loaded the buses for the drive to the stadium.
Cosmos midfielder Sebastían Guenzatti enters Estadio Pedro Marrero
Estadio Pedro Marrero, the Cuban national soccer stadium as well as home to CF Ciudad de La Habana (the local side in Campeonato Nacional de Fútbol de Cuba, the national league), is situated along the west bank of Rio Almendares, the river that flows northwest into the Florida Straits. Our convoy of buses took a circuitous route through Havana to cross the river from the Miramar district over to the Vedado district. As we approached the stadium along Avenida 41, locals waved to us, defying the rain, as if we were in a parade.
Once we had arrived, our buses stopped at the main entrance to the stadium, our driver unsure if we should proceed further into the stadium complex or not. With some persuading from our tour guide, Rigoberto, the driver let me out to document the scene.
A blue façade entrance bearing the stadium name, framed by palm trees, served as shelter for those sans umbrellas. A bust of Pedro Marrero at the center of the relatively small façade preserves the memory of a martyr from the Moncada Barracks attack, one of five young men who died in the battle that began the Cuban Revolution on July 26, 1959.
From the entrance, there’s no sense of a stadium there, just jungle. Returning to the bus, we waited and then we were all told to disembark and enter the stadium. Hunter Gorskie’s mother had smartly brought along an “I LOVE NY” umbrella, but most of us just got soaked as soon as we left the bus. There weren’t turnstiles or the kind of secured stadium entrance we’ve grown accustomed to in North American and European stadia post-9/11. We just walked in.
Acclimating to the rain, we gathered on the other side of the entrance, an awning or overhang facing jungle. Where were we supposed to go? We could hear the murmur of a large crowd through the rain, and there was a hint of a tin roof with people beneath behind trees. Margaret Barreto, Cosmos Office Manager, seemed to know and pointed us downward and we descended, the murmur becoming a roar as the pitch became visible.
Across from the field of play was a vacant uncovered stand but to our right as we descended a packed crowd, tense with anticipation, greeted us. The shell of a factory or abandoned warehouse was to the left of the empty and exposed stand. Behind the stand was a tower or exhaust stack. The team bus somehow made its way down to the right of that stand, parked behind the corner flag beside tin-roofed sheds that seemed rusted and mildewed, everything around us in the process of being overtaken by the jungle.
At first they just stared at us. I don’t know if they knew what to expect. We certainly didn’t. Would we be welcomed as we had everywhere we went since arriving or, given the competitive nature of sport, be threatened like an invading enemy? Salsa music blasting, we waved hello, trying to break the ice. Gameday operations staffer Tom Fraehmke pulled out a Cuba scarf (he had ordered online – there were certainly no souvenirs at the stadium and besides, you definitely don’t need a scarf in the island heat) and held it aloft his nearly 7-foot frame. A perfect prop. Stares turned to smiles and the tension immediately melted into yet another warm Cuban welcome.
Signs, banners and flags sent the message that this sporting event was a friendly in the purest sense. Cuban flags were displayed but so were US flags. Hand-painted signs predicted a close but favorable outcome for the home team. Fans wore club and country jerseys, with Real Madrid shirts and banners especially prevalent.
One banner simply proclaimed “RAÚL = LEYENDA.”
A fan waves a double-sided American-Cuban flag inside the stadium
One guy, who must have been given one of the green hats we were given at JFK, urgently displayed a message for President Obama, asking for doors to be open so he could watch the NBA Finals. Later we were told that’s this guy’s thing: he’s known for being a U.S. sports nut and his protests for this particular cause are part of the local sporting scenery. Pockets of fans throughout the increasingly welcoming crowd came toward us in waves as we moved our way at the front, ducking torrential rain, towards the center of the stands.
Chairs were set up for us at the front of the concrete terrace. The hordes of home fans were separated from us by a single rusty bar. The enthusiasm of this cross-cultural encounter had a curious energy. Things could go horribly wrong with this setup. We took photos of them as they took photos of us.
