Bridge Year Costa Rica – Fall 2024

One of my final preparations for my nine-month stay was purchasing new tacos, but I only worried for a few painful weeks about whether my investment was a good one. During those first weeks, I could feel that soccer was happening all around me—in all the different canchas I passed on my way into the city—but I didn’t know how to get involved. It goes without saying that soccer is an integral part of tico culture (as is planning for each partido at the last minute). However, when I envision a Costa Rican community, I will always see a cross rising from a church, the flag waving, rice and beans, a lot of rain, mountains in the background, and, most importantly, a dependable, majestic cancha.

Playing soccer has been my absolute favorite experience here—perhaps because I speak soccer infinitely better than Spanish. It’s the only time I can feel my thoughts synced with those around me. The only time I can take a language I’ve been learning since I was six and adapt to new styles and tempos in fast-paced, diverse environments. The only time I can embrace the passion for half-volleys, backheel passes, and quick transitions (as well as maybe 10% of the dedication of the indoor goalkeepers). The only time I’m not thinking.

And while playing involves so much more than just kicking a ball around, the variety of games and players has deepened my love for the beautiful game itself. There’s no consistency in jugadores, field size, or positions; each game is an exciting new puzzle. This cultural currency, which I thankfully gained through the somewhat crazy U.S. youth sports industry, has allowed me to connect with people of all ages, all over the world.

Many of these matches are some of the clearest markers of time: my bridge year cohort learning to play together after Spanish lessons (with competitive frustrations and demonstrated progress); apprehensively playing in Montecarlo for the first time (are they going to let this new girl play with them?); the younger kids fighting over which team I should join on a rare, spring-like Thursday afternoon without rain; squelching through the pouring rain with the guys in Montecarlo; the feeling of being watched during a tryout; Alice, a member of AMACOBAS, waving and shouting to me across the field from her house; and my bridge year cohort now continuing to immerse ourselves in indoor 8 v. 8 games each Tuesday.

But there are distinct moments, too—standing shoulder-to-shoulder in a wall, nailing a cross to my assigned partner, receiving and then volleying the ball into the crossbar, perfectly timing a vertical through ball. Nothing is more satisfying than shared vision, precision, and the speed of play.

There’s a different kind of respect that comes when people recognize I can play with them, regardless of the mistakes I make. They tell me to mark someone. I hear instructions to mark Sofi or la muchacha. People ask, ¿Qué pasa?, when I don’t get my cross to them. They tell me to get back or to run. I’m part of the intensity and the genuine frustration when something breaks down. Yet I can share laughs as I pressure the same guy repeatedly. There are high-fives and thumbs-ups. I love hearing Sofi, Sofi in the otherwise unfortunately indiscernible communication. “You can play with us” is such a privilege to hear.

Soccer is how I know the people in my community—the kids now smile when they pass me walking on the road. Each Saturday, three age groups play one after another. Sitting on the hill, I watch with all the parents as the little kids cluster around the ball, some completely covered in mud. While the younger kids pointedly ask, “Why are you here?” “What type of bar is that?” or “You’re going to play [with them]?!” the coach just wants to know which is my dominant foot and tells me they play every Saturday. I hope those girls are watching and that it won’t just be guys at the latest time slot when they’re older.

People here associate me with soccer. Sofi = fútbol. They probably overestimate how much of my free time and energy is devoted to it. While it’s something I love, I never thought it would become an identity I introduce myself with—but it is what makes me happiest.