When the Ball Becomes Hope in Cuba
HAVANA TIMES – Sunset is often a relief for many: you get home from work, take a shower, prepare dinner, and relax with your family. The sun gives way, and there’s a pause—a necessary truce before a new day begins.
In Cuban neighborhoods, it’s different. That’s when a battle against time begins. Parents wait for their children, help them with backpacks full of books, and listen to their stories while they stoke the charcoal. Neighbors gather on street corners, greet each other, share a shot of rum, talk about the country’s situation, laugh, and try to forget.
Amid all that movement, an anonymous young man walks down the street carrying a worn-out pair of sneakers with patched soles—survivors of a thousand battles. He heads to a nameless patch of land, with no bleachers or professional goalposts, where other young people like him are waiting. Some are teenagers; others have bodies shaped by work or study—but all share a common passion: soccer.
I watch them run as if chasing something more than just a ball, doing so with moving intensity. They’re animals after their prey, and that match is the only moment they can truly be free. The field is uneven, and the ball has been patched up more than once.
They savor every second. They push, cheer each other on, fight for a goal as if they were playing for The Cup. They leave their souls on the field, even if the world doesn’t notice and their idols never see them. It’s their stage—the place where they can shine, where dreaming is allowed.
The ball moves from foot to foot, bounces from a knee to the ground, rises, and another foot catches it with a hypnotic synchronicity. They’re not confused; they know who to pass to, who to mark. There are no uniforms, no referees, no spectators—only them, their voices, and the trees: silent witnesses to a passion that never fades.
On rainy days the field fills with mud; playing becomes almost impossible—but no storm can extinguish their desire. They return when the last drops fall, take back the muddy field, and with soaked shoes recover lost time. They make the most of every last ray of light before heading home—drenched in sweat, clothes dirty, shoes patched or barefoot—but smiling. A smile born from the simple fact of having played, regardless of victory or defeat.
In the Cuba we live in, where anxiety takes hold of almost everything, it’s essential to notice the simplest details. “Put a little love into the things that are ugly,” said a song I used to hear as a child. And I don’t think this is just a trench to defend my sanity—though in moments like this, I feel that “sadness is changing color.”
Watching these young people reminds me that Cubans are built to survive. They don’t have uniforms, turf, or sponsors. They have heart—and for now, that seems to be enough.