Randy Miller, President of Original New York Seltzer and sponsor of Alphy’s Soda Pop Club.

by Julie Bosman

The scruffy players in brick-red jerseys and secondhand shoes hailed from Haiti, Togo, Mexico, Honduras and Harlem. The fresh-faced team in black had neatly trimmed hair, new gear and degrees from Carnegie Mellon, Syracuse, Pace and universities in China and Australia.

Most of the players in black work together at the Royal Bank of Canada, bonded by the financial cloud hanging over their industry. The reds, too, are united by financial circumstance, sharing a temporary address, 1 Wards Island: a homeless shelter.

They faced off the other night at Chelsea Piers, perhaps Manhattan’s premier soccer spot for young professionals, and this spring also the base for the newest team in Street Soccer USA, a 16-city network of homeless players that started in 2005 in Charlotte, N.C., and is under the umbrella of Help USA, a national homeless services provider.

The idea behind homeless soccer is something like this: Take a group of poor people, disconnected from the regular rhythms of life, lacking both physical exercise and much to look forward to. Add soccer.

In Ann Arbor, Mich., and Austin, Tex., Minneapolis, St. Louis and Washington, the program has been credited with helping players pull themselves out of homelessness. There is even a Homeless World Cup. This year’s, the seventh, is scheduled for September in Milan.

“When I’m out there, I feel like I can’t do any wrong,” said Dexter Burnett, 47, who played soccer in his native Jamaica, where his speed earned him the nickname Pepper. He was laid off last fall from a job as a medical assistant. “It allows me not to think about my situation so much and just relax and enjoy the moment.”

The league is the brainchild of Lawrence Cann, 31, once a nationally ranked soccer player at Davidson College, who moved in the fall from Charlotte to New York, with one of the nation’s largest homeless populations, estimated at 35,000, but no established homeless soccer team.

With the help of a few volunteers, Mr. Cann cleared out a dusty gymnasium that had previously been used for storage at the shelter on Wards Island, a patch of land in the East River. He recruited a few reluctant players, promising they would not be punished for missing the standard 10 p.m. shelter curfew.

At an early practice on a rainy night in March, a couple of the 15 people standing expectantly in a circle had evidently been drinking. Most spoke little English. And they did not even know one another’s names.

“Hey, you,” one player called out before kicking a clumsy pass that landed far from its target.

Taking note, Mr. Cann imported a drill familiar to early practices of soccer teams everywhere: Before making a pass, the kicker had to call out the name of the receiver. He gave instructions in English and Spanish. He declared that anybody who showed up drunk or high would not participate that night (but could return the next week). And between running, passing and shooting, players are expected to talk to the coach about their goals outside soccer, their job searches and their state of mind.

Of the 30 people who have turned out for a practice, only six have not returned a second time.

“You need something to occupy your time around here,” said Woods Matthews, 45, a regular whose long braid swings when he plays. “That’s why people get so mad around the shelter. We don’t get any exercise, we’re all cooped up, and then people get in fights.”

As the players smoothed their ragged edges, Mr. Cann began to look for opponents.

Chelsea Piers, with its state-of-the-art facilities, is among the city’s most expensive places to play — $2,450 per team for 10 games — and normally has a waiting list of more than 25 teams. But the bad economy led a lot of corporate-sponsored teams to drop out. Mr. Cann raised the entry fee, Nike donated equipment, and Chelsea Piers provided matching jerseys, as it does for all the teams that play there.

Just getting to the field is a 70-minute trek: the M35 bus to Harlem, a downtown train, then a half-mile walk to the West Side Highway.

The homeless players lost their debut game, 14-4, playing without a single substitute. The next week, they faced a team from Bloomberg, the financial information company, whose players were politely intrigued.

“I guess I figure being homeless, they’ll play pretty aggressively,” predicted Louis Brun, 22.

Street Soccer NY lost again, 11-5. As the teams headed to the locker room, Mr. Burnett chatted up an opponent, asking if Bloomberg was hiring.

“If these guys can get out there, feel comfortable talking to new people, and not get frustrated, then it’s really going to help them integrate,” Mr. Cann said. “Then eventually they’ll keep jobs and not get kicked out of their apartments.”

He is already seeing progress: One player left the shelter and returned to his family. Another, Jarvis Strose, who had refused to meet with caseworkers and regularly missed curfew over two years of homelessness, arrived promptly at practice every week. A caseworker told Mr. Cann that a third man, who had developed a nervous disorder after being beaten in prison, was beginning to recover from his trauma because of the exercise.

On Tuesday, Street Soccer NY met the team made up mostly of Royal Bank of Canada workers, called the Gunners.

Chris Lodgson, 25, who plays center back on the homeless team, came straight from his new job at the cafe at Bloomingdale’s; he was planning to move from the shelter to an apartment in Washington Heights. He will continue to play with Street Soccer, which he said has been instrumental in his getting back on his feet.

“I don’t want to say it’s a return to being normal, but it makes me feel like myself again,” he said. “Two weeks ago, that was, like, the first time in a while that I forgot. I forgot where I was and what was going on.”

The red team took an early lead, passing fluidly, players calling one another by name. Players from the adjacent field wandered over to watch.

“Is that the homeless team?” asked one. “Wow,” he said, cocking an eyebrow. “They’re good.”

Mr. Strose scored his fourth goal of the game, panting with exhaustion as he ran off the field. When Mr. Matthews, sent in to substitute, kicked for a goal but missed the ball entirely, his teammates shouted encouragement.

“When we started, they didn’t know how to play,” Mr. Cann said. “They didn’t know how to pass. They didn’t trust each other.”

Final score: Homeless 10, Bankers 4.

Mr. Cann, surrounded by celebrating players, looked relieved. “We really needed a win,” he said.