Her umbrella already a wonderfully theatrical accessory, Gorskie’s mother started handing out “I LOVE NY” keychains and other trinkets to kids in the crowd. Two dedicated philanthropists gave away items promoting their favorite charities: Adrian Bordoni gave away Woodside on the Move hats and scarves and Tom Fraehmke gave away a wide variety of Kick ALS items. Many who wore their Cosmos in Cuba caps from JFK gave them away. The crowd asking for something, anything as a memento. Cosmos badge stickers were handed out and kids instantly used them to turn their t-shirts into Cosmos jerseys, smiling like they’d been given so much more than just a sticker. I felt awful not to have brought anything to give but a smile, handshake or a hug.
Some kids took photos of us with their cell phones, even tablets – the presence of such devices seemed incongruous. The taking and posing for photos took a silly turn as Brian Walsh’s wife, Trishna, quickly became the most popular person to pose with locals, who either thought she was a celebrity or had just made her one. In the crucible of context, our touring collective had forged a familiar sensibility. This expanded in minutes to include the Cuban fans. This was a uniquely sporting environment with profound intensity. But it wasn’t like the Old Firm or the North London derbies I’ve witnessed. Hate fuels those revels. This was no less intense but filled instead with joy and respect for the other, somehow this time not really an enemy. Leaving rivalry to political postures, recently warmed to handshakes, through the power of sport we symbolically stomped on any weapons we ever aimed at each other while we embraced.
There was some security. But they were benign and uninvolved, looking on with detached amusement. There were no authorities to interfere with this spirit of sporting solidarity.
As we took our designated space in the front rows, just barely covered from the rain, we tried to soak up each and every detail, each of us who had traveled from New York acutely aware – pointing out and commenting on this wild blend of jungle scenery and the pure sporting diplomacy of people from two estranged countries suddenly allowed to meet and cheer together for the first time in our lifetimes.
The field was framed by familiar billboards. Asociación de Fútbol de Cuba’s crest and their uniform supplier, Joma and our hotel, Meliá Cohiba had signage, but “ESPNFC,” “NASL.com,” “Fly Emirates,” and “The Russian Tea Room” along with “NYCOSMOS” framed the playing space with more familiar wordmarks - we had brought them with us, so it seemed, or had them having them shipped over or specially constructed for the occasion (another aspect of the spectacle staged by Rafael, I was told). You don’t see advertisements in Cuba. Just propaganda. There wasn’t any propaganda at the stadium. Not seeing ads since we arrived as well as the stadium’s state of disrepair made them stand out all the more.
The signs were a sign.
Of accommodation, of course, but also the prospect of commercial investment along with an awareness of another audience beyond those of us in stands. But the state of the stadium was also a sign or a signal, its disrepair a microcosm of the infrastructure we’d observed.
The archaic scoreboard was especially fascinating. “CNY” designated the visitors score for a while, only to be changed manually to “NYC.” Watching the numbers change will be a treat, we laughed, nervously hoping it would be done in our favor and not to our shame.
Most of all, with this unique sporting scenario, we hoped for a good show. People would surely be watching back in the States. Maybe, we thought, instead of a distraction, any FIFA corruption or Blatter resignation coverage might even draw more attention to this experience.
So profound it seemed, surely the world would take notice. But a loss here would embarrass, to be sure. The stormy conditions, especially the condition of the pitch, surely wouldn’t help, we worried. While it seemed like we were at some limit of world in this dilapidated stadium being overtaken by the jungle, we felt all the same this momentous occasion must catch the world’s attention. So all the more, we hoped the story to be told of this adventure would be memorable for the right reasons. And if here and now we somehow represent both club and country, we hope to do so in the very best way.
