It may not have been the big one, but Mexico’s winning the Under 17 World Cup for the second time merits major celebrating. Which in this case means shutting up and letting the imagery tell the story way better than we could.
Viva Mejico!!!
In another, more innocent era, an abortion was born by accident.
On a school day we decided to do something worthwhile with our nowhere lives instead of working on graduating into the workforce. By forming a band. At the time there was only a guitar, a bong, and our raspy vocals which we were trying to meld in the backyard of the brick house around the bend from William Street Park. The song was called “School Sucks”. The son of the prominent attorney who owned the mansion was the guitar player, I was the screamer, and our eventual drummers were out of Spinal Tap, but the real gem was Jaime. When he walked up out of the ether, interrupting our “rehearsal” we were as spellbound as if Joey Ramone had dropped in for a jam session. With a touch of Jaco Pastorious. Tanning on the grass by the old oak tree we treasure he’d heard something so unattractive it caught his fancy. Whatever it was about our noise is now irrelevant, but that moment will always be indelibly imprinted in our archive of meaningful memories.
As often occurs he was appropriated by a band with more talent we’ve posted below. For a while he banged the bass for both of us until we went back to the boring life we’d had before we’d met him. Bidding goodbye to punk rock we hit the beach and didn’t see him much. Then one day while still a working stiff we spied a familar gait gathering steam as it approached us near the train station. His hair had gone gray, but he’d stayed true to the pegged jeans and boots now so popular with the poseur set. We exchanged greetings, numbers, long forgotten anectodes, and went our way.
Promising to hook up.
It took a while but finally we reached out to the other and honored our word.
And as usually happens when we see him we never say what is really in our soul until we’ve hit the computer keyboard with the vigor of his bass playing.
Which will never be topped.
No matter who Ribzy replaced him with.
Recently we had occasion to ride down Saratoga Avenue past the private school my siblings attended. It had purposely been ages since we’d ventured into the hinterlands filled with high dollar homes occupied by unhappy spouses whose children, though well bred, did the best they could to appear homeless.
“Who lives here?” was our impression.
The next thought frightened us more than going to the pokey.
“What if we’d listened to Them.”
Like the editor who used to be a writer for the local paper with the most popular column to his credit. He railed at our ideal that money was secondary to doing what you love for a living. His Protestant ethic fractured our friendship and he was told to fuck himself. As far as we know he hasn’t written anything in the interim.
His comments coincided with another defining moment when we stood balls naked on a balcony after doing an heiress. She’d offered the moon, the stars, the lights below, and her dead husband’s money to keep us caged close by. What we most remember about it besides her golden blond butt hairs was feeling sick to our stomach. Against the backdrop of the L.A. skyline they glistened with what to most people would be promise. But to us was the ultimate compromise. Confirmation we had to get the hell out of there. Fast.
Five years since that conversation cold hard cash is still hard to come by but we keep writing anyway. Long after the editor, whose task now (like all literary editors) is to make good bad, put the pen away to be a “provider”, and A-listers were sucking our ass, leading us to believe that the ultimate of illusions, security, was around the corner.
We have learned something.
When tempted to doubt our decision we are brought back to the reality that were our wallet full it wouldn’t mean mierda if we’d acquiesed.
It’s easy to assume you’re wrong when some douchebag in a Benz with the aplomb of a doughboy sidles up at the stop sign. Look closely and ask yourself if that’s what you aspire to. Better yet don’t buy in. Call in sick on a weekday. Take your kids to the park. The library. Wall Street can wait.
So can the dime a dozen whores who dot the landscape.
Without the time to spend their spoils.
Ever since we caught futbol fever back in ’98 while under the bridge with the homies we’ve come to live for the emnity that is a Mexico match against the U.S. Rivaling Chargers-raiders we approach it as if we were playing, though we’ve never set foot on a soccer pitch.
Yesterday we kicked off the proceedings with a belly full of fire courtesy of an unnamed beverage. Ten hours before game time. Cranking Cielito Lindo and the Chicharito song until it annoyed the only neighbors who like us we were in top form when minutes into it disaster struck, with not one, but two enemy goals. This would have in the past decade caused Mexico to disintegrate. But not last night. What unfolded afterwards was out of a dream that has the Golden Generation hoisting the cup in 2014.
