Oakland's Soccer Without Borders navigates ‘perilous' times in Trump's America

San Francisco Chronicle​

3 days ago

On a sun-splashed summer day at an Oakland middle school, 15 teenage boys dart around the soft artificial-turf field, immersed in the world's most popular sport.
Carlos from El Salvador unleashes booming shots into the corners of the net. Cristian from Honduras dives to swat away some of those shots. Others who came to the U.S. from Guatemala and Mexico also participate, a kaleidoscope of young people calling for the ball, yelping in delight, groaning in frustration.
The scene, innocent and joyful in many ways, belies a layer of real-world anxiety for the players and coaches in Soccer Without Borders, a non-profit serving mostly newcomer immigrants and refugees for nearly two decades.
After the scrimmage, Cristian, the 16-year-old goalkeeper, removes the cover of his iPhone during a brief interview with the Chronicle. He keeps two items tucked inside: his Clipper card and a small red card with instructions (English on one side, Spanish on the other) on what to say, citing his constitutional rights, if confronted by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents.
This offers a stark reminder of the current climate for immigrants. President Donald Trump's aggressive deportation campaign, and the fear it spawns, has prompted Soccer Without Borders to adapt in various ways, according to founder and Bay Area co-director Ben Gucciardi.
Several staff members decided to skip field trips, including some to San Francisco. They're more closely scrutinizing visitors to the organization's upcoming soccer camp, and not publicizing the venue in their public outreach. Gucciardi described four 'intense' staff meetings over the past few months, to prepare for potential ICE visits.
He also frets about funding for the program, which employs 18 full-time staff members, supports 25 teams and reaches about 1,150 kids in the Bay Area. Last week, the Trump administration froze $6.2 billion nationally in grants (pending review) previously approved by Congress for after-school programs.
If that decision stands, it would devastate local school districts and grass-roots groups such as Soccer Without Borders. The Bay Area hub could lose up to one-third of its budget.
'We have strong partners and advocates, and people see the value of our work,' Gucciardi said. 'We really are committed to the kids. … But it feels like the most perilous it's ever felt in 20 years.'
Soccer Without Borders was established in 2006 and now includes programs across the country (Bay Area, Colorado, Maryland and Massachusetts) and around the world (Nicaragua and Uganda). The Bay Area hub launched in Oakland in '07, the first site in the U.S., and has since expanded to Hayward and San Francisco.
The group seeks 'to use soccer as a vehicle for positive change, providing underserved youth with a toolkit to overcome obstacles to growth, inclusion and personal success,' according to its mission statement.
One measure of SWB's impact: The high-school graduation rate for its Bay Area participants over the past five years stands at about 92%, Gucciardi said. The rate for all students in the Oakland Unified School District hovered between 70 and 75% from 2019-23, before rising to 79.5% last year.
Soccer Without Borders charges no fees for its programs and relies on the government (including local, county and state agencies) for more than 60% of its funding. About 20% comes from smaller foundations and the remainder from individual donations.
The governmental piece twists in perpetual limbo these days. One grant through the National Institutes of Health was abruptly eliminated in early June, with no notice; two weeks later, a judge ruled the decision was unconstitutional. Still, it remains unclear whether the funds will be available.
Soccer Without Borders recently passed its budget for the upcoming school year, with no intent to cut teams. But contingency plans are in place, and Gucciardi acknowledged SWB ultimately might need to close sites and reduce staffing. The program in San Francisco could be eliminated and Oakland's budget severely reduced.
'Our budget is fluctuating by large percentages in the last week alone,' Gucciardi said. 'We're operating from a weird place of uncertainty.'
That's not unique to youth sports and after-school programs, as Gucciardi realizes. Many groups, from scientists conducting research to arts organizations worried about losing their core funding, find themselves wading in similar uncertainty.
As they navigate these economic challenges, SWB coaches try to maintain their long relationships with kids in the program. Their work hinges on the consistency of coaching, as Gucciardi put it, mentors who become a reliable presence in the lives of young people.
The coaches want the kids to be comfortable talking about topics beyond soccer, even if some of those topics feel heavy in 2025. Keith Drury, a program manager in his eighth year working for Soccer Without Borders, grapples with striking the right tone.