As the teams emerged for their warmups, another greeting for a legend with a chorus chant from the crowd gone wild called out, “Raúl! Raúl! Raúl!” Do they cheer this way for their political heroes? Or is such joy reserved for those who play? Each touch by the Spanish master provokes a rush of appreciation, this chance to witness and praise genius. You could see in his eyes he embraced this role, understood the meaning of this adoration, giving the moment his absolute attention, commitment and care – each touch of the ball, each movement off the ball, watching the ball with all of us, but with the gift, the special role of one who can play with the ball in a way that allows it to perform its special magic – to one who gives himself to the game, to give the crowd the chance to glimpse something special, something that lifts us from the mundane and the profane, some glimpse of a miracle, some sense of transcendence.
The emergence of the greatest legend in soccer history above the crowd brought the energy to yet another level of intensity, the greatest reminder of our club’s legacy of sporting diplomacy and the living embodiment the Beautiful Game.
“Pelé! Pelé! Pelé!” the crowd roared, the Cosmos’ Honorary President waving from a tan building overlooking the corner of the pitch to our left.
Raúl hugs Cuban national team players while Pelé cheers and waves to the crowd at Estadio Pedro Marrero
I’ve always wondered what he meant at Giants Stadium on October 1, 1977 when, the world watching and listening, he simply asked everyone to join him in saying “Love! Love! Love!” As I told him at Shuart Stadium the weekend of the 2014 home opener, I felt that, as a husband and a father, I was beginning to understand what he meant that day.
As I heard the Cuban fans chant his name, I understood in purest, if ineffable, fashion. This outpouring of love was a gift of the game. This love doesn’t erase misery but overcomes and fills one with a sense of hope and unity. Once again, he chose to wear one of the green t-shirts we were given at JFK, like so many of us visitors. As he waved down, he seemed subject to this power, living as a sacrifice to the love, the sacred sense of community this game produces. This is why soccer matters.
Then, teams emerged for the familiar prematch fanfare. First, the unfamiliar tune of the Cuban National Anthem. Then, our sense of pride in club and country, mixed perhaps paradoxically with a desire for global citizenry, reached fever pitch with the playing of our National Anthem. We sang our lungs out. I can’t recall ever feeling as proud to sing this song. Perhaps it was the thrill of singing it on foreign soil. What did it mean to sing “The Star-Spangled Banner” in public in Havana? It was clear it wasn’t just those of us who had traveled from New York were singing. We heard and saw, looking around, many Cubans signing along, too. Did they even know the words? It didn’t seem to matter but somehow many were singing along, just the same. Was this an act of defiance or an act of solidarity, transcending the political? I was told later than a local chorus of Cuban kids sang the anthem but I didn’t see or hear them, as I was lost in the choral unity of a massive crowd singing an improbable song for this moment we never dreamt of.
For years I dreamt I would have to get to a stadium to see the Cosmos, as a spectator or even as a player, alums or a new side, training or a match. In 2013 that recurring dream came true. But to be with the Cosmos in Cuba? None of us could believe it and “Oh say can you see…” was something we’d never seen in our wildest dreams. But there they were, the Stars and Stripes held by four Cuban boys in the rain. Another four held the Cuban flag. Still two other groups of four held FIFA flags at a distance behind the national flags. Governments and the game’s governance not far from mind but sport helping us overcome borders was the promise of this most serious and surreal ceremony.
There was something more than nationalist pride at play, something rich and complicated, something cathartic, defiant and hopeful in the act of singing the “Star Spangled Banner.” Maybe Lennon’s “Imagine” would have been most apropos lyrically, but the sentiments somehow weren’t far away all the same.
Reminiscent of the World Cup match between the United States and Iran, the players from both teams joined together to pose behind a banner with the motto boldly displayed in both Spanish and English: “UN MUNDO JUNTO” “ONE WORLD TOGETHER” – perfectly summarizing the dominant theme, will or wish informing this friendly. Then each team huddled in their own half to concentrate on competition. Home red to our left and visiting green to our right.
