Mexico City Aug 10-13 2009: UXB Delayed Action Urine-bomb Part 1

[Blogger's note: While some bloggers are able to spit out text as they are living the action, my observations are delayed and digested, as is this one, coming one week after the event, so if you are reading, thanks for waiting. The pictures were only all acquired yesterday, like you had to wait for them to come back from the developer.]

A brave photographer, Douglas Zimmerman, took this shot before the missiles hit; a wave of cups and sealed bags which contained a marvelous cocktail of liquid Mexican affection for us, the 500 Americans fans who had braved the reputation of Estadio Azteca (Aztec Stadium) to come and support the US Men's National Team in a crucial World Cup Qualifier match held on the afternoon of August 12, 2009. Those of us who were there will never forget the experience.

Morning-game day. I get up out of bed in my Zona Rosa Hotel, dress, and make my way out into pre-dawn pitch black to walk down Londres, turn left, still with all my radar on and locked, and make my way to Insurgentes Metro, the King's Cross Station of Mexico City. I've decided to see the flag raising on El Zocalo, an event which rivals any similar state worship and a suitable one for today. It's war for this match and I've come to spurn the country of my father's birth as a Yanqui invader. Yesterday I harvested history from five of the city magnificent museums, but the two that were most relevant today's match were the Museum of National Interventions and History Museum at Chapultapec Castle.

In both places you could visit relics from the open wound that was the 1846-47 War with the United States, something Americans don't even acnowledge, pretending that San Antonio, Santa Fe, Las Vegas, Los Angeles, and San Francisco somehow invented their names all on their own. The first museum is contained in an Alamo-like monastary in Churubusco where 800 Mexican soldiers under the command of Gen. Anaya (a subway station is named after him) held off 5000 Yanks until they ran out of powder. Inside are drums, rifles, flags, devoted to all foreign incursions onto Mexican soil, be they Spanish, French, American, Apaches, or Mercenary. My favorite exhibit of the 1846 section was the stone devoted to Irish-American deserters who formed the St.Patrick batallion, fought for (catholic) Mexico and who gave their lives after they were captured by the Yanks, court martialed, and executed. One group was put on burros below the gallows, forced to watch the final battle for Chapultapec Castle, and when the Stars and Stripes were raised, the burros were whipped and the Fenians hung at that moment.


Chapultapec Castle itself, was Mexico's White House and Imperial home of Maximillian and Carlota during the French interlude of 1862-1867 before President Cardenas turned it over to the people in 1944. From this picture it commands a view of the Avenida de la Reforma and the Angel column where Mexicans traditionally celebrate any major football victories. And before that, the five bronze eagles are part of the massive monument to 1846-47.



Few Americans are familiar with Los Ninos Heroicos, so it mentions repeating. At that moment when the blue-coats under General Scott where reaching the castle top, five teenaged Mexican officer cadets remained. The last survivor, rather than let the Americans take down the flag, wrapped himself in it, and jumped. A massive roof mural inside the castle commemorates the event.


Their statues are found outside, near, where they fell.


At one point I wondered what would be the response of all of Mexico if they heard that a few tipsy Yank football fans had attempted to re-raise the American flag over the top turrent. Almost the same as if they heard we had won today's match - like learning that a planet had been knocked out of the solar system. A reporter for the Naperville Sun (Chicagoland paper) would quote me at the match saying the same.

As I made my way up the steps to the ancient square I had to admire the Mexicans, because today, the entire nation would be pulling for the team, united, in one breath and one beating heart, in prayer to the Virgin of Guadalupe, the ultimate 12th man. It would be payback for past wrongs, invasions, the subjugation of millions as the American service worker population, and yes, for the 2-0 scores we Gringos had run up against them, as recently as Columbus Ohio in Sprig 2009. In America, after today's match , the response of the majority would be "What, there was a game on today?"

A vast stone square beckoned, but not before I got a cup of 7-11 coffee and a stack of today's sports papers, headlines proclaiming "Zero Hour,""Failure Prohibited," and "You Want a Piece of Me?" The area in front of the 500 foot high flagpole facing the new Presidential Palace was deserted, except for four Mexican supporters in green who had come in early for the ceremony and the patriotic rush it would bring them.

I walked up to them. "Listos por hoy?" "Si!" "Yo tambien!" and I pulled back my jacket to reveal my USA uniform. Laughter, amazement at my 'huevos' (balls) just being there, smiles and handshakes all around. Swift intros, they Guadalajara, me San Diego, my Chicano father there in spirit. Pictures in front of the Presidential Palace and best wishes for a good match, a 1-1 score (from me), but we all knew this was a truce and a brief one.

