An Illustrated Guide to Soccer & Spanish
by Elliott Turner
Illustrated by Erik Ebeling
Copyright © 2011 by Round Ball Media LLC
All rights reserved.
www.futfanatico.com
www.erikebelingart.com
Digital book(s) (epub and mobi) produced by: Kimberly A. Hitchens, [email protected]
CONTENTS
Foreword
Introduction
Chapter One: The Basic Concepts in Soccer
Chapter Two: Ephemeral Goals & Eternal Glory
Chapter Three: Creation Meets Destruction
Chapter Four: Connecting the Dots
Chapter Five: The Dark Art of Denial
Chapter Six: The Threshold of Greatness
Chapter Seven: Managing the Chaos
Chapter Eight: The Arbitrariness of Discretion
Chapter Nine: The Foundation of Support
Soccer Dictionary: Spanish to English
Soccer Dictionary: English to Spanish
Biographies
Foreword
by Brian Phillips
NOBODY checks ESPN for the weather, but under the right circumstances it can show you the
cultural climate. How many times has this happened to you since the Worldwide Leader started
emphasizing soccer: you switch to the channel eagerly anticipating some exciting match, only to find
that it's running the second half of Bolton-Wigan instead. If you want to watch, say, BarcelonaValencia, or Dortmund-Munich, or even Boca-River, you'll have to buy GolTV or ESPN Deportes.
It doesn't take a genius to see that globalization is pulling American soccer culture in two directions
– East and South. On the one hand, the pace, power, and passion of the Barclays Premier League is
almost unbelievably accessible by historic standards, making it easy for scarf-trailing fans, many of
them new to the game, to pile into pubs on Saturday mornings for Martin Tyler's Breakfast of
Anglophiles. On the other hand, the influx of Hispanic immigrants into the United States over the last
decade or so has opened up a vast new soccer-loving demographic – one that, if you can believe this,
may not care all that much about Arsenal.
These two fan bases have one big thing in common – they love the game – but they're still fairly
separate. ESPN execs assume that English-speaking fans mostly want Premier League games and,
failing that, a few top teams from Europe. The same executives assume Spanish-speaking fans want
exciting games from a wider geographical range, including Mexico and South America. Within MLS,
it's not uncommon for Hispanic fans – who accounted for 40% of all match attendees in 2009 – to
have separate supporters groups, even if those groups get along well with their anglophone
counterparts. There's not, generally speaking, a lot of suspicion or animosity between the two fan
cultures, just a sense that they're leading parallel lives within a media landscape that's big and diverse
enough to cater to both of them.
And that's fine, up to a point, but it's also a missed opportunity. American culture has always moved
forward by juxtaposition, clamor, and synthesis. Take one group from X and one group from Y, throw
them together in lower Manhattan, and presto, something happens. That there was often a record of
historical wrong behind these syntheses, from Thanksgiving dinner to bebop, doesn't change the fact
that the results were often stunning. For that matter, they were often stunning in ways that helped to
change history for the better.
It's tremendously exciting to think that the future of American soccer could lie along a similar path.
Put them in close enough contact and Anglophone fan culture and Hispanic fan culture could
transform each other as unpredictably as Louis Armstrong transformed Tin Pan Alley. When you
change languages, you change concepts, and when you combine languages, you get new concepts. To
me, that's one key to forming a really deep and distinctive American soccer culture. But before that
can happen, fans have to be able to talk to each other. That's where this book comes in. Elliott has
done his part to put the two big fan bases in contact with each other, and the results are astonishing in
the best tradition of the game.
This is a funny book, a smart book, an educational book, and an entertaining book, but above all it's
a deeply useful book. Let the new age begin.
Introduction
A Doorway to Soccer & Spanish
ACROSS continents and in hundreds of languages, soccer captivates the attention and
imagination of millions. For ninety minutes, we sit on the edge of our seats, waiting for a flash of
brilliance, the rippling of a net, and the cathartic cry of “gooooooaaaallllll!” Yet if the simplicity of
the game unites us, the diversity of languages still impedes basic understanding between fans. The
Tower of Babel has fallen, and it is up to us to lay a new foundation.