Finally, kickoff. The rain did not relent and the dual threat of the pitch condition was an immediate concern, intensifying the risks we take any time we play. Could we play our desired free-flowing possession game on this field in this rain? The fourth match in eleven nights for the Cosmos, the pitch would surely show no mercy for tired legs. Players born in the states of New York, New Jersey, Georgia, Texas and California, along with players born in Brazil, Uruguay, Spain and Zimbabwe, a typically cosmopolitan mix of players born on four different continents were representing New York with the Cosmos.
The star-spangled NASL ball bounced and players slipped on the soaked surface right from the start.
Nine minutes in, Lucky Mkosana struck at the top of the penalty area into the low left corner, with an assist from Raúl. Chicago may have been the first soccer club from the States to visit Cuba back in 1978, but the Sting were kept scoreless, conceding two in their loss to the Cuban National Team that March 21, also the last time a professional soccer side from the States would visit. Celebrating Lucky’s strike was rejoicing in an historic moment. We danced and hugged in the stands as he boxed the corner flag. We looked to the scoreboard. How long would it take to change 0 to 1? It took a while, the delay as they looked for the number, removed the 0 and then put the one into place protracting our goal celebration.
In the fifteenth minute, the Cubans nearly scored and felt wronged not to earn a penalty with Jimmy Maurer’s charge to force the shot over the bar. Five minutes later, Maurer was tested again, caught charging far from his line, but he couldn’t be chipped. Despite these threats our boys in green dominated possession. Raúl was ranging everywhere.
A cross into the box from Danny Szetela, nodded down by Raúl to an unmarked Sebastián Guenzatti on the stroke of the 33rd minute saw confident possession converted into a comfortable 2-0 lead.
All around Havana we had seen stray dogs. Still, we were surprised to see a mangy mutt emerge from the jungle to check out all the hubbub. What was more surprising was that no one seemed to bother the dog, and likewise, the dog didn’t bother to bark or beg as it made it way around the track surrounding the pitch as if keeping a routine it wouldn’t let be disturbed by the human spectacle.
With one eye on the dog and another on the action, just two and a half minutes after Guenzatti scored, another cross into the box, this time from Hunter Freeman deep on the right flank over to the far post, finding the head of David Diosa who, as Raúl had just done, nodded the ball down as a square pass inside the six-yard box to Hagop Chirishian, who tapped the ball with the outside of his right boot between the keeper and a defender to hit the back of the net and make it a three-goal Cosmos lead. I was thrilled for Hagop, not only because it was so sad to see injured in the opening minutes of the Cosmos B NPSL season at the Coney Island doubleheader, but also because he had expressed worry over the field just hours before. His broad goal-scoring smile showed any injury fear was washed away in the Havana rain.
Minutes later, another scoring chance, but Cuban goalkeeper Sandy Sánchez bravely stole the ball off Raúl, who had broken through for a 1v1 scoring opportunity. The Spanish legend showed great care after contact between them, a gesture of friendship that was another example of his clear sense of the occasion. Then another cross from the right, this time from Guenzatti, found Lucky, who side-volleyed past Sánchez for his brace and a 0-4 lead in the 42nd minute. But the instinct to celebrate was quickly quelled by Raúl, showing his leadership and experience with restraint.
At halftime, we wondered where the scoreline was headed. “Be just,” were the words that went through my mind, as I thought back what I’d learned about the poet José Martí, those words the advice he gave his son in a letter written just before a death for which he seemed prophetically prepared. There was no blowout or mercy rule in effect with this friendly, of course, and my worry that the Cosmos would put on a good show converted during the course of the first-half into a concern for sportsmanship and goodwill between us and our gracious hosts.
The rain was relentless and despite some concern the score might get embarrassing, we were still thrilled to be winning - nothing could damper the festive vibe. At intermission, a troupe of folk dancers treated us to a colorful salsa parade.
As the second half was about to kick off, in the distance we saw the dog had made his way back around the track, passing the benches before disappearing back into the jungle. No one chased him away. He’d seen enough.