Then the flag raising, carried out with precision by a 150 man honor guard and drum and bugle corp. The marches and flourishes almost Middle-Eastern in rhythm and cadence.

I found a great juxtapose of the two armies with a copy of the local English language paper "The News."

I headed back to the hotel to recharge for an hour, get breakfast, and join the first running of the gauntlet, the subway ride by the advance mob of Yank invader away supporters to the Altar of Football, the 105,000 capacity Aztec Stadium located in the heart of the south Mexico City slums.

la Revancha a la Cancha

Well, we will see first hand what the Yanks are made of. Flying into Mexico City tomorrow, meeting SocLuis90 at my Hotel, then hoping to hook up with Jamesey & Gen. Buck at the Tuesday pre-game drinkathon in Zona Rosa & Condesa. To prepare I took the San Diego Trolley to Tijuana in order to get my Pesos and acclimatize. The picture I snapped shows a curio stand that actually straddles the exact line of demarcation. You walk the walk in Mexico and all is cool. Chatting up some locals I found everyone is energized by the game and predicting victory. The local paper read "Arman en EU 'ejecito' para enfrentar a Mexico," so it's all in battle terms. At the border crossing two guys were carrying enormous furled tricolors on poles 8 feet long so they are planning to represent on our side. My flag is only 3' x 5', made in China, but it will do as a battle flag. A 1-1 tie would save face for everyone, but satisfy noone. I want to see progress beyond the beachhead we've made, let it come down. A Donovan second goal to make it 2-0 please. We need a saint ourselves when the opposition is all praying and making offerings to the Virgin of Guadalupe (they have us beaten there). If not, well, back to the drawing board. This is what I love about footie, the hours before, the 'what-if' we make history, the hopes, the dreams...the result is often the opposite, but should we prevail, it will be the game of my lifetime, at the very least. One small step... one giant leap...

Iranian Football Insults

The July 2009 Four-Four-Two magazine had an article on the Iran Tehran
derby between Persepolis and Esteghlal by one Ben Lerwill.

A sidebar contained these Iranian insults which are chanted at matches.
After all the Beckham shit and the US Mexico 0-5 debacle just saying
these made me feel better.

Tokmat gereh bokhoran.
May your balls get tied in a knot.

Goozidam ton cheshmat.
I fart in your eye.

Eeshala tah akhareh ohmret geryeh bokhoney.
I hope you cry for the rest of your life.

Pashman too damaget.
My pubic hair in your eye.

Abam to moohat khosk besheh.
May my cum dry in your hair.

Meshosham beh seebillet.
I piss on your moustache.

Man mishaasham rooyeh saret taa kafkoneh.
I'll piss on your head until it foams.

Anam baraat morabaas.
My shit is your jam.

Tu kooneh mollah chapeh beshi.
May you be shoved into the ass of a Mullah.

Tokhmam kafe destet.
My testicles on your palm.

Firestorm

Events are moving swiftly here.
1. My Mexican friend scores me tickets for Azteca stadium WCQ between USA and Mexico hours before it sells out.

2. Then, my brother, his son and I take our guns, skeet traps, and ammo up into the hills of Eastern San Diego for some target shooting. I'm firing my ancient Finnish bolt action rifle, take a break, then notice 500 yards to the east up the ridge, a tiny brush fire starting up.

We call in the fire on our cel phones and within five minutes spotter planes arrive, then a helicopter lands and disgorges 10 smokejumper firefighters, followed by a pair of two-engined transports who make four drops of bright red flame retardant, all this right before our eyes, like a private demonstration.

Eventually the Sheriff interviews us and we figure out it was the guys shooting down the road from us, possibly using steel jacketed ammo, which can spark off when they ricochet off of rocks. We are then ordered off the ridge as more fire trucks arrive.

3. That night I watch USMNT C team rally to beat Panama in the CONCACAF Gold Cup Quarterfinals in a San Diego Brit bar. Two other US supporters are there but the atmosphere is like a mid-season baseball game. I am practically shhhhed up, like I am unmellowing the vibe.

4. Then LA Galaxy plays AC Milan at the Home Depot Center, Beckham returns to the pitch for the first time to boos from the Los Angeles ultras, the Riot Squad, and there is an altercation where Beckham taunts the fans, invites one to come down and say it to his face and a member of the group does just that. Security has to separate both GoldenBalls and the RiotSquader. Becks sets up both LA goals and the team plays, well, equal to world class, rallying twice to tie AC Milan 2-2. But the real story is the Beckham/Fan face-off(his name is Josh and his account is here)and it goes worldwide immediately.
BBC Sport frontpage
Gobsmacked. BEST...SUMMER...EVER...