As a second generation chicano, I consider myself the vanguard of the Hispanic wave crashing into
the United States. Yet as mainstream media and sports make good faith efforts to embrace Latin
customs, values, and linguistic nuances, one phrase burns my ears like a fingernail on chalkboard: “En
Fuego.” In English, the term “on fire” refers to a player enjoying a great game or recent run of form.
It is derived from a classic basketball video game, when a “hot” player literally caught on fire. But
translated into Spanish, it means nothing.
Yet this is just the tip of the iceberg. And my biracial roots yearned to help Anglophones understand
and appreciate the picardía of the beautiful game. Thus, this guide. My goal was to clearly explain and
translate soccer terms from Spanish to English. I relied heavily on fieldwork, having myself studied or
worked in Spain, Argentina, the Dominican Republic, and Nicaragua. I am also indebted to chicano
teammates who clarified the myriad expressions both on the field of play and at post-game asados
[barbecues].
Out of necessity, this guide favors linguistic approximation to grammatical precision. Meaning
cannot be dissected so easily from culture. Comprehension cannot always be grafted simply onto
another language. Often, nuances enrich understanding. The fact that an object caersele [falls] from a
person's hands, rather than gets dropped by that person, reflects fundamental differences in how the
Anglophone and Latin cultures view individual autonomy and responsibility. My goal was to capture
the literal and the meaning as closely as possible.
And, of course, I wrote this guide because I love the sport of soccer. I have played, coached, and
breathed the sport for well over a decade. Cable television and the internet now offer unparalleled
access to futbol [soccer]. I hope that this guide will expand fans' access to often delightful Spanish
language broadcasts. And perhaps even a few lesser-known Latin American leagues.
Accordingly, think of me as your own Malinche. Just as Cortez relied on the proud indigenous
woman to translate between the local languages, this guide will translate and explain soccer terms as
spoken in Spain, Mexico, Central America, and South America. Despite diligent field research,
inevitably some countries and regional vernaculars will be excluded. Thus, this guide is a starting
point, not an authoritative tome. You will at least learn to never again say “En Fuego.”
Chapter One
The Basic Concepts in Soccer
SOCCER'S simplicity has played a rise in its popularity. The most basic rule is that a jugador/a
[player] cannot touch the pelota [ball] with his or her manos [hands]. Only one player, the goalie, can
touch the ball with his or her hands. And only while in the area near his or her own goal. This central
rule, no hands, goes against human nature - our development as a species owes much to cognition, but
also to our opposable thumbs. When a ball or object flies our way, the instinct is to reach out, to shield
one’s self with his or her arms. And therein lies the fundamental skill and intrigue of the sport reducing the unnatural to a graceful and fluid movement.
If hands are off limits, then what can a player do? He or she can use almost any other part of the
body. The most commonly used body part is the pie [foot]. Please note that pie is not pronounced like
a delicious American apple pie that you eat - rather, it is two syllables, “pee” and “eh.” The right foot
is the pie derecho. Thus, one could technically say that the left foot is the pie izquierdo. However, a
left-footed player kicks with his or her zurdo/a. And zurdo/a is also the adjective for these players,
among them the great Diego Maradona.
And that brings us to the most basic of tasks: the kicking of a soccer ball. While humans have pies
and animals have patas [hoofs], curiously, the common term for kicking a soccer ball is patear. This
peculiarity could be attributed to the necessary back lift when kicking a soccer ball. Like a stationary
horse kicking up dust, a player must first pull his or her foot back before propelling it forward. One
could also employ the verb rematar [to strike]. Also, several words exist for soccer ball, including
pelota, balón, and bola.
