I’ve been deeply in­volved in Caribbean foot­ball over the years to know that our re­gion’s spir­it is un­like any oth­er. We com­pete, we clash, we tease, and then, some­how, we still find space for broth­er­hood. It’s part of who we are. But every now and then, a match comes around that tests that bal­ance be­tween em­pa­thy and am­bi­tion. No­vem­ber 13th will be one of those nights.

When Ja­maica lines up against Trinidad and To­ba­go, they’ll car­ry more than their na­tion’s colours. They’ll car­ry the weight of a coun­try still reel­ing from Hur­ri­cane Melis­sa, a na­tion bat­tered and bruised but un­bro­ken. For many of their play­ers, led by cap­tain An­dre Blake, step­ping on­to that pitch will be more than just a World Cup qual­i­fi­er. It will be a state­ment of re­silience.

A mes­sage that storms may bend, but they don’t break Ja­maicans.

We in Trinidad and To­ba­go know that sto­ry too well. We’ve lived it — floods, loss­es, crime, heart­breaks, re­cov­er­ies. And we al­so know what it means to be good neigh­bours. Just last week, when Ja­maica’s women’s team was here for an in­ter­na­tion­al friend­ly, we stood shoul­der to shoul­der in sup­port. It wasn’t about ri­val­ry then. It was about sol­i­dar­i­ty. The Caribbean spir­it. The un­der­stand­ing that we are all cut from the same cloth of strug­gle and sur­vival.

Still, if we’re be­ing hon­est, Trinidad and To­ba­go has of­ten been viewed with a cer­tain kind of scruti­ny across the re­gion. There’s al­ways been that sense that we’re the ones oth­ers want to out­do, some­times with a lit­tle less em­pa­thy and a lit­tle more ri­val­ry.

You on­ly have to look at some of the re­cent re­marks from some CARI­COM lead­ers on the di­a­logue be­tween our gov­ern­ment and that of Venezuela to see how di­vid­ed opin­ions can be when it comes to us. The truth is, not many rush to feel sor­ry for T&T, and per­haps we’ve ex­pe­ri­enced enough over the years to un­der­stand that re­al­i­ty.

Maybe, in a way, we’ve been for­tu­nate not to face the kind of nat­ur­al dis­as­ters that would tru­ly test what kind of sup­port or sol­i­dar­i­ty would reach our shores. No one wish­es for those days.

But on No­vem­ber 13th, none of that changes who we are or what must be done. Be­cause while Ja­maica will ar­rive with the en­er­gy of a na­tion fight­ing its way back, Trinidad and To­ba­go, led by Kevin Moli­no and Levi Gar­cia, must meet them with equal fire, not sym­pa­thy.

There can be no soft edges when qual­i­fi­ca­tion is on the line. We can re­spect their fight and still refuse to yield an inch.

This isn’t just an­oth­er game. It’s the biggest test yet of our cam­paign. A defin­ing mo­ment for our play­ers, our of­fi­cials and our foot­ball cul­ture. The type of night that sep­a­rates teams that want it from those pre­pared to take it. For all the good­will be­tween the is­lands, when the whis­tle blows, the re­gion’s broth­er­hood paus­es be­cause both sides know what vic­to­ry could mean.

For Ja­maica, it’s a sym­bol of resur­gence. For Trinidad and To­ba­go, it’s the chance to re­store be­lief, pride, and a sense that we be­long again on foot­ball’s main stage.

And make no mis­take, Trinidad and To­ba­go brings some­thing spe­cial to this cam­paign. We’ve shown that our home venue has be­come one of the most vi­brant and spir­it­ed any­where in the re­gion dur­ing these qual­i­fiers. The at­mos­phere at our match­es — the colour, the rhythm, the noise — has re­mind­ed the re­gion of what true home sup­port looks like. This is just a taste of what Trinidad and To­ba­go would bring to the 2026 World Cup, not on­ly through our foot­ball but al­so through our peo­ple, our cul­ture, and our unique brand of Caribbean en­er­gy.

Al­ready, there’s been grow­ing in­ter­est from teams, play­ers, and even new prospects abroad who want to be part of what’s hap­pen­ing here. They’ve seen a shift, a sense of pride and di­rec­tion that’s hard to ig­nore. And while we may no longer boast the same num­ber of stars light­ing up Eu­ro­pean leagues as we did in the 1990s and ear­ly 2000s, we’ve proven that we can still stand with the best. Our play­ers may come from dif­fer­ent leagues and back­grounds, but when they wear that red, white, and black, they rep­re­sent some­thing that can’t be mea­sured by rank­ings — heart, grit, and a be­lief that our foot­ball sto­ry isn’t fin­ished yet.

Yes, we are Caribbean neigh­bours. Yes, we know how to lend a hand in times of need. But come match night, there’s no shared an­them, no soft heart. Just two proud na­tions, storm-test­ed, pride-dri­ven, both chas­ing the same dream.

Em­pa­thy can wait for the morn­ing af­ter.

On No­vem­ber 13, it’s all about readi­ness. Be­cause qual­i­fi­ca­tion doesn’t come to the kind-heart­ed. It comes to the ones best pre­pared.

And when that whis­tle blows in front of a packed home crowd, let the re­gion be re­mind­ed that Trinidad and To­ba­go is not just here to com­pete. We are here to rise again.

Ed­i­tor’s note:

Shaun Fuentes is the head of TTFA Com­mu­ni­ca­tions. He was a FI­FA Me­dia Of­fi­cer at the 2010 FI­FA World Cup in South Africa and the 2013 FI­FA U-20 World Cup in Turkey. He has trav­elled to over 90 coun­tries dur­ing his jour­ney in sport. “Pro Look” is his week­ly col­umn on foot­ball, sport, cul­ture and the hu­man side of the game. The views ex­pressed are sole­ly his and not a rep­re­sen­ta­tion of any or­gan­i­sa­tion. shaunfuentes@ya­hoo.com