Something beautiful is happening in Steamboat.
"Wait," you say, "beautiful things are always happening in Steamboat." Every sunrise is a beautiful rosy glow, rising over Mount Werner, and every sunset is a burning lamentation, wishing for more time and slowly giving in to the stars. Each season celebrates with its own smile, from the flowers of spring to the rushing storms of summer; from the crashing waves on the Yampa to the winding singletrack on Emerald. Autumn's foliate fireworks fizzle in the first snows, and the first frosty mornings whisper of the coming winter... snow... silence... the mountains.
Steamboat is some sort of aesthetic party. The natural beauty is mirrored in the people that live here: everyone full of passion and talent. The dance community sometimes feels like sweaty Manhattan studios, all rhythm and life and movement. When they're playing jazz down in Bella's Lounge, you could be anywhere on earth, sipping wine, letting eardrums do as sailboats do.
Surrounded by all this beauty, there's something else. Something that makes Steamboat feel less like an isolated mountain town, and more like a strand woven into the fabric of the global community. It's the game that inspires the world,
o jogo bonito...The Beautiful Game.
On fall afternoons, in classic Steamboat sunshine and even-more-classic Steamboat sleet and rain, on grass that wavered between solid and liquid, I watched a group of seventeen 11-year-old boys transform into international superstars.
Every Tuesday and Thursday, they came from school to practice on their bikes or in their parents' cars. They fiddle with their cellphones: an awkward piece of technology in the hands of child whose own imagination can dwarf everything on the internet. They wear floppy hats and brightly-colored clown shoes. They are rag-tag and seem to try to be that way. But then, like magic, they put on neatly-fit uniforms, shorts, and cleats, and suddenly they look like the men they will become: respectful of themselves and others, hard-working, talented, confident.
We go through warm-ups, stretches, and we begin to focus our energies on our bodies, our work ethic, the ebb and flow of the game. The world outside falls away; all that matters is between the lines on the field. The only people we can count on are our teammates. We are all we need.
There is so much to learn in the beautiful game. Just as a painter needs to learn his colors and brushstrokes before he can make a masterpiece, and the musician has to learn his scales and chords before he can improvise, so our team needs to learn the technical aspects of the game. The ball needs to be struck properly, both to propel it forward and to halt its movement. Our bodies need to be trained to duck and dive, to feint and swerve, to accelerate and to spin. On the field we are a web of potential passes, each player spatially aware, making angles to support his teammate's pass. In the beautiful game, we don't always go forward. In fact, sometimes the best attack is to go backward, or sideways, waiting for the defense to expose a weakness, an opportunity, a singular moment when nothing else matters except a round leather ball, space, and time.
In that moment, as the music of the earth rises to crescendo, 11-year-old Jason becomes David Beckham, driving a ball into the air.
Matai becomes Gareth Bale, lightning fast with the ball.
Noel is Gerard Pique, commanding a defense so strong it is made of stone, and Eli is Carles Puyol, giving all his effort to the team.
Jacob becomes Cristiano Ronaldo, attacking a defender with unwavering confidence.
Cruz flies through the air like Tim Howard, and Sven slices forward with the agility of Lionel Messi.
Anders is Alex Song, battling with his body and soul, and Will C becomes Maicón, stopping the opponent in his tracks and then turning upfield, full-speed.
Willy B is Michael Essien, dominating every blade of grass from one goal line to the other.
Jake is Wayne Rooney, dancing over the ball as if he were made of magic, and Quintin is Nemanja Vedic, defending every attacker as a point of personal pride.
Grant Becomes Landon Donovan, breaking into open space with intelligence and precision, and Ethan becomes Thierry Henry, fast as a bolt of lightning.
Luke is Xavi Hernandez, sending a pass so perfect it was carved in marble.
Max is Drew Moor, wearing his heart on his sleeve, holding his ground like a lion protecting his pride.
Nick is Didier Drogba, blasting forward like a ballistic missile, on his way to space.
And as the sun goes down, over Emerald Mountain, the chill of the evening air sneaks into our shirtsleeves. We huddle together and talk about what we've learned. Maybe I can teach these boys about the beautiful game. But I realize that Soccer itself is a better teacher than I'll ever be. If these boys will listen to the game, as it speaks to them, they'll learn how to be good men. They'll learn how to work hard, be selfless, and be patient. They'll learn to accept success and failure with grace, and to push on in the face of adversity.
The boys take off their cleats and put their funny pastel shoes back on. Their cellphones light up again. They shuffle off toward the land of lights and cars, but now the Beautiful Game is inside them.
