I decide the bus isn’t coming after about twenty seconds. I begin to walk the one block toward the main street where I can get a cab. There is a man up ahead. I know he is going to confront me because of the way he was walking. I’ve learned from experience that when someone crosses the street at that angle, they got something in mind.

He stops in front of me and asks me for mil colones. Mil colones? ¡Qué barbaro! They usually only ask for cien. I tell him I need my money. I reach into my pocket and pull out two coins that together are worth ciento-cinquenta. I tell him that all I can spare. “Don’t be so miserable!” he says. His facial expression gets really serious and he says in a low voice, “Give me mil colones or I’ll remove from you everything.”

Ever since my sisters were robbed, I have been planning for this moment. As soon as one of these motherfuckers tries anything on me, I’m going to act nervous. I’m going to reach into my pocket and pull out a right upper cut to the nose, followed by a knee to the testicles, followed by a flurry of punches and kicks until my would-be attacker is left twitching on the ground.

 I reach into my pocket. I pull out all the change I have and I give him all of it. Several coins fall to the ground in the process. His facial expression softens and he gives me a big, long hug.

We lost the game by a large margin. My friends aren’t calling me Tim Howard anymore. “You were lacking” José tells me, “there were times when you should have been marking and you weren’t”.

His erroneous knowledge of the game bothers me. “Goalies don’t have to mark nobody!” I maintain. Some people can be so illogical at times.