You Might as Well Face it...

I don't know how it happened, but 1989 will always be known as the year I returned to soccer.

Don't ask me how it started. I honestly do not remember, although I'm pretty sure it happened some time in May while I heard some Venezuelean announcer yell "GOAL! GOAL! GOAL!" from my television set.

It doesn't matter when or how I was re-baptized into soccer. The fact that I have is something I'm finding hard to believe.

You see. I used to play a long time ago-when the Bee Gees sang in front of sellout crowds. Since the bigger kids always used to hog the baseball field, we first-graders would have the large field in the back of our school (San Benito in Humacao. Puerto Rico) all to ourselves. There were about 15 of us and every game was Brazil against Argentina. Problem was, everyone wanted to be Pele; no one liked the Argentines.

We used to play every day until we started getting older and realized we were now the bigger kids, which meant we had every right to start hogging the baseball field. Besides, who ever heard of a famous Puerto Rican soccer player? Roberto Clemente, yes. Soccer player, no.

So, I just lost interest. While most of my high school friends went crazy when Italy won the World Cup, I was watching Joe Garagiola on the NBC "Game of the Week."

Then, I was switching the channels one day this year and just happened to catch a soccer game on the local Spanish station. I started to listen to the announcer and was mesmerized.

"Maradona, Maradona, MARADONA, MARADONA!, MARADONA!, GOOOOOOOOOAL!"

Pure poetry.

A few months later. I was assigned to cover the Boston Bolts for the Boston Globe. No one else wanted the beat, so they figured, why not give it to an intern? After the first game, it was official: I was a soccer junkie again.

I blame my born-again soccer addiction on Bolts forward Dan Donigan, who had an All-American career at the University of Connecticut. Never before had I seen a player make it look so easy. Donigan knew exactly where his teammates were at all times. And he passed the ball anyway possible.

On almost every weekend on the summer. I got the chance to see Donigan and his mates. I wanted to play again.

Then I met some guys kicking the ball around at the Quad. They told me that they have games every Sunday afternoon.

My summer weekend schedule was set: catch the Bolts on Saturday nights and play at the Quad every Sunday.

The games were intense most of the times, probably because of this guy named Jose. He is a middle-aged Mexican who now lives in the U.S. and he has phenomenal skills. And a phenomenal temper. Scrape him with your foot and he'd start yelling. Try to guard him and he would elbow you in the stomach. I was definitely hooked.

Suddenly, funny things started to happen: I began receiving soccer publications from all over the nation at the Globe. I knew everything about the U.S. National Team, including the favorite color of Tab Ramos (well, not really, but you get the idea).

I'll never forget the letter I received from the oldest living American to have played for a World Cup team. He was in his late 80s. All he wanted was someone to do a story on the history of the United States in the World Cup.

Then there's the story of the Soviet national champion, DNPR, which played Boston University in an exhibition game at Nickerson Field in August. I was the one who had to interview some players before the exhibition.

They were the most obnoxious people I have ever met. They were as exciting as public television. But when they played B.U., they were the best soccer team I have ever seen.

Maybe these Russians weren't that bad after all. They did give me a free pass to attend any organized soccer league in the Soviet Union. I plan to visit soon.

However, I won't remember this summer because of the Russians. My most memorable soccer moment occurred in Ft. Lauderdale, site of the American Soccer League championship series between the Ft. Lauderdale Strikers and the Bolts.

It wasn't the game that made that night so great. The Strikers won, 1-0.

That night, I met Marcelo Carrera, a mediocre player from Argentina who scored the winning goal for the Strikers. While he struggled to answer the questions of other reporters in English, I began to talk to him in Spanish. He was delighted. I was estatic.

I am thinking of heading down to South America next summer (that's if I can't get any tickets to Italy) and attend every soccer game imaginable. I have to discover why soccer is the most popular sport in the world.

Besides, I have to meet that television announcer.