Multitudinous ways exist to kick a ball. A player that launches a high-flying and aimless ball
forward has just kicked a balonazo. A smart and subtle player who prefers neat ten-foot passes to
teammates will be praised for being able to tocar la pelota. Tocar means to touch, and also means to
play an instrument. Thus, when Xavi Herandez of Barcelona sprays a hundred tidy passes in a single
game, he might as well be playing the flute. Also, a player with good feet that can receive a difficult
pass in a single touch has a good primer toque. If a player prefers to play first-time passes, then he or
she likes to tocar de primera. Primero/a means first, and is both an adjective and an adverb.
But why do they kick the ball? To what end? At each side of the field, there are two netted cages
referred to as “goals” in English. In Spanish, two terms exist: puerta and arco. Puerta, common in
Spain, also means “door.” This is fitting, because the soccer goal is the entryway to victory. At the end
of a partido [game], the team that scores the most goals will ganar [win]. Meanwhile, the preferred
term in South America, arco, reflects the arched shape of the goal. To score a goal, the ball must enter
the puerta or arco of the other equipo [team]. A goalie is known as a portero/a or arquero/a.
While soccer has certain regulations for the size of a playing field, all games are played on a campo
[field]. Generally, the field consist of natural grass. In Spain, you would say césped for grass. In
Mexico, you could say pasto. In Central America, many say grama. Yes, grama. No, not grandma.
When two words in different languages sound similar and share the same meaning, they are cognates.
However, when two words in different languages sound similar but have different meanings, they are
false cognates. Beware the false cognates; they are killers of conversation and provokers of blushes.
For an artificial surface, the common term is pasto sintético, which means synthetic grass.
Regardless of the quality of the campo, most games take place in a cancha. Cancha is the specific
term for a sporting field, akin to the UK English term “pitch.” If the game is played by professionals,
it probably takes place in an estadio [stadium]. However, in many countries in South America, even
when a game is played in a stadium, the preferred term is cancha. Cancha is not to be confused with a
similar sounding pejorative term, also common in South America.
Each team fields eleven players at a single time, including the goalie. Usually, a team fields three or
four players in front of the goalie. Their basic task is to prevent the opposition from scoring.
Individually, each single player is a defensor/a. However, collectively, they form la defensa. This
raises another distinction between English and Spanish: gender. In Spanish, like other romance
languages, a noun is either masculine or feminine. Singular feminine nouns end in “a” and the
corresponding article is “la.” Masculine nouns end in “o” and start with “el.” So defense, that bastion
of masculinity and muscular might, is feminine. Throughout this guide, nouns will end in an “o/a.”
This represents a noun which can be either male or female.
In front of the defensa and the goalie, usually four or five players will have the dubious task of both
defending and playing offense. They are often called mediocampistas. The campista comes from
campo, and medio/a means half. Another common term is volante, and is derived from the term volar,
which means “to fly.” This is very similar to the UK English term for a wide midfielder: winger. The
modern game has imposed a series of sub-duties on mediocampistas. We will explore these tasks later.
For now, know that teams prefer a fleet-footed angel of darkness like Dutch midfielder Arjen Robben.
Close to the opposition’s goal lurks one or two players, usually the best paid on the squad. Their
task appears simple yet remains as elusive as grasping mercury: kicking or heading the ball into the
back of the red [net]. They are the forwards. In Spanish, they are delanteros/as. This term derives
from delante, the word for forward. Forwards range in size and skill, from the short but quick to the
tall and strong. What they have in common is an insatiable appetite to do one thing: marcar un gol
[score a goal].
One may ask - who are the bespectacled men and women standing on the sidelines in proper dinner
attire, futilely shouting, waiving, and, in many cases, arguing with the árbitro/a [referee]? The
American term is coach, but in the UK “manager” is more common. In Spanish, they are
entrenadores/as. The term comes from entrenar, which means “to train.” Their personalities and
methods vary like the colors in a rainbow, but they all share one thing in common: if their team loses,
fingers get pointed in their direction.
With twenty-two moving bodies on one field, individuals inevitably clash. Who separates the good
boys and girls from the bad ones? The árbitro/a and the asistentes [assistants]. Make no mistake - in a
game of few stoppages in play, two 45 minute halves, and close scorelines, referees have a job best
described as duro [hard] and difícil [difficult]. Yet, as we will later see, not all players and fans have
respect for these hard-working men and women.
