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.