Cuernavaca, Mexico—At first glance, the flat patch of land in the midst of the hilly town did not leave a strong impression. It could have been an abandoned parking lot, considering its dreary appearance. Completely built of concrete, the land was a rectangular space of perhaps 50 yards by 20 yards and had a perimeter that was fully covered by tall iron walls.

On one particular Friday night, however, I walked past the area and found a surprise. Inside the jail-type setting, a game of soccer was thriving. A group of perhaps 20 young men—late teens and early twenties, I would later learn—were quickly hustling up and down the pitch, playing competitively and maintaining a constant flow of talk.

The game was nothing like a soccer game might be in America. There were no bleachers or parents, and there was no grass or lighting equipment. The goals—which had no net—were made of thin iron posts that would shake and wobble after being struck by a shot. Immediately, watching the players in motion, I was interested in the game. Luckily, I was carrying an extra pair of shoes in my backpack. After watching the game idly for several minutes, I approached the edge of the fence and asked to join.
For two weeks up until this point, I had been known mostly as the gringo. Many times, the title was due to the blue-and-white seersucker shorts I always wore, and other times it was a result of my pale, office-setting-induced skin tone. Still, in the moment, nearing the rest of the players, I did not care about my gringo label—I just wanted to play.

My Spanish was passable, but no language was necessary. As I walked onto the pitch, feeling small rocks slide beneath my shoes, the goalkeeper on the far side left his position to join the midfield, leaving the keeper position open to me.
“I can play there,” I said in Spanish, taking my position.

I am not an especially big guy, standing a couple inches shy of six feet tall. But on this night, in comparison to the other players, I was a giant. Standing in my keeper position, my head could almost reach the top of the makeshift goal. And on the few occasions that I leapt to retrieve a lofted pass, I easily could out-jump my fellow players, drawing surprised looks from the opposing team.
In my half hour in the box, I was not a great keeper, but in the eyes of my new teammates I was a spectacle. And as my teammates studied me, I studied them.

Almost uniformly, the players could handle the ball well. Passes and traps were crisp, and instead of constantly pressing forward toward the goal, the players would often pass the ball back when necessary. Clearly, these guys could play.
Even though the guys could play well and were all in somewhat decent shape, most looked nothing like athletes. The best defender on my team was the quickest player on the pitch, but he might have been five feet tall. The best player in the midfield had a round, melon-sized stomach. And during the first break in action, I was faced with another surprise: half of the players smoked.

Less than an hour into the game, I got a chance to move to offense. Bored with the keeper position, but somewhat nervous with my ball-handling skills, I took my new position at the front of the team. I played poorly at first, turning the ball over several times and badly missing the few shots I took. But as time passed, I grew more comfortable, and I eventually set up two goals with touch passes, drawing high fives from my teammates. My best moment, however, came near the end. With the sun descending and precious moments of daylight disappearing, I intercepted a low-lined goal kick and moved toward the goal at a full sprint. Getting by the first defender, I came upon the keeper one-on-one. Fortunately, he moved from the goal too fast and somewhat too far, giving me a chance. Moving to the right with ball sharply, I created an angle between the ball and the open goal. And moving quickly, I buried the shot behind him.

The moment of joy was as fleeting as it was intense, but I felt as though it lasted longer. I ran back to the opposite side of the field with my arms outstretched shouting like a soccer announcer, “Goooooool,” trying to high five as many teammates as possible. Most grinned at my antics, sharing the excitement. And in the celebratory moment, I felt as though I had been somewhat transformed. Outside of the soccer pitch, I had just been the gringo from America, the one who wore strange shorts and spoke with a thick accent. But inside the iron gates, hustling up and down the makeshift concrete pitch, my background and nationality were unimportant. Because of sport, I was able to shed my gringo exterior and become simply a guy who could run, shoot, and pass.

Because of the sport, I became one of the guys.