Some Cuban fan dared a solo pitch invasion. One neon-pennied security guard made a half-hearted effort to chase him from the pitch. When the invader leapt over the advertisements and ran back into the crowd, the guard waved him off and let him be. The pitch invader was given only slightly more attention than the dog. Later we were told that was his thing, this guy, invading fields during sporting events. Play resumed with a dropball.
Roughly five minutes in, Cuban striker Michael Reyes broke through clear on Maurer’s goal only to blast wildly towards the jungle, much like some of the chances they had wasted in the first half. But at least it was a sign the home side would not surrender. And a minute later, their persistence would finally pay off.
We couldn’t seem to clear the ball out of our defensive third and Cuba took advantage. A Cuban cross (or was it another bad shot?) from right to left was nearly cleared by Freeman, but he was checked hard by Reinier Cerdeira, nearly into the byline billboards (no foul called). Cerdeira’s ensuing pass set up Andy Vaquero for an easy finish past Maurer.
“Cuba! Cuba! Cuba!” roared the crowd. We stood and joined them with applause.
The Cosmos didn’t object or appeal for a foul while it seemed to us, in the crowd, only proper to cheer the home side scoring, since they’d cheered our four goals in the first half. Although it felt weird to cheer a goal scored against the Cosmos, we were cheering a goal for the good of the game. We watched and cheered again as we saw their 0 replaced with a 1 on the manual scoreboard.
Cuba kept up the pressure, and minutes later Yénier Márquez nearly scored from outside the box, but the captain’s shot went just wide left. Just past the hour mark, Brian Holt came on in goal for Maurer. That might have been a polite way for Giovanni Savarese to give Maurer some well-deserved rest while sending our boys in green the signal that enough was enough.
The Cosmos quickly resumed control of the match. Lucky almost completed a hat trick and, though it looked like a penalty might be deserved with a multi-player collision, it wasn’t given and there was no Cosmos appeal. Instead, Gio took Lucky off for teenage prodigy Haji Wright in the 65th minute. Cuba had to replace Sánchez in goal with Diosvelis Guerra as a result of the contact, as well.
The biggest scare of the game came in the 71st minute, when Diosa was decked with an elbow to the head, competing for a high ball sent floating down the left flank by Ayoze. There didn’t seem to be any arguing or fighting between the Cosmos and the Cuban players over this, just concern that the prostrate Diosa was okay. Helped to his feet, he was able to walk off with support.
Holt passed the test of a breakaway and then made two diving saves, the second when it seemed the Cosmos goal was wide open. But the final quarter of an hour saw few scoring chances for either side. Ayoze brought down Márquez, earning a yellow card in the 86th minute, a sign the match had settled into a somewhat sloppy finish rather than any acting out of animosity.
A competitive second half lacked desperation but neither side stopped trying, either. So while it may not have been the greatest display of technical brilliance, the action never slowed to a bore, both teams and sets of supporters seemingly spellbound by the improbably spectacle. Although the VVIPs were up in the separate area where we’d seen Pelé, I spied our club’s leadership trio of Erik Stover, Jeremy Wilkins and Seamus O’Brien basking in the scene to my left, first row at midfield. It was great to see the smiles on their faces, having pulled off this diplomatic miracle of a match. It wasn’t the time to express my gratitude to this trio, but it brought me great delight to see them having fun watching the game among the fans in the stands. So much work for the sake of play.
Relaxation was short-lived, as ever, for Erik, who had to figure out how to get the team from the stadium back to the hotel at the final whistle. So while the second half wound down, he crossed over the plank covering the moat.
At the final whistle, the friendly ended with expressions of friendship between the players on the pitch and the fans in the stands, then both teams came over to salute the crowd. “Raúl! Raúl! Raúl!” resounded through the stands once more. Although he didn’t score, not only did he have two assists, the legend played the full 90 minutes. And in appreciation for his showmanship and sportsmanship, like a curtain call, this display of adulation.