I am David Beckham's bitch

My first Chinese girlfriend was mental. Hot to trot but mental. We fought constantly. At one point in our two year relationship I told her "Do you know how many times we've broken up and gotten back together? FIVE times!" She shot back with a straight face "That's not so many times."

That's how I feel with David right now. I had him all to myself in Shanghai in 2007, when he walked right past me coming out of the closed to the public practice I had gotten into and all I could think of to say was the Aussie-ism "Good on ya Dave!" He turned and he shot the million dollar smile back, just for me...

Then the whole circus this week. He's in the Home Depot Center for LA Galaxy vs. Chivas USA. I am too. The Gs pull out a win. Then I remember his A.C.Milan teammates used him as a good luck charm literally during the loan. Then the kiss and make-up with Landon. Then last night, in New York Giants Stadium he does just that, he brings good luck to the Galaxy who demolish NY Red Bull 3-1. During his shirtless post match interview, his pecs muscles rippling with tattoos, I can hear the NY ultra supporters chanting "F**k off Beckham."

Today I am at TJ Maxx, a bargain fashion bin in rural San Diego, getting some clothes for my 4 year old. There is a long sleeve LA Galaxy Beckham #23 away going for $15, marked down from $24, from an original $50. I close my eyes, vow only to wear it in back in Asia and I buy it. Next, when I get to my brother's, where I am staying, my copy of The Beckham Experiment, the new Grant Wahl, tell-all book, is waiting for me.

After I read the intro and start gorging on the filth and the fury I wait up for the 10 pm Fox Soccer Report, a new experience as I bought the channel for the month I am back in the States. I break my promise and I put on the #23 strip, then watch Dave lie to Nick Webster. Then he tells the truth that he wants to go back to Europe after the end of this MLS season, play in Serie A or wherever, get on England's WC 2010 team, THEN, lying again, come back to LA and MLS and 'honor his commitments.' Fortunately my brother and his family are asleep and they don't see me walk over to the TV with my shirt on and the new book in my hand and start dry-humping Dave's face.

The things I do to support this sport. But if he get the Gs into the playoffs, the semis and the MLS Cup it's all good? Really?
I love the PR, I love that people in China know about my team and my league. But I feel like a battered wife who always goes back. What if he comes back in 2011, like that drunk wifebeater at 3 a.m with his buddies, this time as a team OWNER in league with Fuller, 19 and Tim L??

You know he'll smile at the hard core Los Angeles fans when they curse and throw the fake money and raise the hate banners. "That's not so many times."

"Like A Summer With a Thousand Julys"

I touched down in the US of A on a Thursday night, July 9th, after a 15 hour flight from Shanghai with my 4 year old Dario in tow and first had to lay my mother to rest at a memorial ceremony the following Saturday. It wasn't a full-on funeral as Mom had done the body to science thing and was at that moment chilling in a university medical school locker somewhere, an image that could work on the TV series "Six Feet Under." It was mostly ethnic at the House of Finland in Balboa, Park, San Diego, with me giving a few words in that language (which is more or less a European form of Mongolian) before my full eulogy to the 40 plus mourners who came to see off a remarkably beautiful, generous yet essentially crazy woman. Thanks for the genes, Aiti. They would come in handy in the next 12 hours.

Immediately after the conclusion of the ceremony I was picked up in front of the San Diego Aerospace museum where I had waited under a static display of a full sized SR-71 reconnaisance plane by two gentlemen I had met through the miracle of the internets, Foose and Charlie, and alloted space in a rattling yet servicable automobile for the 1st leg of my journey to the Home Depot Center in Carson California for LA Galaxy at Chivas USA away. With a Foose a recent UCSD grad with plans to write a Phd thesis on football teams under fascism and Charlie recently returned from a socialist conference in San Francisco we had much to talk about.
Foose also had a link to my ticket in Section 138, the home of the LA Riot Squad, the hard-edged supporters group of the LA Galaxy. My introduction to them had been through another LARs member, one Ramses S, who had taken up my online offer to bring bootleg DVDs from China and whom I would meet shortly for the 2nd leg of the odyssey. On the final approach through the glorious/hideous traffic of Hwy 405 I was happy to offer descriptions and answer questions about my life in Japan and China, showing them my J-League Cerezo Osaka strip and telling them about our double championship meltdowns, two relegations and one Great Escape. Then it was past the Stadium, stained by the game-day banners identifying it as "The Home of Chivas USA" (It is and will always be the L.A. Galaxy's), and into the parking lot of the newly rebranded 'Off Campus Pub' for our pre-game.