'How do you balance being prepared without kind of perpetuating a culture of fear?' Drury said. 'I think you have to be super real with people. They understand what's going on.'
Asked his personal feelings about the federal government's treatment of immigrants, Drury paused and said, 'It's rage for me. I'm so mad about the lack of humanity, the amount of ignorance and the lack of empathy. It's just astounding.'
SWB players and their families sift through a swirl of emotions and logistical issues. Some staff members from South America changed their summer travel plans to visit family back home, uncomfortable about possible complications returning to the U.S.
The group leans on Oakland school district officials for legal guidance. That's invaluable, Gucciardi said, but it hasn't prevented a heightened sense of fear and anxiety among players in the program.
That's also the case for coaches who were involved in those meetings about what to do if ICE suddenly shows up.
'It's triggering, because a lot of the staff are program alumni,' Gucciardi said. 'It's very complicated and very personal to them.'
One of the staff members and former players is 21-year-old Anibal Godienez. He came to the U.S. from Guatemala at age 15, spent four years as a player in Soccer Without Borders and now works there as a part-time coach. He's also a recent graduate of Merritt College in Oakland.
Godienez described himself as 'totally lost as a student' when he arrived in this country, to join his parents who had emigrated many years earlier. SWB, which includes mentoring and academic support, was instrumental in putting him on the right path – including helping him overcome depression at one point.
Godienez's dad is a U.S. citizen, he said, and his mom is a legal resident. So he's not worried about a visit from immigration officials, though he knows kids who stay home more often now given the circumstances.
'I'm not scared,' Godienez said. 'I'm more concerned about my people, the Latinos, because I can see some of them are scared. They don't know what is going to happen. They think, 'If I go outside, is ICE going to be outside?''
Godienez and the current players welcome Soccer Without Borders as a haven of sorts. Wilson, a 16-year-old rising high school junior, characterized practices as a welcome distraction, even though it's 'very difficult to ignore' what's happening throughout the country.
Wilson and his family emigrated from Guatemala when he was 5, first to Oregon and then to the East Bay six years ago.
Carlos, a 17-year-old rising senior, called Soccer Without Borders 'a place where I can feel like myself, where I can feel freedom.' He and his family sought safety and opportunity in the U.S., after fleeing their native El Salvador because of the danger from gangs.
Carlos' dad works as a gardener and his mom as a hospital cleaner. Their teenage son said the Trump administration's immigration policies make him 'angry.'
'There's a lot of good people working and paying taxes, giving something to the country,' he said. 'They're not doing something bad. They just want to live here because they have good opportunities to live a stable life.'
Another teenager, 16-year-old Melissa, has spent five years in Soccer Without Borders. Her 13-year-old brother and 6-year-old sister also participate in the program.
Their mom, Mayda, trusts the coaches to support her kids in various ways – from encouraging them academically to sometimes driving to the family home in Oakland to give them rides. Mayda, whose family originally is from Guatemala, worries about how federal cutbacks might affect SWB.
She offered similar concern about the impact of U.S. immigration policy under Trump.
'I'm feeling the same way as every other immigrant: scared and nervous,' Mayda said in a phone interview, with Melissa interpreting. 'What he's doing is not right. … He's treating us like we're not human.'
Amid this tension, Soccer Without Borders forges ahead. Last week's practice started with a line of players taking penalty shots, followed by a circular meeting at midfield for instructions and words of encouragement from coach Milosz Fernandez.
Then came the long scrimmage, culminating in a spirited huddle to end practice. Cristian, the goalkeeper, called it 'a community with my teammates.'
SWB coaches clearly embrace their role in this community. Drury referred to the importance of positive peer connections and a 'long-term, trusting relationship with an adult mentor.' That's the focus, he said, of Soccer Without Borders.
And those relationships might matter now more than ever.
'It's a big privilege to be a mentor, to have somebody trust you like that,' Drury said. 'It's also a privilege to be in a position where you feel like you're making a difference, at a time when I know a ton of people feel the same emotions but also feel pretty helpless.
'It feels like we're part of something making whatever difference we can.'