As we were basking in the moment, we were abruptly shepherded away from the stands and back towards our bus, in front of the stadium where we were dropped off. I’m sure the driver must have been frustrated with me, as I kept stopping to chat and snap or pose with local fans, these thousands of new friends we’d made in the rain. It wasn’t just fans in the crowd that we met, but players from the Cuban National Team walking out with us, interacting with the fans like family heading home together after a school or Sunday league match. One player was seen giving away his boots. Others gave their fans the shirts off their backs.
The bus ride back seemed much quicker than the ride to the hotel. It must have been a different route, as I saw the only baseball field I would see the entire trip. No one was playing.
Back at the hotel, I changed out of my drenched and dirty clothes, taking the escalator down to the lobby with club chairman O’Brien. Euphoric, I asked what the club could do to top this experience. “Brick by brick,” he said with conviction, “and you’re only as good as the last brick you lay. We’re in this for the long haul.” His words were a convincing promise of much more to come for the New York Cosmos.
Dinner was at the Buena Vista Social Club, attached to the hotel, down a corridor near the lobby bar. I’d seen the Wim Wenders film of the same name nearly fifteen years ago, the documentary one of the sole sources of my visual sense of contemporary Cuba prior to our visit. But since some of the musicians featured in the film were in their 90s back then, I didn’t give the sign in the lobby more than a glance. Told that was where to head for my next meal, even if they couldn’t be the same guys as I’d seen on the film, I became thrilled at the opportunity to witness top-notch local musicianship.
The performance began at 10 p.m. sharp, just as we were finishing our meals, beginning with a trumpet burst from the back of a converted 50s car in the dining space. Folkloric dance pairing male and female dancers with fixed grins was a colorful beginning to the show, like square dancers kicking off a night at the Grand Ole Opry. Like that Nashville institution, an emcee moderated the show, and he began by welcoming us and congratulating the Cosmos for the impressive performance at the stadium. Dancing to canned music, after their opening routines the emcee introduced trombonist Jesus “Aguaje Ramos” y su Orquestra Buena Vista.
The entire band were phenomenal, polished performers, but I certainly can’t tell a conga tumbao from a rumba clave or a cha-cha from a conga, and though I can pleasurably sit through Close to the Edge, my lack of structural sensibility began to make me impatient with the complex Afro-Cuban rhythms that seemed to go on and on without any perceptible sense of compositional closure, bursts of melody very much in service to the rhythm rather than the more comfortable and familiar other way around.
We assumed as we stumbled out towards the lobby that we’d missed the party, but were surprised to find just about everyone from our table and many others still at the lobby bar, waiting to head out on the town.
Most of the squad were already off to Shangri La, a popular local hot spot, we were told. So we packed into a convoy of taxis in search of Shangri La. When we reached our destination there was no way to know if the players were inside the club, the entrance blocked by waves of jinetero y jinetera, so we jumped back in our taxis before they drove off in search of another club. The second place didn’t seem better than the first, so two remaining taxis went off for one more try, another place owned by a friend of one of the drivers. After driving around the city to a third club, we had no idea where we were, but the taxi drivers agreed to wait for us. The third club was loud but nearly vacant, so we decided to hang there for a few rounds. We danced, told stories and acted goofy for a while, staying a bit longer than planned, then headed back to the hotel lobby bar.
Someone at some point told Brian Walsh of a Lennon statue in a Lennon Park, near the hotel. “You sure it isn’t Lenin, as in Vladimir?” I kept saying every time he brought it up.
We had a taxi driver settle the debate, and he said, “Sure, across from the Yellow Submarine.” We wanted to go but apparently it wasn’t open as late, or early, if you will, as 2 a.m. or more in the morning. So we resolved to wake and go there in the morning. Problem was, it was already morning, and sometime after 4 a.m. this old man decided a few winks would be nice.