Every glorious goal brought with it a measure of redemption. Somewhat soothing the sting of South Korea in ’02. Especially Gio’s, a masterpiece that had Tim Howard groveling on the ground. Every green jersey in the stands containing in it the underdog spirit that exemplifies what this is really about. And every “Puto Chant” adding an exclamation mark.
Many of you might wonder why a pocho would give a shit about being proud to be “brown”. Here’s your answer. As half a middle aged white man feeling the pinch of our economy, but more importantly not forgetting having the other half being called a beaner, I relish this slightest measure of revenge. May Mejico for now be something other than Uncle Sam’s little sister. May it be known to be the best at something besides supplying its big brother’s drug consumption. But most of all know this, whatever was gained from a silly ball sailing in front of 90,000 fans who spent their hard earned pesos earned as gardeners, sending them into a frenzy, means something more than all the money in America.
Wherever that is.
We’ve said it before. There ain’t no snow in San Jo.
But there’s plenty of rain in store for the parade of pretenders that show up Sharks clad to a “pavilion” named after two old dudes who tinkered with computer parts, which sounds more exciting than watching the most boring sport ever invented.
May the Red Wings send the Thornton jerseys back into the closet for summer, and may they ship the remainder of the Stanley Cup playoffs, the Versus crew, and Drew Remenda’s dome to some other city, far from here.
That doesn’t know shit about soccer.
While the rest of the country is wrecked by the weather out here the grim gray of winter has taken early pause, overpowered by spring.
This was when we’d rip our shirts off on the blacktop and let the rested rays of sun warm our soul while at the same time allowing for a head start in the all important race to see whose skin looked like leather by the end of summer. Without a beach in the area we’d bake on the asphalt as the ball bounced. For hours we were able to run, run, run, and jump with an abandon and energy that went the way of our dream of one day dunking. Somewhere around 30. Funny cuz in a few days as short as our stature we’ll be 46.
Closer to 50 than 40.
To death than our first birthday.
Which is exactly why we are relishing the rhythm of playing again after another “retirement” from the playgrounds of the world. Over the seasons our lust for our favorite game to actively participate in had waned to its lowest level. We’d tired of trying to achieve the edge over our opponent. Of pushing ourselves to get there. It didn’t matter who got to 11. We didn’t care enough anymore. There is something about the sound of a game going on that makes me long to be out there competing.
And I had lost it.
Last birthday I got a new ball, shorts, and cheap orange Puma low tops “Clyde” Frazier might have worn were they suede when Spike Lee and I were simultaneously watching the Knicks win the title though we didn’t know it then, and Spike still doesn’t.
Over the course of the year I grudgingly trotted my ass onto the court at irregular intervals never getting anywhere until just recently when the weather turned and kids half my age began arriving in packs in the afternoon as we once did.
Ready for action. Ready to win.
Feeling older and weaker than ever I decided to join them.
Cigarette in mouth, Tecate in hand, scraggly hair sticking out from under a beanie I sucked them into thinking I was a dipshit who couldn’t ball instead of just a dipshit. The drunk who to everyone’s chagrin insists on invading the court and hoisting a few, breath reeking of alcohol. Any such thoughts they might have harbored in their post-adolescent minds were soon erased as I unleashed a new repertoire of moves more befitting someone whose athletic ability is a shadow of what he believed it to be when he wanted to dunk almost as much as have sex with someone other than himself.
The hands are there though. Quickly striking from an unexpectedly long reach to rip the ball out on the way up from a shooter surprised some hippy stripped him. The eye is there too, whether from outside the arc as always or lofting crazy hook shots from around my ankles. The wind, well that’s another story, but after several sessions it’s improving.
And so am I.
Sorely disappointed on Sunday that it rained, ruining a weekly pick-up game on everybody’s day off I went doubly hard since, and wake excited to see what magic awaits to be created on the court again. And off.
Lift in the legs rekindled I wanna keep playing forever.
Dreaming that I’ll dunk.
Until I’ve pulled a Pistol.
Last night another rusty nail was pounded into Simpletary’s coffin, by No(rv) no less! “Coach’s” famous necklace was as absent as Alex Smith’s arm. But not his bluster (kicking that challenge flag like Beckham’s wife).
Or his blasphemy.
Declaring you “deserve” to go to the playoffs is as mortal a sin as ever committed by ANY coach, pro or otherwise.
Your lies have turned you into a laughingstock.
Linebacker eyes long forgotten.
From too much talking in tongues.
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