We entered a big concrete strip mall bunker bar 1/3 filled with LAG and USMNT supporters watching a fiasco on several screens - the US down 2-1 to Haiti in a final CONCACAF Gold Cup group match coming live from Boston. "How the fuck did THAT happen?" The only two positive spins I could put on that Bob Bradley might stumble and get axed before the World Cup and that there would be a great party in Port au Prince that night, a place that certainly deserved one. In quick order I met fine gentlemen I knew only from online pics and LARS forum posts: Zero Cool, Topper, Haggis, Gen."Buck" Turgidson, CaasiGold and the elegant Tommy Mack, who would change into his parson's outfit over by the pool tables and kindly agknowledge my greetings from the Church of the SubGenius with a hearty "Praise 'Bob!'"

The OCP is a newly born and fascinating collision of American soccer drinking culture, such as it is, and a homeboy/vato/ghetto drinking salon, such a neighborhood Carson, California is when a game is not on. No offense, but my Mexican side can say this. It reminded me another unique bar with an edge I knew, the Dog's Bollocks in Pattaya Thailand, a football pub owned and operated by former Chelsea hoolies who had taken their loot there to retire. Here at the OCP, they served beer in pints and in STEINS. That is a large schooner which is almost equal to the German MASS, an almost 2 liter investment in hops and brain cells. The clear glass tankard lacked only a tiny diving board on the rim. And I filled mine with Samuel Adams as I chatted with my LARS people, watched Stuart Holden equalized for the USA 2-2 in injury time and piss on the party in Port au Prince, and discussed the return of Golden Balls Beckham, the coming trip to Mexico City for USMNT contra El Tri, and the score for tonight's uniquely Southern Californian 'derby' which I called at 1-1. I was able to get a takeout catfish and chips from an Asian fish fry shop down the row in the strip mall, another culinary amazement. Then it was time for the march in as away supporters, the frisk and pat down at the turnstiles, and the occupation of our outpost in sections 138/139 of the Home Depot Center.

The good Rev. Mack took up his position at the convergence of three supporters groups, ours, the basic black LA Riot Squad, the more recent but equally spirited Angel City Brigade in their white shirts and gear, and the 'don't we look silly in our yellow wigs'group of Galaxians who for the past decade have numbered no more than twelve members, and began his sermon. He actually resembled the Lutheran pastor who had just seen off my mother, but his message was not one of love. Singing and taunts began in earnest and continued through the evening, under the watchful eye of the equally color coded red Home Depot Center security.


Chivas USA, runaway leaders for the first third of the season, had stumbled, with only one win in their last seven, while the Beckhamless (and temporarily Landon Donovanless) LA Galaxy, after a never ending series of draws (at one point they were 1-1 and 7!) they had pulled together their first winning streak, a pair of 1-0 fingernail biters over hardnut New England and Houston. Becks himself was in attendance in a luxury suite with his buddy Zinadine Zidane, bracing for a return to the team following an overextended loan to AC Milan and the blowback from a new upcoming book detailing the clusterfuck of his joining and playing for the Galaxy. A public hissy fit between Becks and American star Landon Donovan had made world press (again a first for US Soccer), with both men exchanging charges of "unprofessionalism." LARS has already planned a number of welcome back events for the strayed billionaire Beckham, including a mass shower of returned Beckham uniforms and T-shirts onto the pitch when he steps out next week.

Back to tonight's "derby," which is that special Brit term for local soccer deathmatch. The Galaxy hatred for Chivas runs deep and while it does not have the years of a Celtic-Rangers or AC Milan-Inter Milan match-up, it certainly has the bile. The red and white striped Goats team arrived in US Major League Soccer as a spin-off of Guadalajara Mexico's Club Deportivo Chivas in a misguided attempt to rally Mexican LA resident supporters of that team, an idea that might have been fine if their owner had chosen their own neighborhood for a stadium instead of shoehorning them into the LA Galaxy's own home field at the Home Depot Center, where they have been fiercely resented ever since.

Their hard core supporter group, La Legion, are quite simply thugs, both real and wannabes, who start rucks with their own supporters as well as fans of the Galaxy. The Chivas USA team now even resembles a standard MLS team ethnically with only one Mexican veteran, Mariano Trujilo, on the squad. While some LAG supporters, such as myself, enjoy and relish the rivalry there are most who wish the crosshall rivals would fuck off and die. Or move to St. Louis.

