A simple friendly game of soccer between Mexico and Paraguay gathered some 50,000 people who paid to fill the old stadium of this port city like never before. And one may even wonder why so many people continue putting millions of dollars into the bank accounts of those in charge of selections and the TV stations that promote them. An easy answer might be the demographic: the last census put the so-called “Latino”— the majority being of Mexican origin— as the fastest growing group in California. This makes Latinos almost dominant over Anglos and other racial groups which make up a little over 50 percent of the population. The other answer is more complicated and has to do with identity, migration and exile. Judging by what I see, the national team confirms its unifying power over persons in necessity of an identity, as they stick to their roots while they feel on the spotlight as if they were in Mexico City, London or Johannesburg.
Being witness to Guardado’s goal and the two by Chicharito, the top goal scorer for Manchester United, means feeling more Mexican, yes, but it also means reaching the height of global developments and being fashionable, being able to show off by saying that you saw the same player Europeans are able to enjoy. The national team gives me world prestige and unites me with my countrymen just like the Guadalupana, the national anthem or the eagle that devours the snake. And as for rest of official Mexico, that of promises and constant failures, the stupid anti-drug war, I do not care about, I can keep sending much of that to … Because supporting the national team, as those 50,000 fans did, is closer to my mother and my cousins, who are watching the same game on TV. It’s like touching my neighborhood, my past and my personal and intimate history, the sacred areas which are not touched by politicians, business interests or anything institutional of the top brass.
So we connected with the Mexicans who filled almost one hundred percent of the stadium. We cheered without shame and without intimidation. We cheered with pride and passion, from all corners of the Interstate 880 that leads to the Colisseum. Three or four hours before the game there were traffic jams with drivers shouting and waving their flags in solidarity for the cause. Because we all went to Mexico, sorry, the game of Mexico, to see Paraguay lose, sorry, to enjoy soccer… We had only one goal and one common goal to arrive and witness the victory. Even the announcer stated without shame that there was “no other choice but to succeed” or something like that.
That is why all the tickets were sold. This was a phenomenon that Mexicans were able to achieve considering the budget cut crisis, low housing market, and high unemployment rates. The stadium was full, an occurrence that does not happen often with the Oakland Athletics and the Raiders. The attraction exerted by the “tri”, forced last minute decisions with new strategies: find an outlet near the parking at the Coliseum and arrive sooner by using the shuttles from the hotel. And after the game I did not drive, I went straight to the TV. Bay Area residents were walking out of BART by the thousands, wearing any tricolor combination imaginable. Even dancers wore red, white, and green “tutu’s”.
That day Oakland was the mecca for north-central California, with Mexicans popping out of the most remote agricultural corners of the San Joaquin Valley, stretching from Bakersfield to Sacramento, the capital itself. And as the pressing masses got onto the platforms heading to the stairs, it was like entering a tunnel connecting parallel universes: we seemed to be transported to a metro station in Mexico City, like Taxqueña, increasingly surrounded by compatriots. And of course, because of the difference in Spanish used in the various regions of Mexico, especially when they were reselling tickets, selling little flags, lucha libre masks, posters and shirts of players, horns and even homemade tamales that dripped with deliciousness.
Yet, even with so many Mexican fans at the stadium, one could also see African, Asian, Arab Iranian and even Greco-Roman profiles among the crowd, but they also cheered for Mexico. Indeed, there was no deception, American classical order, the stereotypical, appeared to enter the grandstand. It was impeccable. Review of property, control of tickets via laser gun, silent queues for the “bud light” and the “hot dogs” a simple dish of sausage and bread, tables for the ketchup and mustard … strategically placed police and guards, well armed, not to forget the high crime rate and racial tension in Oakland.
And between these two or more worlds, the power and magic that has made soccer a universal sport flourished. This stadium that opened its doors in the 1960’s, a massive four-story building of concrete, without automatic ceilings, with not very comfortable seats, without any glamour, no one cared about any of that when collective orgasms occurred. The stands shook, perhaps 2 to 3 degrees on the Richter scale, not only when the three Mexican goals were scored, but also, now as in the Azteca, when the “wave” caught on the crowd and went on for at least five laps, including the people behind the windows of the luxury boxes.
That is the key then, soccer is a big party wherever there is a match, and Mexicans in Oakland did not want to miss that opportunity because we know that the real party is before and after the game, among the crowd, among my fellow Mexicans. And if during the game there is goals, better, and if Mexico wins, then, it could not be any better, and if the goals are Chicharito’s, then it is a true Mexican Dream come true that deserves a real pachangón … a pachangón that continued in the parking, in the stands, in social networks and in the streets and tunnels that led to the BART station; reaching homes and hotels where you could hear the booming voice of a tricolor trumpet before nightfall… with its order, its routine, its daily violence… before the arrival of new and old memories…