In the morning I was happy to run into Dave Martinez of Empire of Soccer, dutifully checking out on time.I had no intention of checking out until as close to airport departure as possible, but I was told I could only delay until noon, latest. When Dave said he hadn’t had a chance to visit Habana Vieja, we grabbed the first vintage taxi we could find, figuring we had 75 minutes to rush through the most scenic area of the city and get back.
Dave wanted to sit up front, which given his Spanish was for the best, anyway, and I gladly sprawled in the white leather back seat of a blue Chevy. If I were a gearhead, I might know the year, make and model, but I loved it just the same as we tore off down the Malecón.
We parked near the Plaza de Catedral, and I was deeply grateful to revisit, feeling especially drawn back to the inside the Cathedral itself. I lost track of time inside, enraptured by the sacred space. When I came back to my senses, Dave and the driver were patiently waiting outside. I was the one in the rush, after all. We saw an elderly woman telling futures as she puffed away on a cigar, but we passed her by, trying to avoid making eye contact.
Making our way to Plaza Vieja, a bright and open market square that once served as the commercial hub of Havana life. Slaves were bought and sold here, our taxi driver told us in disgust. Two boys were playing 1v1 soccer with an old basketball in the plaza. I tried to join in their fun but when one boy passed to me another tackled it swiftly off my feet, laughing as he danced with the ball away from me. Seeing soccer played in its purest form in this square filled my heart with joy and hope for their future.
Back to the blue Chevy and we roared back down the Malecón to Meliá Cohiba in Vedado. Soaking up the sun and the pastelled kaleidoscope of the city’s coastal architecture, I tried desperately to preserve the imagery. Disconnected from family and desperately missing home, I was nonetheless seduced by the sights of this strange city and the humble charm of its people.
It was okay not to visit Lennon Park or the few other things we missed and wanted to see. Reason enough to go back soon. We got back at what must have been the last possible moment for me to check out of my room without complication, and we waited for the bus at the lobby bar, of course, everyone exhausted but thrilled by the adventure.
On the way to the airport, I was struck by the many improvised soccer fields of various sizes along the way. Goals of boards with chicken wire for nets. Soccer had taken root in Cuba, very definitely. I also noticed slogans by José Martí on propaganda en route, leaving me once more overwhelmed by the poet’s influence as well as how far away from the just society he envisioned we still are.
As we left the bus and began to enter the terminal, I noticed one last propaganda billboard. “REVOLUCION SOCIALISTA,” it said, “DE LOS HUMILDES, POR LOS HUMILDES Y PARA LOS HUMILDES.” A green car more than a half-century old drove beneath. I wasn’t sure how to interpret. What is a revolution without progress? And what would be the legacy of our trip to the Cuban people? With newfound admiration for the generosity and humility of the Cuban people, I was filled with a mix of wonder, joy and despair over what I had witnessed.
Improvement in the performance of their national team would be the most immediate benefit. The love between the Cuban fans and footballers was absolute. The love for Cubans for football, growing daily as we saw, bodes well. Maybe one of those kids at the clinic or in the stands will play for Cuba in the World Cup. Or even play for the Cosmos. Playing together means we can work together and not live as enemies anymore. Brick by brick we rebuild the bridge between our peoples. Months ago, I knew nothing about Cuban fútbol. From now on, I will follow Cuban fútbol and wish them well.
For most importantly and now more than ever, I am convinced that soccer can play a key role in promoting social justice and peace, furthering the cause of cosmopolitanism. Geography means we’re too close not to be close anymore. We made history in Havana with the Beautiful Game and it was clear from our encounters why soccer matters – so simple to play, but no greater test of character, no greater forum for individual and collective creativity. We were sure the Cuba we saw was ready for change. And soccer surely seemed a catalyst for positive change. The Cosmos in Cuba was a once in a lifetime adventure but it was about building something well beyond our lifetimes, locally and globally.
As we move forward, to fulfill the promise of the game and preserve its purity, we must heed José Martí’s simple and earnest admonition and always strive to “be just.”
