Soccer spoken here

On a patchy South Jersey playground, on a summer Sunday afternoon, soccer coach Daniel Rodriquez paced in front of the bench - a clump of towels, really.

With one minute left, his team, Achuapa, was locked in a tense, 1-1 game with archrival La Mancha. Watching mostly in silence were about 100 spectators, sprawled on blankets and lawn chairs in the beating sun or under tarps tied to a chain-link fence.

At stake for the players in this immigrant soccer league was another step toward the championship game, to be played today at Campbell's Field, Camden's 6,400-seat riverside stadium.

On weekdays, the men are janitors, landscapers, farmhands, and factory workers across the region. Most Sundays from spring through fall, they seek exercise, camaraderie, competition, and bonds of ethnic identity in the sport many knew in their homelands as fútbol.

For decades, immigrant soccer leagues have flourished in ethnic enclaves throughout Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and Delaware. Today, many are made up mainly of Latinos, but also include players from Africa, the former Soviet Union, and the Caribbean.

"Most of us are from countries where we didn't have much, and soccer is our common denominator," said Liberian immigrant Joe Capehart, a forklift operator.

Capehart directs field operations for Imperial Azteca, the 900-player amateur league that includes Achuapa, La Mancha, and 26 other teams. It bills itself as the region's "premier" league and is among the largest.

Azteca was founded in Camden in 2003 by Milton Valdovinos, 33, a Mexican immigrant who owns Plaza Tepis Sports on Federal Street, where players often shop for uniforms and equipment.

But the economics of immigrant soccer do not end with striped shirts and shorts.

Including insurance and referees' fees for the 20-game season, each 22-man team pays about $600 a year to enroll in the Azteca league. On some teams, each player antes up his share. For other teams, such as Achuapa, the managers foot the bill. Some might even pay for players' cleats, uniforms - and a few tortillas now and then.

Those are usually available at the games, where league-authorized vendors do a lively business in Latino comfort food: refried beans, sugary Mexican soft drinks, and homemade, wagon-wheel-shaped crisps of fried dough called chicharrines.

In the proud subculture of immigrant soccer, newcomers to America feel at home on the field and the sidelines. And men like Achuapa manager Rodriguez - a cleaning-company manager with enough spare income to subsidize a team - live the dream of a sports career.

As the ball squirted free from a jarring tackle in the Achuapa-La Mancha game, fans shouted at the referee, "Es una mano, señor!" It's a hand ball, sir!

The ref ignored them.

Rodriguez, 35, a study in calm, said nothing and seemed confident that his stars, the wily forward Renberto "Diablo" Polanco and hefty fullback Hector "Pork Chop" Aguilar, would come through in the clutch. They played well, but the game ended 1-1.

"Every game is different," explained Rodriguez, reassuring himself he would make the final again this year. "I wasn't really scared because we're always the ones to beat."

So it will be this afternoon.

Achuapa will face Jalapa for the championship at 1, followed by an exhibition game at 4 between Chivas and América, visiting professional teams from Mexico that have been rivals for decades.

In a league rich with players from Latin America, Achuapa and Jalapa are dominated by Guatemalans. Like many teams, they are named for villages or famous teams back home. Most Achuapa players were born in Jutiapa, the half-mile-high town in Guatemala's south-central highlands. Jalapa is a village to the northwest.

Today's final is a far cry from the fields of bad bounces and twisted ankles where previous championships were played.

Valdovinos, Azteca's founder, is the impresario behind the 2009 extravaganza. The costs - including stadium rent, airfare for the two 18-member Mexican teams, accommodations at the Philadelphia Sheraton - could exceed $100,000, he said.

While admission to regular-season games is free, tickets for today's games are $20 and $25. If Campbell's Field sells out, proceeds will be about $150,000. Valdovinos said he would like to use at least a portion of any profit to improve Camden's playing fields.

"This helps, first of all, my business - I don't want to lie," he said. But sprucing up city parks is important, too, "because the soccer fields in this area are not good."

Nonetheless, from such challenging turf across the region have sprung many immigrant leagues. There is no definitive number, since some are organized and others are little more than pickup games.

But the common thread goes well beyond sport. Participants across the leagues say the weekly games, while a connection to a familiar past, are also an informal marketplace for new and established immigrants to share information about jobs, affordable housing, and social services.

Liga Amistad, a six-team "Friendship League," was founded in Philadelphia in 2005, with weekly games at Sacks Playground on Washington Avenue in Southwark.

Organizers say the league, made up mostly of Mexicans, was created to address a drinking problem in the community.

"The guys would spend the day kind of partying, doing not-so-productive activities," said Varsovia Fernandez, executive director of the Greater Philadelphia Hispanic Chamber of Commerce and one of the league's volunteer commissioners.

"In the Latino culture, Sunday is a family day. Now soccer brings them together in a healthy, recreational environment, and the wives and children come to watch."

For women who want to do more than watch, there is International Soccer 7, a female league of about 100 members on teams of seven players each. It was founded six years ago in South Philadelphia by Ruth Bull, 42, a player on Mexico's 2000 Olympic team who was sidelined by knee surgery.

For immigrants who work all week to support families in America or send remittances abroad, "soccer gives us something to do. It is a nice pastime," said Antiqua-born Mitch Williams, 41, a home remodeler who lives in Somerdale with his wife and four children.

A sinewy midfielder with a powerful kick, he modestly admitted to being able to "take a shot at a good distance with some force" - affirmed on a recent Sunday by the rocket shot he took from 50 yards out. It seemed to be still accelerating as it sailed over the goal.

As the only English speaker among Hispanics on the team called Juventud, Williams depends on body language and hand signals to communicate.

"When I first started playing, I would get so upset because there were simple little things that could improve the team's quality of play, but I couldn't communicate," said Williams, who is deeply competitive on the field.

"After dealing with it week after week . . . I started to see it from a different perspective," he said. "It's an opportunity to really let go. It's a type of joy we get nowhere else. We've been doing this since we were little kids without shoes in the streets."