This article first appeared in the St. Louis Beacon, Aug. 24, 2012 - The very worst thing I can say about the Sundays I spent watching La Liga Latino Americana de Futbol, was that I ate my steak tacos way too fast. They were so warm and delicious that I stubbornly ignored the slow burn creeping up my esophagus and into my nostrils until it was imperative that I find a cold drink and a tissue. I did this two weeks in a row; which says little for me and a lot for Rico’s Tacos.
Rico’s is just one of the family-owned food stands perched around the two soccer fields in DeSoto Park, on Carr Street between 20th and 22nd. DeSoto serves as home to La Liga Latino Americana de Futbol (The Latin American Soccer League). Although the league was started by Latin Americans, it has grown larger than its name, opening its arms to players from all over the world. Kenyans, Bosnians, Brazilians, Mexicans, even a handful of local college students come together to do battle every Sunday.
Curious as to how well this broad mix of languages and cultures plays together, I found a few referees taking a break in between games to get their perspective. One of them, who had been ref-ing the league for more than seven years, said that some tension does come from each nationality’s desire to represent its country.
Whatever the motivation for conflict, I got to see it for myself that Sunday when a skirmish broke out five minutes into a new game. The disagreement began with a lot of impassioned shirt pulling and water throwing and ended with a huddle of furrowed brows discussing the validity of a call.
Aside from this incident, the day of competition was fairly peaceful – a time for families and friends to gather, listen to music, share food and drink and watch great amateur soccer.
“Most of these guys work six days a week – long, hard days. This is how they “relax,” one ref told me, motioning to the players charging up and down the fields. “This reminds them of home.”
My first time at DeSoto, I was early and decided to grab a taco at Rico’s while I waited for the match to start. I shared a table with Miguel, a long-time fan and his 5-year-old buddy Arian who was listening to books in English on an iPhone. Miguel and I talked about the league and, though he reaffirmed the occasional flaring of tempers, he also assured me that everyone was there for the love of the game.
As I tried to concentrate on Miguel’s stories instead of the fact that I had been far too liberal with the powerful salsa, Arian’s mother came over to feed him lunch – a tasty-looking tamale. He took one bite and starting flapping a chubby hand at his mouth. “Too SPICY!!” he told her in English. Miguel and I thought this was hysterical and I secretly felt better about sweating through my tacos.
After we ate, the three of us headed over to the match, Arian cruising around on his scooter, enjoying a Mexican ice cream like the rest of the children there. I opted for chilled mango sprinkled with chili powder and became absorbed in the thundering ballet of soccer. During breaks, players would kick a ball around with the kids, patiently repeating, “No hands, no hands.”
I had to leave at 5 p.m., but Miguel told me that most people usually stuck around until dusk. After their matches were over, the team jerseys came off and a whole new community of players and their families formed as they ate and shared beers together – no matter what country they were originally from.
As I loaded my chair and cooler into the car, a man and his little son walked past, telling me goodbye.
I smiled when I noticed the man’s T-shirt; it read: Sunday Funday.
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