Lastly, the entire spectacle of sport owes much to me and you. Without a mass of aficionados/as
[fans], clubs could never afford to build stadiums, much less fill them day-in and day-out. We form la
afición. Different words exist for the various subsections of fans. Socios/as generally pay for season
tickets, while the barra brava raises a ruckus inside and outside of the stadium.
Each component plays a part in the soccer ecosystem. Fans provide the financial spine, referees
enforce the rules, managers give press conferences, and players kick a ball for ninety minutes.
Somewhere in between, magia [magic] happens.
Chapter Two
Ephemeral Goals & Eternal Glory
IN soccer, goals may not abound, but the handful per game come in different flavors and sizes.
The basic Spanish term for a goal is gol. See how simple that was? But what happens when a goal
blows your mind? How do you describe a goal that results from either a brilliant individual run or a
spell of neat passing? One word: golazo. In the 1986 World Cup quarterfinals, Diego Maradona
danced through half of England's team before scoring a goal. That was a golazo. Eight years earlier, in
the World Cup final, Brazil connected consecutive passes the length of the field and scored a golazo of
collective majesty.
Yet for all the talk of golazos, soccer clubs put a high premium on players that regularly score
pedestrian-looking goals. Why? In a low-scoring game, often a single goal suffices for victory. Clubs
scour the world over for one simple skill set: finishing. In Spanish, this skill set is referred to as
definir. In laymen terms, a forward must read and react first to a teammate's pass, and then have the
peace of mind to direct the pass into the goal with a deft touch or hard shot. Simple in theory, difficult
in practice.
As discussed earlier, hands are off limits. Accordingly, players score most goals with either the
cabeza [head] or the pie [foot]. The Spanish term for a header is cabezazo. The word for a shot, when
the foot strikes the ball, would be either disparo or tiro. The verbs for physically striking the ball with
a body part are rematar and pegar. The term for when a player strikes a hard shot with his or her foot
is zapatazo. Basically, when in doubt, just pick a noun in Spanish that you know and add “azo.” The
statistics favor you.
Obviously, height plays a role in how many cabezazos a forward will win. However, timing,
anticipation, and positioning also play a role. Manchester United forward Javier Hernandez may be a
bit bajo [short] compared to most defenders, yet he has a knack for scoring headers. Yes, he can saltar
[jump] quite high, but he also jumps first. He has also scored plenty of goles de palomita [diving
headers], where he dives forward and heads the ball while only a few feet off the ground.
Several players have cannons for legs and routinely score goals from long-distance shots. During
his prime at Real Madrid, Brazilian left-back Roberto Carlos scored various goals from over forty
yards. Part of his secret was strength, or, in Spanish, his tiro [shot] was duro. Another important
aspect was his shot's wonderfully deceptive spin, or English. The ball's flight often bent around the
defense and just out of the reach of the arquero/a [goalie]. This spin or English is referred to as efecto.
How did Roberto Carlos find the time to tee up such a shot? Well, when a defender fouls a rival, the
referee awards a free kick that often results in a direct shot on goal. Roberto Carlos feasted on free
kicks during his career. And goalies feared his thunderous banana kicks.
In addition to free kicks, a referee awards a corner kick if a defender kicks a ball out past his or her
own team's end-line. As punishment, the forward's team gets to whip in a cross from the corner flag,
usually resulting in a decent chance at scoring a goal. The typical formula for a corner kick is crossheader-goal. But some players break the mold. Some players attempt the audacious. Some players try
to score a direct golazo by whipping in a shot with efecto. Juan Roman Riquelme, former Argentine
midfielder, fits this bill. On two occasions, he has managed to score a direct goal off a corner kick.
The name for this Herculean feat? Gol olímpico.
