Summertime in El Paso brings leisure to watch those long soccer (fútbol) games on TV. As we watched the finals of the Confederations Cup between Brazil and Spain this past week (Brazil won quite handily), I was reminded of a memorable FIFA World Cup game that we had watched several years ago. The experience turned me into a soccer fan, for sure.
 |
| Mexico |
The
most authentic Mexican restaurant in our neighborhood, Barrigas, had placed a
handwritten sign on the door, “Open at 7:00 a.m. for World Cup Game – Mexico
vs. Portugal.” It was a chance for Mexico to cinch a spot in the second
round of play.
Although most Americans display a lukewarm attitude
towards soccer, here on the
US-Mexico border, fans take the game very seriously. My husband Wayne and
I decided to join the early morning crowd at Barrigas to cheer Mexico on to
victory.
 |
| Portugal |
We
arrived promptly at 6:59 a.m., beating several of the waiters to work, and
succeeded in capturing the best seats in the house. The television channel
from Ciudad Juárez, México was tuned in and projected onto an eight foot wide
screen. Soccer fans are notorious around the world for their aggressive
behaviors, such as cursing, throwing beer bottles, and landing an occasional
punch on a fellow fan. This crowd was more subdued, however, as families
filed in, most wearing sports jerseys and caps in various combinations of the
colors of the Mexican flag – red, white and green. There was a buzz of
excitement in the air. Two grammar-school aged children, a boy and a
girl, squeezed into seats at the table behind us. I hoped I wasn’t
blocking their view of the screen, but I really didn’t want to give up my spot
that I had set a 5:30 a.m. alarm to secure!
The
match began with Mexico almost scoring a goal. A roar went up from the
crowd. But Portugal soon put one in to make the score 1-0. When an
unfortunate Mexican player touched the ball with his hand (a real no-no), the
referee gave Portugal a penalty kick. Penalty kicks can be deadly, because the
only defender is the goalkeeper. The score became Portugal 2, Mexico
0. A glum silence fell over the crowd. I noticed, however, that the
two children behind me were keeping up a running commentary on the game in
Spanish, giving advice freely to players, coaches, and referee alike. And
they showed no mercy.
“Center
it, center it,” they yelled at the Mexican player trying desperately to get the
ball anywhere near the goal. “Not so high,” they advised him when he
kicked it over the goal. If there was a possible foul on the field, the
kids helped the referee out by pointing out exactly what the Portuguese player
had done to the Mexican player. “Look, look, he kicked him.” But if
a player from Portugal went down, wincing in pain, they made clucking sounds in
disbelief. “The yellow, the yellow,” they advised the referee for the
slightest Portuguese infraction, hoping he would give a player a yellow card, a
serious event in soccer. If a Mexican player missed a good chance at a
goal, the children showed little sympathy. “Take him out!” they advised
the coach. “Give it to Kiki,” they urged. Kiki was the nickname of
Francisco Fonseca, a key Mexican footballer.
At
this point, after numerous cups of coffee, I had to excuse myself from the table. Maybe
the extra coaching by the children had an effect, because Mexico scored a goal
in my absence. The score was now Portugal
2, Mexico 1. Could Mexico catch up? The children’s comments became
more optimistic. “That a way. Now we’re going.” Up
the field, down the field ran the players, with the clock ticking off the
minutes and seconds until the end of the game. It wasn’t over until it
was over. Or was it?
I heard a small voice behind me say, “If
Mexico loses, I’m going with Brazil.” Ah the fickleness of youth!
We called for our check and left the restaurant. Wasn’t Brazil scheduled
for a game tomorrow?
No comments:
Post a Comment