Some of the best taunting was reserved for Chivas USA's pneumatic cheerleaders, who were called out as secretely being off-duty strippers from the Spearmint Rhino Gentlemen's club.

A copy of Chuck Culpepper's Bloody Confused, a marvelous story of an American sport's writers year supporting EPL's Plymouth home and away was in my bag and in it he writes about the joy of the pregame, all the hopes and magical possiblities this moment entails, and of the absolute necessity of facing the actual match with several pints of strong drink in your bloodstream. Without drink, football, Culpepper now quoting a Chelsea supporter who tried it once or twice sober, "the match looked all wrong, all wretchedly misshapen."

So it was with our game, which technically provided very, very few highlights, other than Edson Buddle's delightful long range header in the 30th minute off of a lovely service from rookie A.J. DeLaGarza, Edson rising up in a split second in a crowd of three Chivas USA defenders to beat the goalkeeper and carom the ball of the left post into the goal. If you are watching from the far end there is that wonderful moment when you see the ball lined up inside the rectangle of the goalmouth, like a target in the cross hairs, you realize it has passed the last of the defense, and in another split second it will ripple the net. Joy unrestrained. I lept up along with Ramses and we did the Latin American thing (Argentinian?) where everyone in your row throws their arms around their neighbor's shoulders and dances back and forth.

Landon Donovan, fresh from glory in South Africa where his beautiful goal in the first half against Brazil in the Confed Cup final was almost enough for victory, produced a few good moments and then, for the rest of the match "the ball grew whiskers." Lord Beckham up in his box must have thought he was watching Hull vs. Sunderland. In the rain. But 1-0 it remained and the replay (which I was later able to watch in its entireity on the miracle that is the Fox Soccer Channel) shows an impeccably suited LAG coach Bruce Arena walking over to shake the hand of Chivas USA manager Preki in his track suit in one final fashion trump. One fucking nil. Away. Our section rejoiced appropriately. Priceless bragging rights and I, against all odds and possiblities, got to see it. The last time I had seen an MLS game in person was in the summer of 1997, an LA Galaxy victory in an empty Rose Bowl in 40C heat, so it had been a 12 year wait.

The rest of the evening was an out of body experience, a Perfect Storm where jet lag, my mother's memorial, the fine service of the Off Campus Pub, and the 1-0 result all combined to transport me, thanks to my new friends' guardianship, in an instant to brother's house in San Diego at 200 a.m. I am told I collected some glorious shuteye out in the back on the flat white concrete and only one item, a battered Japan hat from France WC 98 was left as an offering to the soccer gods, an always necessary sacrifice I make every time I enjoy a fabulous victory. I certainly plan to be much, much, much more careful in Mexico City on August 12, where if should not make it back to my hotel, then I could be the human sacrifice. "Dios permir mi regresan." But if it resulted in a 2-0 USA victory over Mexico, would it be worth it?

The Battle of Mexico City - Aug 2009 Part 1

It's official,I am going to go to the USA vs. Mexico World Cup
Qualifies in Mexico City on Aug 12, by hook or by crook if necessary.
But there's a lot riding on it,secrecy, safety, how to get there,
how to get back? And in response to a post in Big Soccer,
I explain the family ties to the event.

Originally Posted by Lolonearbyyolo
"Viva Mexico,
viva Mexican people,
viva Mexican culture and history,
viva Mexican food,
viva Mexican beer,
viva Mexican tequila,
viva mexican music,
viva Mexican dancing,
viva Mexican beaches,
viva Mexican invention of progestin found in the birth control pill,
viva Mexican pottery and crafts,
viva Mexican telenovelas,
viva 'Hecho en Mexico',
viva Mexican vaqueros,
viva Mexican saints,
Viva Mexican pyramids and Aztec spirits,
viva Mexican-Americans...

BUT SCREW MEXICAN FOOTBALL"

Actually I agree with the above post (charros not vaqueros) but as an Mexican-American I am fond of saying that my futbol comes from Mexico but it doesn't live there anymore.
I grew up turning on channel 12 from Mexico DF and watching the Sunday game of the week from Azteca alone, usually something like Atlas vs. Cruz Azul and getting into the tone, rhythm and explosions of the Spanish announcers. My father, as Americanized as you want to be down to no Spanish spoken at home, still supported El Tri in spirit and we argued about my support for the USA (ever since I heard about the urine bombs in the early '90s). I think 'we' had just beaten 'them' in Houston 1-0 when I got a call from the U.S. here in Asia to learn from my brother that he had passed away so I never got to tease him about our domination one last time