of the inland empire
Summer Sweat on The Ground
Finding community is what makes the game beautiful.
WORDS BY Max Van Hosen
IMAGES BY Benjamin Uribe, Giovanni Sotomayor, and Max Van Hosen
EDITED BY Pierce Whitney and Christopher Buchanan
Chinatown, lower Manhattan. A flaky brick world decorated in its personal centuries of growth, tribulations, and dumpling spots sprawled over roughly fifty-five city blocks. The trash sprinkled streets of Mott, Pell, and Doyers initially served as the first passageway for 1870s immigrants seeking refuge from the Toisan region of Guangdong, China. The same wave of first-generation Taishanese immigrants who built the United States’ Central Pacific Railroad––which was not only the first transcontinental railroad, but one built on the blood, sacrifice, and cultural gulf of the Chinese, Irish, German, and Italian immigrants traveling overseas in pursuit for a better life. The voice of Chinatown’s Taishanese past still calls out thanks to its phonological dialect sibling Cantonese, texturizing the districts’ historical buildings and cultural relics that have survived ages of modern globalization and multicultural exchanges.
A five minute walk away from the curvy intersecting streets of Mott and Pell lies another cultural cross-section: The Ground. A global gamut bridging the gap between the youth culture and human sport, The Ground is a communal space that fosters worldwide interconnection through football. The renovated warehouse turned recreation center comfortably snuggles next to restaurants and residencies under the Manhattan Bridge on 130 Madison Street.
At dusk my roommate Ben and I would often journey across the asphalt of The Grove’s parking garages to the well-kept outdoor soccer field of Pan Pacific Park for brief play and exercise. Half the time a private youth team and their coach (whose wife I’d make promiscuous eye contact with) would kick us off their field or I would accidentally launch a kid’s ball into the hedges instead of the net I was aiming for, so it didn’t last. There were a few games of footy we casually played on the sandy Santa Monica shores during spring break too––but that was it. I was an intern now, where I had bigger things to deal with like emails, emailing people, and worrying about having to email people.
Whether in Arkansas or Italy, the universal game of football unites people together. Some say it’s the low barriers for playing. Some say it’s due to the game’s steady learning curve. Some say its simplistic rules and strategy stretch much farther than language barriers. The truth is hidden in every one of those factors. Soccer truly is the universal sport this Earth birthed, plays, watches, and talks shit about the most.
When Ben and I would join random pickup games at Pan Pacific with local Californians we were in search of the community factor that NYC’s The Ground effortlessly nourishes. I was in search of the same shared experiences I had growing up in California and Arkansas. I know Ben was in search of his experiences he had playing while growing up in Riverside, California and the many U.S. states his travel team ventured to. I also know every single random stranger I have ever played a game of soccer with and against yearns to be bound to that experience too.
After playing a sport for most of your life you notice the tiny, beautiful intricacies that are shared throughout any match. The ethnically ambiguous team that switches into their first language the moment your team scores back. The elderly person way too old and out of shape to be playing, let alone screaming at both sides to do better. The mid-twenties veteran that was always feared growing up in leagues but never did much of anything with their talent, so they take it out by playing like Joga Bonito against a bunch of random street-crawling teenagers. They were always my favorite to score on.
Inside, a crooked alleyway of a bar is annexed next to the facility’s indoor soccer field (which was also the first indoor field for Manhattan). The cramped space is accompanied by worn in barstools, dirty pennies– the mesh jersey item, not the coin– and a television for whatever game or cup is currently ongoing. Above the bar rests the second level of the indoor facility, where viewers can watch scrimmages go down and players can rest in between matches.
Outside, the building is decorated with photorealistic painted murals of football legends––Diego Maradona, Sir Alex Ferguson, George Best, and Franco Baresi. The end of the first-floor walkway takes one to the rear of the complex, where a set of metal stairs lead up to street-style rooftop field and its own viewing area.
The Ground opened its doors in early 2020, only to find them quickly shut. After the pandemic, so many local businesses and third spaces had to close up shop. The Ground kept its lights on. Even though it started in the midst of a pandemic, the center was able to succeed by testing people and having them sign waivers. It even had its peak flow of people in the summer of 2020, when everything slowly began opening back up in the city. Since then, it has continued to foster a sports-centered community.
The Ground is driven to offer soccer and its global culture. It does it well. The first night I went there I felt so alive after months of not playing. Playing in hasty 6-minute scrimmages in teams of three was not only fast paced and chaotic, but extremely hot due to poor ventilation on a cruelly humid summer night. I was so winded at the end yet so full of contentment. Even though it probably was just the dopamine and youthful pace of things, I knew I was coming back to The Ground the rest of that summer.
Quincy Davis, Founder of Nappy Ass Radio
Shaar, a mid-twenties Mexican software engineer who resides in Downtown Manhattan, was willing to share his experiences with The Ground and the global unification of soccer. Shaar has been playing soccer since he was three, but he fell out of it in high school. He reminisces, “starting out, I was insecure about skills and going for more serious play…it feels good to win but more importantly soccer is a very good team sport. It’s for everyone. Two poles and a ball and it just goes in.” restating a key function of soccer’s universality.
Throughout the rest of the summer while the Bum Diary was in its infancy, our group continued to meet weekly and bond over two hours of sweaty hell at The Ground. I already miss every last minute of it. All the assists to Ben, Chris, Johnathan, and Dalton’s goals. All of my goals. The time I wore my chucks instead of Adidas but ended up doing tricks I couldn’t do for years. Doing a 12-hour long tournament violently hungover only to lose. Back-to-back-to-back wins. Being out of breath in desperate need of water but deciding to play one more game before it closes. All the people I lost to––veterans, first timers, middle schoolers. All the games with strangers we won. Going outside after a two-hour session on a cool evening to chug water under a buzzing street light. Catching up with new and old friends under a Maradona mural. The beautiful game has a lot of beauty within, but community is its most kind feature.