In Peru, an informal, recreational game is often referred to as a pichanga. In these games, with no
game-clock available, teams usually play until one team gets tired, bored, or angry. Sometimes,
though, to end the game, the sides agree that the last team to score wins. This last goal is known as a
gol de oro [golden goal]. FIFA attempted a similar rule for the World Cup in 1998, but public outcry
led to its prompt revocation. Paraguay will go down in history as the only team to lose to a gol de oro
in official competition, falling at the hands of France in the quarterfinals.
The apex of wonder-goals is the bicycle kick. What is a bicycle kick? Basically, with his or her back
to goal, a forward tosses himself or herself into the air, lifts his or her legs over the head, and volleys a
cross for a goal. In English, the term is bicycle kick. However, the Spanish term is not bicicleta.
Rather, because a Chilean-Spaniard first mastered the move in the Copa América [South American
regional championship], the Argentine press dubbed this move a chilena. The move is exceedingly
difficult, but, when pulled off, it elicits a mix of shouts and incredulous silence. During the 2011
Premiership campaign, Wayne Rooney scored a game-winning chilena against cross-town rival
Manchester City. And the crowd needed a few moments to collect its breath before cheering.
Golazos aside, some forwards have exceptional foot-speed and score by being rápidos/as. Others
have excellent aim with their shot, scoring due to their fine puntería [aim]. A handful of forwards
have the calmness to lift their head and, despite a charging goalie, regatear al arquero/a [step around
the keeper]. Yet some forwards exist on a plane above all others. Their goals come neither from
athleticism nor aim, but rather timing. These forwards anticipate the game with extreme cunning, and
are always in the right place at the right time. How do we describe these ugly goals that appear the
product of luck, but result from clever positional play? The churrigol. And who was the king of the
churrigol? Filippo Inzaghi of AC Milan.
Just as indigenous tribes of the Great Plains of North America used every part of the buffalo,
Filippo Inzaghi has scored a goal with almost every part of his body. While purists suspect a lack of
eye-head and eye-foot coordination, surely the Italian deserves credit for effective improvisation. For
example, in the 2007 Champions League final between AC Milan and Liverpool, Inzaghi deflected an
Andrea Pirlo shot with his shoulder to score the crucial first goal. Pundits can question his intentions,
but Inzaghi scoffs at such suggestions. His champion's medal is consolation for these criticisms.
Yet there is also a dark side to Inzaghi's game. He often violates one of the more complicated rules
of the game: offside. Offside, fuera de lugar in Spanish, requires an offensive player to be level with
the last defender before he or she can receive a pass. The purpose of the rule was to punish cherrypickers. In the early history of the game, players who wanted an easy goal would stand alone up the
field. While versions of the rule date back as far as the 1800's, the 1990 amendment technically only
requires the forward to be level with the second-to-last opposition player. However, since most goalies
stand in their box all game, this usually means the last defender.
Given the scarcity and importance of goals, one would assume that fans would sing praises upon
churrigol-scorers. However, the modern game's obsession with not conceding goals puts these forward
maestros/as [masters] in an odd position: hired to score goals, they receive criticism for not
defending. The Spanish terms for this style of player reflect the negative perception. In Argentina, the
common term is pescador/a. This term translates to fisherman, and fishing is not a sport synonymous
with athleticism or effort. One could easily envision Manchester United legend Ruud Van Nistelrooy
standing in a stream, a mile offside, and waiting for a nibble in the form of a David Beckham cross.
The term pescador/a also means poacher, which at least brings to mind spears and a hunter-in-wait.
That is slightly better than fisherman. Sadly, the term in Central American Spanish is even less
flattering: repollero/a. Repollo means cabbage, and is the sliced, inexpensive, and tasteless salad of
choice that accompanies most food sold by street vendors. A forward who is a repollero/a similarly
feasts on the scraps of half-chances, goalie miscues, rebotes [rebounds], awkward back-passes, and
defensive blunders.
At the end of the European season, the player in a European league with the most goals wins the
prestigious bota de oro [golden boot]. In Spain, the humorously sounding pichichi is the premio
[award] for the top Spanish club artillero/a [goalscorer]. Thus, with all the premios and plaudits,
being a successful striker can certainly go to a player's head. But with recognition comes
responsibility. A forward that has the misfortune to fallar [miss] a chance, or several chances, will
soon find his rump warming a bench. Or out of a job.
