Lima, Peru (Part 1)

I was filled with excitement to return to Peru, which is a country deeply rooted in our story and history as a nonprofit. This is my second trip to the country this year following a series of programs here in June. Back then, I was working with Ciudad de los Ninos out in San Juan de Miraflores, which is about an hour from where I usually situate myself. This time around would be more of the same, though in June I found myself running sessions with the younger boys from Ciudad, and this time I was working with an older demographic during this set of programs.

The breakdown was straightforward and organized: Day 1 consisted of two groups, split into their respective casas. Day 2 followed the same with two groups of high-school aged boys.

“In total, around 70-80 kids,” my contact Janeth shared, as I began to prepare equipment accordingly.

With only a two bag allowance, I knew that giving each participant their own ball was out of the question, so I instead laid out as many as I could across both pieces of luggage and filled in the cracks with Challenger Sports tee shirts and an assortment of drawstring bags featuring our own logo and that of the Better Everyday crew. Looking down at a beautiful patchwork quilt of alternating Puma balls in Manchester City and Borussia Dortmund colorways, I was certain Customs and Border Patrol were going to have a field day with this one. Janeth graciously passed along a signed document and I prayed to the heavens it might be sufficient, or at least enough to make customs officers look the other way.

A long red eye flight later, my feet touched the ground in a country that will always have a special place in my heart. Exhausted and lacking any sort of substantial sleep from the night before, I hailed an Uber to my apartment in Magdalena Del Mar and hit a nice five hour siesta. Having wasted half the day already, I woke up around 1 o’clock in the afternoon and immediately got to work, inflating about a dozen balls before saving the next 12 for the following day. Our largest session with Ciudad was set to have 22 participants. Though I wouldn’t be giving each boy a ball, we would likely be hitting a few drills that required them each to have their own on hand and at their feet.

Arms somehow feeling more noodle-like than usual, I walked a couple blocks down the street to my favorite local Peruvian joint to indulge in some delicious Lomo Saltado, my absolute favorite dish out here. I crushed a plate and went back home to slumber. It was early Tuesday morning and the next day we would be kicking off sessions at the incredible Ciudad de los Niños.

The programs were scheduled quite late in the day so as to not interfere with the boys’ school schedule at the nearby colegio. By 6 p.m. the sun would nearly be down and it would be chilly, so I packed a long sleeve turtleneck just in case that played out accordingly. 2:45 p.m. rolled around and I caught an Uber towards San Juan de Miraflores. My driver later told me he lives right across from Ciudad, which was pretty good luck for the both of us if I don’t say so myself.

Wrapping up clinic-prep at exactly 4 p.m., the first group of boys entered the fold. The participants were from Casa San Martin.

“Buenas tardes hermano,” they said, offering their own warm greetings coupled with handshakes.

As per usual, things kicked off with a listening drill led by myself and Moises, an honorary captain for the session. From there, we utilized the same rectangular-shaped grid for a ball control drill with each boy armed with their own ball dribbling within the space, trying to maintain control of their ball while simultaneously trying to steal the ball away and clear it out of the area from everyone else.

“Last one standing wins!” I yelled out, determined to start digging away at the 8 soccer ball allotment I had to be given to our prizewinners.

I’ll admit, these boys, though older than our usual participants, didn’t quite get the game or at least understand how to play it properly. As I surveyed the rectangular grid, five or six boys collapsed to their knees, shielding the ball with their chest rendering it largely untouchable.

“Hey, levantarse chicos you can’t do that,” I said through laughs, careful not to stifle their creativity, but to at least monitor it.

First vuelta out of the way and the mechanics of the game now fully understood by our participants, I posed a question – “okay hermanos, last person wins or last two?”

“Ultimo dos!” they exclaimed.

“Ok vámonos!” I yelled, with a tweet of my whistle.

Now, this time something cool happened. I looked up from the ground and saw many of the boys teaming up, oftentimes with their same chosen partners from the listening drill. From there, they could be seen working in tandem, one boy would stand at the corner of the grid, guarding his own ball and that of his partner with his own shin as a makeshift shield. Then, unhindered by the need to control a ball at his feet, his partner would move freely around the playing space – trying to steal the ball from as many opponents as possible. Recognizing their strategy, I shouted them out to the rest of the group – “smarter, not harder boys come on!”

“See profe, that’s intelligence,” they said in response – ultimately claiming the heralded final two spots in the grid and becoming names two and three on our list of winners.

With a glance at the clock, and a small moment of panic at the fact that due to our late start we had only 20 or so minutes to grab five more winners, we jumped straight into mano o cabeza to try and populate the rest of our list. As with all our older groups, this one sent me for a ride trying all the moves in my arsenal to eliminate the boys. It took some trickery but finally we added a few names to our list.

Between rounds, I caught a group of kids practicing off to the side after getting eliminated – determined to compete for a prize the next round, mano o cabeza they could be heard whispering, similar to programs past. Another glance at the clock, ah hijo le… tenemos only 10 more minutes. What could we play to grab some winners and to do so as quickly as possible?

A lightbulb went off, “Ok hermanos we have a few more soccer balls left to win.. so now.. we’re going to have a crossbar challenge!”

“Eso!” they yelled out, quickly choosing their own balls and lining them up behind a line of cones signifying the starting point.