Still clapping, he called out to his team, “Shake hands!”

Thanks Ryan

via South Willard

Registration for Union Football League begins Monday, December 29th, 2008!
$1600 for a roster of up to 20. $40 for each additional player (Maximum of 26 per roster). This includes all games, referee fees, registration, ID cards and more! Games are on Sundays at 1pm, 3pm, 5pm and 7pm — all played at 7th and Union. If your team is interested, please contact the league Director for details:

Below: comment on Jennifer Doyle’s article, el Resto del Mundo

Jennifer,

What intrigues me most about your entry/article is the section that covers local footballing culture. I currently play regular pick-up at Pan Pacific Park (usually on Wednesdays), but am constantly in search of better grounds. Though there’s always the option of joining a league or even an officiated formal meet-up, I really can’t commit to anything of the sort. Pan Pacific Park, or “P3,” has but one proper “field,” (i.e. one w. goal posts) one that’s all dirt, dust, rocks, pitons, and storm drains. Everything but hierba; yes, it’s a total favela. This means no firm-ground boots, just the thick-soled hard ground type. When you’re done for the day, you look like you’ve just been teleported from Black Rock City.

The rest of the park is pure green, but littered with those infamous signs. The only sanctioned green areas: mine fields booby trapped with boulders, storm drains, and mini palm trees, all in an effort to deter any would-be 5 v 5 action. OK, so the conspiracy theorist in me ascribes authoritative intent to the random placement of said obstacles. We used to play in these areas, but…

About a year ago, a guy slipped and collided with one of those trachycarpus mini-palms, cracked his head right open down to the gray. Pools of blood. See, this type of palm is squat with no shaft, just an armor of godendag-like stegosaurus plates evolutionarily equipped to render you a Regarding Henry Memento type. Dude didn’t have insurance, much less a green card. Refused to go to hospital; just laid there, supine and motionless. So much for the blood-brain barrier.

Partially at fault for this tragedy, I might add, was the lack of illumination. At P3, only the field and designated football ‘patches’ lie unequipped for nightly use. The baseball diamonds, by contrast, transform into veritable film sets come sundown. This brings me to the war: America’s Pastime vs. The Beautiful Game. Yes, the BASEballers hate us. They won’t return shanked balls, or even respond to our calls. Worse, even when there’s no game on, they’ll kick us off the outfield. I’ve even seen the free youth clinic being booted on a number of occasions. Why? The coaches are in with the management, who, in turn, never hesitate to call LE (similar experience at Cheviot Hills Park and others). One P3 baseball coach called us out:

“You guys have no self-respect. Whenever we reseed the soccer field, you guys tear it all up by slide tackling and over-playing and not respecting the reservation protocol.”

Wonder if by “you guys,” he meant foreigner/imigrant/Euro-trash? Rather than responding with irresponsible accusations of veiled-racism and the like, I’ll say this: the one time they fenced off the area and reseeded, yes, it was beautiful. They manually watered till the leaves grew to knee height and then mowed. But here’s the thing: they used the wrong type of seed. We needed zoysia or plastic; they gave us some stunted bahia strain. And worst of all: after they mowed, they never watered. Within 2 months it was desert again. Sabotage.

In my search for greener pastures, I’ve inevitably looked east. I live in East Hollywood/K-town, so naturally, I’ve tried Mac Arthur and Lafayette. Both are pretty crowded, but offer some rotational (5 in, 5 out) mini pick-up play. Griffith East, along Crystal Spring Drive is the only grassy expanse in L.A. where I’ve been able to find regular, no-reservation, open pick-up where the authorities are lax about the “no” rule. Cool. But the thing is… it’s very clique-y and lacks the “everyone plays” accommodating attitude of P3. At Griffith (and elsewhere), most games are dominated by one homogenous coterie or another. Completely tribal. Salvadorian, Guatemalan, Armenian, Korean, Oaxacan, Sinaloan, etc. No outsiders. No mixing. Where’s the love?

P3, on the other hand, has the best vibe and is vertically integrated skill wise. Fathers, sons, Europeans, Africans, emos, cholos, queens, jailbait, lipstick lesbians, drunks, stoners, little people, university scholars, Korean-Argentineans, middle schoolers, Turks, Armenians, and yes, Palestinians and Israelis. Players from every economic walk of life. Oh, and groupies. There’s even a lady with an ice chest who dispenses cold water to the weary, free of charge. This is true americana. And it’s crowded.

So, after this longwinded rant, here’s my question: is there anywhere in L.A. with a pick-up vibe like P3’s that features real grass?

And lastly, Jennifer, the whole MexiMoz thing is a truly awesome phenomenon. My friends and I have always been fascinated by this unlikely marriage. In a way, it symbolizes the ineffable vibe that is P3 pick-up. See you on the pitch…

Sincerely,
Solus Woodrose

September 27, 2008 2:02 AM

As previously discussed and linked on fromaleftwing, the ACL Prevention Program (PEP) outlines an excellent program for prevention of ACL tears in women — who are 8 times more likely than men to have this type injury. This is a necessary read for anyone playing soccer, basketball or football — man or woman.

Jack Goldstein (1945–2003)

“The Jump, 1978, is a silent twenty-six-second loop projected on a fuchsia-colored wall illuminated by black lights. Using editing effects, Goldstein transformed a high diver, jumping into an amorphous deep purple space, into an incorporeal constellation of Technicolor stars. The strenuously exerted body of Goldstein’s early performative films has been completely recast by technology as an image: a burst of graceful, highly regulated, firework like light. The Jump was the last of Goldstein’s early films, and it is a fitting swan song to an era when the body was still considered a viable site of resistance.”

Thanks Kathy

The Contortionist homepage — more about contortion.