Paying It Forward Barça Style

During the academic year of 2004-2005, I studied abroad in Barcelona. I fell in love with everything there from the culture, to my Catalan friends, to pa' amb tomaquet (toast with olive oil and tomato guts spread all over it). One of my great passions that year abroad was one of the greatest European soccer teams: FC Barcelona ("Barça" for short). In Spring 2005 FCB won La Liga Española championship, and I witnessed a province-wide party erupt in our streets. It was more magical than Disneyland to a 5 year-old.

One of the only obstacles hindering my love for Barça was money. A semi-broke college student fighting a strengthening exchange rate and hefty international withdrawal fees, the ATM near-killed me every time I withdrew cash. Our program leaders advised us to not open a Spanish bank account because of the hassle and time it would take to activate an overseas account. To save money, we only withdrew when we had to and took the largest amount possible -keeping fees to a minimum. With eyes wide to experience everything around us, we all learned to scrimp and grunge it up when possible. This meant I only bought tickets for Barça twice that year -and pined from afar on the television the rest of the time.

The first game I witnessed live became the top 3rd coolest experience of my soccer-filled life. When I was 13 years-old, I played in an international tournament in Belgium. Being the oldest, most-experienced player, I merged into a captain position -a leader among younger girls. Our team of American pre-teens made it to the final round against a Dutch girls' team and almost won. In the last few minutes of the tied 0-0 game, I broke away from my position at right fullback and almost scored. Encountering a Dutch defender, I faked left, pulled right, and snap!, tore my anterior cruciate ligament. In the last 10 minutes of the game, an injury crippled me, and the Dutch girls scored. We lost 1-0. The memories from that tournament, though painful, make up my 2nd coolest soccer experience. My all-time favorite soccer memory was attending the '99 Womens' World Cup and sitting by the goal where Brandi Chastain took off her shirt after scoring the winning goal. Obviously, that will always remain Number One. Anyway, allow me to refocus on FCB for a moment.

Barcelona is an extremely proud soccer town that represents their culture in as much as their internationally applauded team. I remember the game so clearly as if it were just recently. We walked from our residence hall to Camp Nou -just blocks away. We drank 1-liter sized cervezas in the streets as we passed police, and they didn't blink an eye. Once near the Camp, we joined the masses as we greeted Barça for their pre-season opener against Milan. The crowd went somber and patriotic for a team that represents their culture to the world -which is Catalan and defiantly not Spanish. It is evident in their uniforms, which don Catalan yellow and red stripes on the back collar, and in their anthem, which I could not sing because I did not yet know the pronuncian of the Catalan words. In the crowd, twenty-something proud visitors supported a banner with the words (in English): "CATALONIA IS NOT SPAIN." The message was clear that this team is about a people that desires recognition for its pride and difference. The Catalans are so proud of their culture and, in that, their team.

The anthem was sung as huge, billowing maroon and blue flags covered the field with confetti and streamers. As we witnessed the beginning of history from our field-level seats behind the goal (the poor section) and tried climbing seats to see the game, history was made in my own mind. I became a fan and fell for a team which I will always have a soft spot for, for so many than the typical international reason that they are just a great team.

When my year in Barcelona came to a close, not long after the streets flourished with celebratory fiesta for our campeons, I stood in the Corte Inglés of Plaça Catalunya in the futbol section. I picked up an authentic jersey and a limited edition champions t-shirt. How I pined for both but the checkbook said, "Cuidado, nena." In the end, I got the jersey for my dad and kept the t-shirt for myself. The t-shirt said on the back, in Catalan, "S'acaba la liga, s'comença una era" (the league ends, an era begins). Though the shirt was really cool, I always regretted not having bought two jerseys, one for me and one for Dad, in addition to the t-shirt. At the time, I just couldn't justify it to myself; I'd become so wary of money. In the end, I would rather give the special collector's jersey to my dad than keep it for myself. For me, just the t-shirt would do.

Three years later, I found myself in Oregon at the Nike campus with a friend who has a connection to the company. Inside, meeting a friend of a friend, we came upon a cubicle decorated with international soccer paraphernalia. Mini soccer balls, official replicas of international teams sponsored by Nike, donned the tops of the cube walls like candy atop barbed wire. Within the cubicle walls hung official jersey after jersey of professional teams from all over the world. To my delight, there hung like a beacon among the rest, the jersey of my team, FC Barça.

I excitedly told our friend how I am a life-long soccer fiend and how cool his job is. With someone of my history, I could not imagine the happiness I could gain from playing with soccer equipment all day long and get paid to do it. In addition, I casually mentioned that I lived in Barcelona for a year and that FCB was very special to me.

This is when miracles happen, and the grace of paying it forward will always surprise you. When you "pay forward" a favor, an act of grace or humility, you never expect a future reward. Rather, paying it forward in nature exists an act of good will -like spreading kindness just for the sake that good deeds catch on like wildfire. I gave my dad the jersey back in 2005 because I didn't feel right not sharing my appreciation of the team with him. He was always there as a coach and mentor as I grew up even though he never played soccer himself. We grew to love the sport together. For this reason, I rather he had something so meaningful to me than keep it for myself. Back at Nike three years later, as if on cue, our friend reached over to the wall, plucked the vibrant blue and maroon jersey, tossed it to me with the simple utterance,"It's all yours. I've got tons."

I almost cried with humble surprise and appreciation. Three years later, I finally had my jersey. An official replica of the same ones the team wears, I discovered nuance after nuance that made any true Barça fan (and any of my Catalan friends) squeal with appreciation. I mean, Nike nailed this jersey design. On the back outside collar, the designer included the red and yellow Catalan flag stripes; on the internal collar, printed in Catalan was the team slogan "més que un club" (more than a club) and the lyrics to the team anthem "Cant del Barça," also in Catalan, which read as follows:

"Tots el camp/es un clam/som la gent blau-grana./Tant se val d'on venim/si del sud o del nord

ara estem d'acord, estem d'acord./Una bandera ens agermana./Blau-grana al vent/un crit valent/tenim un nom/el sap tothom:/Barça, Barça, Barça!"

I am so proud (and stoked!) to finally say that I am the proud owner of an official FC Barcelona jersey. Now my dad and I can wear them together if we ever see them play in the States. Dude at Nike, you can't possibly understand what this means to me! Thank you so much for paying it forward!