Harris Pankin strides onto the soccer field alone, a lanky figure with tangled dark hair and a patchwork beard. As usual, he's the first to arrive.
"Nobody shows up on time," he grumbles.
Slowly, his teammates trickle in. First is James Burch, a 40-year-old who began wandering the country after his divorce. Then comes Rory Levine, a former courier who lost his job after Sept. 11, then Jeff Rubin, a one-time train operator who says tragedy changed his life.
There are others, too -- men who have little in common apart from their rough backgrounds and the fact that they are (or recently have been) homeless.
Since winter, they've been part of an unusual program that uses soccer to try to inspire the homeless to turn their lives around. For those who stay with the team, there's an extraordinary payoff -- a trip to Graz, Austria, to represent the US in the first Homeless World Cup.
Some 18 teams from around the world -- from Brazil to Slovakia -- are competing in the tournament, a weeklong series of matches that began yesterday. Organizers have two goals: To bring international attention to homelessness and to help the homeless get jobs and housing.
"They start playing [soccer], get used to some discipline and start showing up for practice," tournament organizer Bernhard Wolf said in a telephone interview from Austria. "And then it goes on to job training and housing."
An advocate for the homeless, Wolf first proposed the idea in 2001 at a meeting of the International Network of Street Newspapers, an organization of publications aimed at -- and sold by -- homeless people. Wolf went on to raise US$250,000 to host the event.
Ron Grunberg, editor of a New York street paper called Big News, volunteered to organize the US team. He started recruiting players a year ago, holding practices at a public field across from a soup kitchen.
From the beginning, Grunberg says, it was difficult getting players to show up for more than a few practices at a time.
"With homeless people, there's not much in the way of organization or ability to stay in touch," he says. "No phone numbers, no addresses that are fixed."
Then there's the uncertainty of street life. One player was beaten so badly he had to be hospitalized. Another, recovering from cocaine and heroin addiction, had to return to rehab.
Another stumbling block was Americans' indifference to soccer, which made it difficult for Grunberg to find skilled players. (England, where soccer is ubiquitous, has numerous soccer teams for homeless people.)
Pankin, the team's goalie, has been one of the most dedicated players, rarely missing a practice. He says he was lead singer of a punk band until he was evicted from his apartment three years ago. Now he sells books on the street and spends most nights in a Bronx shelter.
Pankin is known for his in-your-face attitude. Grunberg calls him "Punk-Rock Spirit" for his tendency to tussle with other players.
"I have a bad temper," Pankin acknowledges. "It's mostly because I'm a perfectionist. I get more upset with myself than with the other players."
Of all his teammates, Jeff Rubin, 52, tells one of the most dramatic personal stories. While working as a train operator, Rubin says, he saw a young woman leap onto the tracks in front of him, killing herself. The event scarred him so much, he says, that he eventually left his job, his girlfriend and their children.
Rubin -- who shed a pot belly over months of practice -- was slated to go to Austria until recently, when a lack of ID for his passport interfered. "I can't finish anything," he says, smiling ruefully. "Story of my life."
For other players, there have been similar complications. One, a felon, couldn't get a passport until his lawyer intervened. Another has a drinking problem. His counselor was worried he would relapse while abroad until Grunberg promised to keep close watch over him.
Stressful as the setbacks have been, there was an infectious spirit of anticipation at a recent practice.
The team's coach, a likable woman in her late 20s named Stephanie Quinn, has never led a team before but took on the role for her friend, Grunberg.
The rules she's teaching are different from those of standard soccer. In Austria, the teams will play so-called street soccer, in which four players on each side face off on a smaller-than-normal field. Each team's roster will have eight players who rotate into play throughout the tournament.
At practice, Quinn shows a firm-yet-friendly rapport with her players, blowing a whistle and shouting words of encouragement as the team scrimmages.
"You should be anticipating where the ball's coming from," she calls out. "Keep your eyes up so you can see where everybody is."
What's most striking is the camaraderie between the players, who have little contact with each other outside of practice. When one team member chases an errant pass and falls, another helps him up and tells him to be careful. When someone scores a goal, there are high-fives all around.
"A lot of homeless people, because of the lives they lead, don't get to form friendships and trust," Quinn says. "The person next to them might have a drug problem, or steal everything they have. So to see them joking around and having to rely on each other is cool."
She pauses for a moment, intent on an unfolding play. Someone kicks the ball and it sails through the air, smacking Pankin in the face. It stuns him, but he springs back into play, and the team erupts into laughter.
"Be easy on him -- we need him!" Quinn shouts, laughing with them.
The team's primary expenses are airfare and passport fees; room, board and competition expenses are covered by the tournament organizers.
To pay for plane tickets, the team has relied on private donations and money from fund-raising events, as well as grants from the US Embassy in Austria and Nike. Uniforms, shin guards and shoes were donated. Bellevue Hospital contributed free physical exams for the players.
The project, of course, raises a question: Wouldn't the effort and money be better spent on more traditional services -- funding for shelters or food programs, for example?
"Look, this is all extra for us," Grunberg responds, saying his regular work for the homeless continues. "We're doing our regular jobs, too. We're working extra hours -- nights, Sundays, so on. This is just another form of outreach."
Organizers say soccer hooks homeless people because it doesn't involve paperwork and office visits -- the stuff of traditional social services.
"It's a fun, familiar environment; there's a low barrier to participation," says Will Balakrishnan of Street League, the charity organizing the English team.
Balakrishnan says one of the English players, a young man named Darren, uses his team as a kind of group therapy to keep off drugs.
"Even after he left his formal recovery program, he had the team to provide once-a-week support," Balakrishnan says in a telephone interview.
Whatever the players' individual futures hold, for now the players are committed to practicing and winning -- and that in itself is a valuable experience, Quinn says.
"If you show up at a job, even if you don't feel like going, it will get you someplace," she says. "That's my biggest thing to teach them."
On the Net:
Homeless World Cup: www.streetsoccer.org
Big News: www.mainchance.org
Street League: www.streetleague.co.uk
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