A couple participants who had already won prizes of their own offered to head towards the goal to shag strays and keep the game moving.

“Alright let’s start!” I yelled out, making sure to keep things as orderly as possible, though it’s always a challenge for a dynamic like this. 

It was fun to watch the boys go at it – this activity not a competition against each other as much as a competition against themselves. They’d line up a shot and try their best to get the height, accuracy, and power just right to dink the ball against the crossbar. Unfortunately, some had the right height and power, but failed to hit the ball accurately – sailing the ball wide of either the right or left side. Others, sent their shots into the back of the net or well over the goal.

*Dink!* I heard, quickly turning my head to watch the goal.

The ball had struck the right post – “Nope! Crossbar only boys!” I yelled out, the shooter of that one determined to get it right the next time around.

*Dink!* our keeper had pushed a save up into the crossbar, “Nope! That doesn’t count!” I exclaimed.

Crossbar challenges are funny because we had one prize winner in like the first two minutes and then absolutely none for the next 15.

“Come on hermanos we don’t have all day,” I yelled out, aware that we were already over our scheduled end-time.

I turned to the boys’ ‘tutor’, who is an older gentleman who had been overseeing the session, “Ay sorry for the delay, you know how tough this game can be.”

“Ah don’t worry Profe – they’re having fun,” he answered, certain we’d be claiming our final prizewinner soon enough.

*Ding!!* right on cue! Wait though, I looked over and saw a boy celebrating.

That boy had already won a round of mano o cabeza.

“Bro come on!!” I yelled out.

*Ding!* same exact thing. This time a past winner of our dribbling game.

“Profe if I win again can I give my second prize to someone else?” one of the boys had asked.

A sweet gesture yes, but these prizes were to be earned not given – so we continued the game and onwards we went. I narrowed things down so that it was just the boys who hadn’t yet won a prize who were attempting to strike the crossbar. Luckily it worked and within a matter of seconds we had our final winner, the boy celebrating with glee. About 15 minutes past our end-time now, I gathered the boys in a circle as we distributed soccer balls for the winners and a mix of Challenger Sports tee shirts and drawstring bags for everyone else.

A boy who had been chatting with me in English throughout the whole program, eager to practice with a native speaker, came up to me to share one last conversation. I saw a bit of myself in him, his language journey mirroring a lot of my own, knowing what he wanted to say but not quite sure of how to say it. He tapped me on the shoulder, “you… brother… you are the best teacher,” he said, which I ain’t gonna lie made me blush a little bit.

The boy was so excited, absolutely gushing at the opportunity to practice his English, expectedly stumbling over some words, but really doing his thing! Already impressed, I encouraged him to keep practicing, while telling him he was doing a great job – “Sigue asi!”

“Ah thank you brother I have a good teacher,” he said with a smile, pointing to one of the other tutores monitoring the session – a younger gentleman who had been working there for one year, himself speaking with pride about a job that in his words was ‘priceless’ a true obra de amor. As I called an Uber to take me back to Magdalena and the boys, new bags and footballs in tow, prepared to return back to their casa hogar, they all took a moment to come up to me before I left, shaking my hand and offering sincere words of gratitude. This was a real gesture of respect that after programs here in June was hardly a surprise given the goodness displayed throughout all of Ciudad.

One boy, amidst our handshake posed a question – “Profe, las pelotas, son originales?”

“Claro que si hermano! Siempre lo mejor de los mejores por ustedes,” I answered with a smile.

As I settled into my hour-long drive alongside the beautiful coastline back to Magdalena, that same goodness was just as evident in the conversation I shared with my driver. 

“It’s beautiful what you do amigo and for you to come from so far away to mi pais of all the ones you could choose from – it’s amazing,” he shared. 

“I thank you for what you do – for the kids, for the sport, for the next generation, for my country,” he added.

The conversation flowed on as I told him how special his country, Peru, is to me, to us, and to our story as a charity. Peru was our first and it will always be our first until the end of time. How they could’ve said no, but for some reason, they said yes – they took a chance on a boy with a dream, a dream to illuminate and ignite the dreams of others – and look where that roller coaster has taken us now.

“If not for Peru, there is no charity, amigo, your country means more to me than I could ever say,” I said. 

Eager to learn more, I told him more about what we do and why we do it. How much of a dream come true it was to play even the smallest part in connecting the next generation with the beauty and transformative nature of sport. Beyond that, I gushed about how special it was to have had this opportunity over the past year to convivir con futbolistas and give them spaces to share their talents, their treasures, and their wisdom with the kids our work exists for. “Amigo en serio , it’s something I never would have imagined,” I said.

I told him time and time again I was humbled by how sincere the players are.

“I’ll take the [handwritten] card but you keep the money,” I said, sharing him the story of Moises – the Guatemalan national team player who was just happy to have made a couple kids smile on that one particular day – a gift far greater than any reimbursement payment could’ve given him in return.

Finally, we pulled up to my apartment and I tapped mi conductor on the shoulder – “Amigo tienes cambio por 5 soles? Es for a propina,” I said.

“Ah no te preocupes joven,” he said firmly – perhaps taking a page out the futbolista’s book or guilted by my Mo anecdote lol, but still I insisted and ultimately he chose not to fight it.

“Gracias joven. Muy amable. I hope you come back to mi tierra soon in the future,” he said with one last parting smile.