By Stacy Torres

My father was from Chile. Five years after his death, I’ve adapted to the past tense when referring to him, but it’s still not automatic. Was. Every time that three-letter verb of no longer being catches in my throat, I notice the slight delay even if my conversation partners don’t.

I remember nothing about World Cup 2022, the year after he died, which remains a blur of loss. One year is nothing when it comes to grief, as Saul Bellow so eloquently puts it: “Losing a parent is something like driving through a plate-glass window. You didn’t know it was there until it shattered, and then for years to come you’re picking up the pieces—down to the last glassy splinter.”

Chile didn’t make it into this year’s World Cup, nor for World Cup 1994, the last time the tournament was held in the United States. I was fourteen then. We didn’t grow up with American sports, and few kids in my New York City neighborhood followed those games, preferring baseball and basketball. I made a scrapbook dedicated to the 1994 tournament and amassed flag team pins for my favorite countries that year (Argentina, Spain, Germany, Italy, and the United States). Thirty-two years later I still have those souvenirs, a never-used bumper sticker commemorating the New York/ New Jersey games, and a vault of memories unlockedwith every World Cup game.

I have a lot more company now with soccer’s growing popularity in the United States. And I catch whatever games I can at Cafe Cordoba, a family-owned cafe in Oakland that serves as a public living room for people like me.

Tucked away on a nondescript corner on Foothill Boulevard, perpendicular to the legendary Hell’s Angels clubhouse, the cafe offers a place to unwind from the day’s stresses amid colorful murals and warm scent of cafe de olla. “The whole family works here,” said Samuel Ruiz, 43, who co-owns the cafe with his mother-in-law (“my second mom”), Maria de la Luz. He’s originally from Michoacán, México and has called Oakland home for 17 years. Family includes wife Mariana, their 3-year-old Samuel Jr. and 8-month-old Jesus, sister- and brother-in-law and their young children, along with assorted friends and neighbors. Weekends Maria makes “home style” Mexican comfort food from scratch: homemade tortillas, carnitas, pozole, and menudo.

A cup of coffee buys me a time machine and so much more. Without much family left, via proximity and light conversation, I’m drawn into the fold of immigrant family life in a way that soothes the pang of Dad’s loss and allows me access to happy, albeit bittersweet, memories. Rather than feel excluded, I’ve been offered a seat at the family table.

I see my father in the hardworking men with rough hands and paint-splattered clothes that steal away to watch the games and take a load off. Like many immigrants, my father worked tirelessly to support us, including opening a clothing store that lasted only a year and a half.

Dad didn’t have the ability to seriously watch fútbol until retirement. But the specter of illness hung over him as he underwent treatment for advanced lung cancer and a life-threatening recurrence. Watching the World Cup together distracted us from death.

Far from home during this World Cup, I’m reminded of the fine threads that connect us transplants and ease the complex melancholy of dislocation. Dad wanted to immigrate to California but got rerouted to New York City. They called his native Valparaíso, the “San Francisco of Chile” for its hills. Even with Chile absent from this year’s tournament, I proudly wear my national team track jacket. As a member of a minority within a minority, I’m used to being one of few and carry forth my father’s pride in all things Chilean, from its epic hot dogs (“completos”) to the natural beauty of its terrain.

But in the Bay, I root for the home team, which for me in my Oakland neighborhood, Fruitvale, is México (yes, my heart ached at the 3-2 loss against England but was lifted by the never-extinguished passion of the team and its fans). ¡Viva México!

At Cordoba, we share in the excitement of nail-biting games and the highs and lows of game-changing, last-minute goals. Owner Samuel catches me up on the “drama” of those I missed, such as Croatia versus Portugal. As much as I enjoy watching with different international crowds, such as some riveting snatches I caught at San Francisco’s cozy British pub Pig and Whistle, there’s nothing like watching in Spanish, the language of viewing with Dad, even if my Spanish is lousy these days.

But at Cordoba the erosion of my language skills isn’t a barrier to my World Cup communing as a two-year-old named Michael, still in diapers and with a mop of silken hair, jumps up and down cheering “Gooooal” during penalty kicks between Australia and Egypt. His only allegiance is to unbridled joy, and after every goal, regardless of team, he runs in circles performing his victory dance and very nearly pulls off a handstand. His squeals of excitement prompt me to join in the cheering, reminding me of how the beautiful game helped my father and I cement our bond even if he didn’t understand many details about my educational and professional trajectory, as I traveled further away from him socially, pursuing a PhD and becoming a university professor.

Without Dad’s phone calls updating me on every goal any Chilean fútbol player made anywhere that day, my days of avid sports following are over. But for a few weeks in the summer every four years, I get a brief taste of that everyday magic when social distance collapses, we are together, and all eyes are on the ball. I’m a kid again, who can’t wait to kick back with Dad in front of the game, and the only thing that matters is who’s playing next.