Andrés Escobar story highlights World Cup’s importance

Imagine.

“10…9…8…7…”

Swish.

The game-winning shot is a dream played out so many times in driveways across the country. I lived the dream in my imagination from time to time.

Imagination is a big part of our love for sports. We can all make the big shot or be the star in our imaginations. For a few moments, we can escape reality and feel special.

I’m no soccer fan, but The Two Escobars documentary on ESPN was enthralling. The documentary kept my eyes glued to the television set for two hours. It told the story of sport, team, unity, and redemption in the face of drugs, violence, and senseless killing. While it seemed the violence won out in the end and the blood and bodies were fresh, other messages hit home harder.

One Escobar, Andrés was one of those senselessly killed. His blood sits fresh in my memory. But his life and the values he lived by are fresher. […]

Like I said, I’m no soccer fan, but Andrés Escobar’s story captivated me. He carried himself with such grace and dignity. He was the captain and leader of his team, a team trying to win a World Cup while trying to change its country’s reputation — one of drugs and violence — to one of greatness.

The team was special. It had imagination. The march towards greatness was within reach. The team and the country could feel it. The personality of the team infused the country with energy and hope. Colombia could dream and imagine again.

The dream took a terrible turn at the 1994 World Cup, though. Death threats weighed on the players going into their match with the United States after a shocking loss to Romania. Andrés Escobar’s own goal was the difference in that game and the dream, the shot at redemption was over before it started.

Escobar was distraught. He was the captain, the peaceful leader of the team and his mistake cost his team. But he was still a leader. And he wasn’t going to let his mistake impede his dreams for Colombia to become more than a drug hub. He wouldn’t let bad luck ruin the country’s imagination.
If he could overcome the catastrophe on the soccer field, Colombia could overcome all the violence and be the lively and vigorous country that supported that magical team leading up to the World Cup.

No matter how dark it gets, home always has magic — always has light. Dreams never die in your hometown or your homeland. The innocence of your childhood permeates the air. The possibilities for greatness know no boundaries. Taking pride in your home keeps your dreams and your spirit alive no matter where life takes you. It is always a part of you.

The youthful imagination never dies either.

Andrés Escobar took pride in Colombia even when there was plenty to be ashamed of. He may be gone, but his spirit is not. He’ll always be a part of Colombia. Every kid kicking a soccer ball dreaming of a better life is carrying on his legacy and one day, a group of kids may bring Colombia back into the world’s spotlight and claim the redemption that eluded the 1994 team.

And when that day comes, the world will remember the two Escobars and their amazing story. And the blood will wash away. The smoke will disappear, and Colombia will have its pride again.

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The World Cup isn’t terribly exciting to me. Soccer has never peaked my interest. The vuvuzelas are a nuisance. But the story of Andrés Escobar sadly puts it all into perspective. Sports can seem so meaningless and yet, the world is obsessed with the competition and the game and the tradition. Will the world really change if the United States wins it all or if the Boston Celtics had won Game Seven last week?

No.

But do sports matter? Does soccer — or fútbol — matter?

Andrés Escobar and so many others prove that they do matter. The games are inspiring. For the people of Colombia in the 1990s, soccer was imagination. It was inspiring and provided so many with hope. It was the game that all the kids could play from the poorest slums of Medillín to the capital city of Bogotá.

All they needed was a field, a ball, and an imagination.

Andrés Escobar and his teammates filled the imaginations of countless kids during their national team’s run. No doubt, Colombian children everywhere were wearing No. 2 in their minds, scoring the winning goal of that forgettable World Cup. Their imaginations were sparked by their homeland. They felt a special connection to that team and that’s why soccer mattered.

Soccer was never my game, but I was just like those kids running around in Colombia in the early ‘90s.

I loved playing basketball and baseball and I still do. I was always running up and down the court or practicing my swing. Sports were fun. I felt special. And I had a vivid imagination.

I hit plenty of game-winning shots in the driveway. I roped plenty of big hits with the old yellow wiffle ball bat. I was always dreaming and imagining.

Jersey numbers are a part of that imagination. The kids in Colombia probably had makeshift No. 2 jerseys to honor Escobar.

I wore plenty of numbers from Little League to high school, but I always wanted one that had some meaning. Some place in my imagination, in my heart, in my hometown.

I remember wearing No. 15 in eighth and ninth grade basketball to be like my dad who always wore 15. Earl “The Pearl” Monroe and Dick Allen captured his imagination as a kid so he always wore No. 15. He captured mine, so I wore it too.

I wore No. 23 for my summer league baseball teams in honor of Ryne Sandberg, my favorite baseball player of all-time. Playing second base and shortstop turning double plays was always a blast.

My senior year of basketball, I wore No. 12. My brother wore the number those two years of ball in eighth and ninth grade. So, I chose No. 12. John Stockton is one of the greatest point guards of all-time, too. I emulated his style of play as best I could.

While the jersey and the number never affected my play and don’t mean much of anything, it kept my imagination alive. It made me want to live up to the numbers I chose because it was important to me.

This past year, with the competitive playing days of high school gone, I played intramural basketball at college. There were no crowds or coaches or box scores in the paper the next day. Our jerseys were plain T-shirts with numbers on the back. It was still exciting to see the numbers to choose from. It took me back to my childhood and everything I worked for.

I wore No. 15.

I carried a little piece of home with me, hoping to honor it even if it was just intramurals. The games were meaningless. Forty minutes of basketball in the rec center. But my imagination, my love for the game born in my hometown made it meaningful.

For those forty minutes, winning that game and playing well meant everything. And so did the number on my back.

The World Cup is more of a punch line in the United States. It’s meaningless. And I haven’t respected it either. But for a month every summer every four years, I can see why it means everything to so many countries. It’s not about soccer. It’s about a love for home and country that gives meaning to so many lives that aren’t out on that field.

Somewhere, there’s a kid dreaming to play to the hum of the vuvuzelas. Dreaming of making that game-winning goal to lift his country to greatness. And whether that dream comes true or not doesn’t matter.

The beauty is in the dream and the imagination.