Costa Rica squared off against the U.S. team in a World Cup Qualifying game on March 23, 1997, at Ricardo Saprissa Stadium in San José. My young son and I were seated in the middle section, near row 30. Saprissa is a stadium where the U.S. could never win against its CONCACAF rival. Bruce Arena, former U.S. national team coach, described it in a Sports Illustrated article (Andrea Corrales, 2009) as: “The way the stadium is, the fans are right on top of you.”
Arena went on to say, “That’s intimidating for players, but even more for officials.” Landon Donovan didn’t play but was present and sensed a “very hostile crowd.” For Costa Rica, young Keylor Navas was the goalkeeper, while Bryan Ruiz, Walter Centeno, Hernán Medford, and Harold Wallace were among the starting players. The U.S. came into the match with a dismal 0-9-1 record in World Cup qualifying matches in Costa Rica.
The stadium was, of course, packed. With its unique, imposing vertical design, the excitement and tension were palpable that evening as we waited for the 8 p.m. start time. The temperature hovered in the low 80s at game time, and the skies were clear. There didn’t appear to be any designated USA sections—or at least, I wasn’t in one. Never one to openly display my allegiance during foreign national games, I knew that soccer matches in stadiums worldwide could be risky. It was best to keep a low profile in rival territory, especially when seated alone among home-team fans.
I managed to stay relatively calm during the game. However, during one exuberant moment of clapping and yelling, I felt the flat sole of someone’s shoe squarely in the middle of my back—not hard, but clearly a warning. As I quickly glanced back, I couldn’t identify the offender. I turned back to the game, acutely aware of the crowd’s mood. Though emotions ran high inside me as I rooted for the U.S. team, I kept silent. What could my eight-year-old son have been thinking, taking all this in with his impressionable mind?
About 15 minutes into the game, the linesman, a tall and broad-shouldered man with a Caribbean physique and an elegant physical presence, stood straight with impeccable posture. Being seated at midfield and not far from his position, I could often see his back as he worked.
Then came a crescendo of noise—a loud male voice, middle-aged and unmistakably Tico, began bellowing racist epithets. It was an unrelenting wave of profanity and crudeness, filled with racial stereotypes and insults hurled at the linesman below. The section went silent—indeed, it seemed like the entire stadium fell quiet. The verbal tirade, spewing the worst imaginable phrases in both English and Spanish, was appalling. Yet, the linesman stood unflinching, erect, and composed, not moving a single muscle. I couldn’t help but admire him for his stoic demeanor in the face of such a disgusting personal attack.
Inside, I felt a deep inner turmoil. What was my son thinking, this eight-year-old boy, listening to a public display of such hatred? It could have been anywhere in the world—even in Pura Vida, Costa Rica. For brief moments, I wanted to shout, “Stop! Stop the profanity!” But I imagined the consequences—being severely pummeled by spirited Ticos in a wild stadium filled with raw emotion, football fervor, and national pride on the line. All I could muster was to quietly say to my son, “Listen, son, listen to the tirade. How can it be?”
Their best players were of diverse backgrounds. The scene left me grappling with questions of interpretation and meaning. What does it mean? Even now, I still don’t know.
Written by John Washington