Chapter Three
Creation Meets Destruction
IN the middle of the field, the game pulls the same player in different directions. On the one hand,
a team must score goals to win. Thus, midfielders, known as mediocampistas or volantes, will
sometimes rush forward to try and create a scoring chance. On the other hand, a team cannot concede
too many goals. Accordingly, midfielders also must patrol in front of defenders and sometimes their
own goal. Yet space conspires against them. A player occupies a physical plane and can only exist in
one part of the field at one time. The solution? Running. And lungs of steel.
Generally, a team will field either four or five mediocampistas at one time. Formations vary, but
among those players, some patrol the banda [sideline] and others roam in the middle of the field. The
players in the middle of the field are known as centrocampistas, mediocentros/as, or volantes. The
players who roam out wide are known in English as a “wide midfielder” or “winger.” Multiple
Spanish terms exist for wingers. One such word is carrilero/a. The name derives from the term carríl,
which means “lane.” The concept is simple: these players generally move vertically, from North to
South, as if restricted to their plot of the field like a train to its tracks.
In other countries, wide midfielders also are known as extremos/as. Not surprisingly, extremo/a
means “extreme” and refers to these players' wide position on either sideline. In terms of defense,
extremos/as usually try to prevent the opposing team's defenders from effectively getting forward. If
the defender ventures into the attack, a carrilero/a will shadow him or her. In regards to offense, the
task is not so simple: the creation of goals. And it's different strokes for different folks.
Some extremos/as prefer the visually delightful art of dribbling. In the 1960's, Manchester United
rose to success on the back of George Best, a wizard with the ball at his feet who had the peculiar
habit of dribbling around, through, and between defenders. The Spanish term for a dribble move is
regate. The corresponding verb is regatear. The contemporary master of the dribble is Argentine
Lionel Messi, who dances, jukes, and bursts by stronger but stagnant defenders. Like redwoods rooted
to the ground, they helplessly sway at the diminutive extremo.
While regate refers to the general art of dribbling, particular moves have embedded themselves in
soccer fans' collective consciousness. In the late 1990's, Brazil produced a dazzling dribbling
delantero by the name of Ronaldo. Nicknamed el Fenómeno [the phenomenon], Ronaldo was the
master of the step-over. What is a step-over? Basically, he would roll the ball in front of him while
approaching a defender, but dart his legs in front of the ball, one after the other. The unusual
movement mesmerized defenders, while the moderate speed allowed him to change direction on a
dime. It was a devastating combination. In Spanish, this move is known as bicicletas due to the legs'
horizontal pedaling motion.
In the mid-2000's, another Brazilian stole the spotlight: Ronaldinho Gaucho. The buck-toothed
winger guided Barcelona to numerous La Liga titles and a Champions League crown. Ronaldinho
combined raw athleticism with elastic legs and quicksilver-fast feet. He also was the master of a
distinct move: the elástico. Just as England defender John Terry failed to grapple with the elástico in
the flesh, the English language has failed to adequately name this monstrosity of a move. Informally,
some Americans refer to it as “the snake.” But what is an elástico? Usually while standing still,
Ronaldinho would use his foot to push the ball in one direction, but then snap the same foot and ball in
another direction. The elástico thus mimicked the smooth sideways movement of a snake, leaving the
legs of mammalian defenders in a mess.
The self-pass ranks among the more audacious dribbling moves. Philosophically, the pass
represents the best of human kind: one teammate willingly shares the ball with another. What could be
nicer? To pass to one's self embodies selfishness beyond comprehension. In Spanish, the term is
autopase. The term auto roughly translates to “self”, similar to automotive. An autopase usually
requires more timing than foot-skills. A clever forward waits for an off-balanced defender to
approach, and then slots the ball to one side of the defender and runs around the other. Unless, of
course, that forward is Robinho of AC Milan and he pulls off a famed sombrero.