My Beloved Yellow Jersey

NEW YORK — One of the happiest memories of my childhood was the day my parents gave me a yellow Reebok jersey, the same one Colombia’s national team would wear in the 1998 World Cup in France a few weeks later. I was nine years old and remember that for days, if not weeks, the first thing I did after getting home from school was to wash my yellow jersey, just so I could wear it again the next day.

​Since then, fútbol jerseys have been a staple in my wardrobe. Currently, I have 17, seven of which are Colombian team jerseys. Earlier this year, I interviewed rare-book dealer and specialist Rebecca Romney for an article about pop-up books. During our talk, she said something she often says: “A book collection is an autobiography in the form of a treasure hunt.” Something similar could be said about my jerseys. They are a reflection of my journey as a fan of the beautiful game.

​​When I travel, I always pack a Colombia jersey. On a trip to Portland, Oregon, where my wife was born, I got a Timbers jersey at their stadium. I bought a Bayern Munich jersey because it is the first European team I remember supporting (plus it’s the club of Luis Díaz, one of my favorite players).

Two decades ago, on a family trip to Florence, I bought a knockoff Juventus jersey at a flea market with Buffon’s name and number, not because I like the team, but because, as a goalkeeper, I always admired the Italian legend. It’s tight but still fits and remains in my collection.

Since 1998, I have gotten a jersey for every World Cup Colombia has participated in. I wear them when I play, ride my bike, clean the apartment, run errands, and, of course, when Colombia plays. 

​But since 2025, for the first time since I was nine years old, I stopped wearing any of my beloved yellow jerseys in public. Changes in immigration policy made me afraid, for the first time since I moved to New York in 2014, to be identified as Colombian or Latino.

One of my favorite phrases about fútbol is that it is the most important thing, of the least important things in life. Not wearing a fútbol garment is not a tragedy, and it pales in comparison to the violence, intimidation, and terror that many across the country have experienced since 2025.

People have been targeted and arrested because of their language, job, and skin color. There are imprisoned children and migrants dying in the custody of our government. Fear has become normal for so many of us, even in cities like New York, where almost one-third of the population is Latino. For over a year, I never left my house without papers and copies of important documents. 

2025 is also the year I became a dad. During the summer, as the city experienced its first surge of ICE arrests. I remember walking for diapers and groceries, sleep-deprived, and thinking how lucky I felt to start a family in this city I love, while holding tightly to my documents, scared that a mistake by an agent would separate us.

Rationally, I knew I should be safe, as a legal resident, I was not a target, but reading about the many errors and omissions that led to arrests and deportations, and the disproportionate targeting of Latino communities, I could not avoid feeling fear most days. I’m sure I was not the only one. 

So why would I, or anyone, care about something so mundane as a shirt? Because clothes are not banal. They are meaningful as part of our human experience. In fact, in 2024, archaeologists published a study with evidence that the oldest example of complex clothing, where garments do more than protect people from the elements, was created at least 40,000 years ago, in Siberia. They hypothesize that it was a cultural adaptation to the Ice Age, as the weather was too cold to exhibit body art (can’t show a chest during the Ice Age, nipples would freeze). Garments became an opportunity to display both individual and cultural identity. 

To me, fútbol jerseys are nostalgic. As a kid, I wanted to become a fútbol player. But I did not dream of playing for Real Madrid, Manchester United, or Bayern Munich. My personal ambition was to play for the Colombian national team and win a World Cup. The first part of that dream died many years ago, but the passion for the game and my team remains strong. 

But there is something more important: the feeling of sharing an experience when we watch and cheer for the same team. It does not matter if I’m seeing a game by myself, with family or friends, in a crowded bar, or in a stadium. For over 90 minutes, millions of people share the same tension and, with luck, will celebrate together with a “Gooooool!” We will share the joy or heartbreak until the next game.

Destiny made me Colombian, sharing wins and losses made me a fan. 

The same has happened to me with the Yankees, Liberty, and the Knicks (Knicks in five!) in New York City. The place where I started a family, our home. In January of this year, I became a citizen of the United States. I gained new rights and responsibilities. A small but persistent concern came to my mind as spring turned into summer. Will I wear my beloved yellow jersey during this World Cup? Cheer for my team as I have done for decades, or remain cautious? 

“Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness,” states the Declaration of Independence. (“We fought for these ideals, we shouldn't settle for less,” adds Jefferson in Hamilton The Musical.) Wearing a jersey should not be a political act or a form of resistance. I want to support my team because it makes me happy, and I want my son to experience the highs and many lows of cheering for los cafeteros. I choose to wear it because I believe in the spirit of the Declaration of Independence of my adopted country, and I want to use my freedom and overcome the fear that took hold of me during 2025, even if it's with something small and mundane, like a beloved yellow garment.

​But I’m not naive. I know that there are many places across our nation where my identity, accent, and jersey will not be welcome. Thankfully, New York is not one of them. A few weeks ago, my son and I were on the bus and saw an elderly couple with medical equipment, confused and asking for help in Spanish. Before I finished giving directions, three other people jumped in to give them their seats, making sure their equipment was secure and they knew where to go.

All in Spanish in different accents. When the bus went quiet, a woman behind me said, “Coño, nosotros los latinos nos cuidamos.” (Coño, we Latinos take care of each other.)

Amen, I thought.

I stay hopeful.

Santiago Flórez is a Colombian American journalist, educator, and anthropologist based in NYC. 

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Federal Agents Rebuffed: From Migrant Insider, a report “that agents from ICE’s Homeland Security Investigations and the Health and Human Services Office of Inspector General showed up at the Washington offices of the Amica Center for Immigrant Rights — and two other nonprofits representing unaccompanied immigrant children — during a 48-hour sweep,” earlier this month, only to be rebuffed.

Julio Ricardo Varela edited and published this edition of The Latino Newsletter.

The Latino Newsletter welcomes opinion pieces in English and/or Spanish from community voices. Submission guidelines are here. The views expressed by outside opinion contributors do not necessarily reflect the editorial views of this outlet or its employees.