By Aaron Reiss
By Angelica Leicht
By Dianna Wray
By Aaron Reiss
By Camilo Smith
By Craig Malisow
By Jeff Balke
By Angelica Leicht
It's high noon on a torturously hot Saturday at Burnett Bayland Park: dozens of adults cheer in Spanish for a ten-year-old soccer player rushing the goal, a Salvadoran woman approaches carrying a cooler of refreshments on her head and scores of exuberant kids chase soccer balls on five nearby fields. None of this, says Salvadoran-born Silvia Ramirez, who coaches a 12-and-under team called Los Leones, would have been seen in this park two years ago, before the Southwest Houston Soccer Association was formed. And its impact, she believes, lasts long after each weekend is over.
For the mostly Central American families playing, coaching or watching the matches in this southwest side park, the year-old league has brought a distinct sense of community order, belonging and pride. Its fans range from people like Ramirez, who loves seeing timid, non-English speaking neighbors come out to watch every practice, to teenagers like Antonio Flores -- a former Southwest Cholo who believes that playing soccer has kept him from returning to the street gang.
Although Latin Americans in the United States have watched soccer with uninterrupted passion for decades, the massive Central American immigrant community that sprouted in the Gulfton area during the 1980s has never played much organized soccer. A few groups of adults had teams, but there was no youth league, and only a few organized teams in the area.
"The problem we have here is language," explains Ramirez, a nurse's assistant who coaches in a white pleated skirt and satin blouse. Lack of confidence in English, she believes, has kept Gulfton's Hispanics from many organized activities because of the need to deal with English-speaking officials. "The other problem," she adds, "is that people are working very hard." Immigrant families often just don't have the time to do the organizational work required to set up leagues.
League director Mario Portillo, who is employed by the YMCA, says there was another, more symbolic stumbling block to organized soccer in Gulfton: a lack of institutional support. But all that started changing in 1994, when the Gulfton Area Neighborhood Organization (GANO), the YMCA and Les Haulbrook, founder of a new nonprofit organization to promote soccer nationwide, pooled their expertise to start the southwest area league.
The league got a further boost this spring, when it joined Houston's newly created metropolitan soccer league run by the Parks and Recreation Department. Encouraged by the city and the U.S. Soccer Federation, corporate sponsors such as Fiesta and KTRK/Channel 13 agreed to give each child in the program free uniforms and insurance.
Even before that, though, young players had signed on enthusiastically to the league. It started out with 500 members, 19 years old and younger (most of the players are boys, but girls may join any team and, in fact, account for about 15 percent of the players). One year later, the southwest league has 44 teams and 650 members -- all of whom, it would seem, are running, chasing each other or shouting at the same time on this brilliantly hot Saturday. While the citywide program is meant to discourage gangs and draw inner-city youth into soccer, in heavily Hispanic Gulfton the league has also become an expression of community identity.
"If I weren't playing soccer, I'd be in a gang. Period," declares 18-year-old El Salvador native Antonio Flores. Shy with strangers, resplendent in his white and blue soccer uniform, Flores seems a different person than the one who spent two years in the Cholos, Gulfton's most notorious street gang. Flores came to the United States with his mother and sister in 1990 to improve their family's economic prospects; within two years, he'd joined the Cholos, more for the companionship than anything else.
Almost immediately, Flores started getting into trouble. His priorities, he says in Spanish punctuated by occasional English, were to "go dancing, esquipiar school and to do everything that was the opposite of good." Decked in the ubiquitous gang regalia of baggy Dickies pants and shirt decorated with gang nicknames, Flores butted heads with police constantly. The confrontations peaked in late 1993, when he was arrested for stealing a Toyota Corolla and spent a month in jail.
After he got out, Flores says, the complaints and warnings of adults in his life suddenly seemed to make sense, and he left the Cholos. But just as it's painful to gain entry into a gang -- a typical initiation rite includes a beating from other gang members -- getting out has been hard, too, Flores says. Gang members often ask him why he's "left the neighborhood," and Flores still works to avoid conflict with several former comrades who didn't take well to his quitting.
If he hadn't started showing up at the soccer field about three months after leaving detention, Flores says, he'd probably be back with the Cholos today: even after dropping out, he still went out with them at night and socialized. But playing in the league gave him a pretext to get in early at night and a place to be when he otherwise would have been hanging out with the Cholos.
"When I began to play, I realized: 'What's better, playing soccer or getting in trouble?' In a gang, everyone supports you. Nobody messes with you. (But) here, I've found my favorite sport, and the help of Don Mario," says Flores, whose use of "Don" in reference to the league director suggests deep respect. "He's a magnificent person. He's supported me a lot."