Tuesday 21 May 2013

My friend, we're back from Mexico


Can you ever see yourself semi-retiring, or spending a sizeable chunk of each year, in Latin America?  You just seem tailor made for that evening lifestyle, hanging out in the square, chillin’ with the locals, enjoying the sounds and smells.  At one time I had that vision for myself, following on multiple trips to Mexico, Central America, Brazil, Costa Rica. Of course then I got a job, married, mortgage, dogs, kids, reno … you know the schtick.
- Brian, July 21, 2012



Dear Brian,

We're back from the Mexico soccer tournament, and I can report that I indulged our joint passion for Latin America as you would have wished. I have so many stories to share with you. I can hear your laughter already. I’ll try to be brief and share only the bits that I think you would most enjoy.

From the moment of our arrival in Mexico, you could feel that we had entered another world. We stepped off the plane in Guadalajara into 35 degree heat and 20% humidity. You could feel the soft breeze wicking the moisture out of your body just standing there on the tarmac at 1600 metres above sea level.   

We passed through Mexican Customs without incident. This is always a comforting after watching Mexican prison movies. We exited the Arrivals lounge and we were met with fierce embraces and brilliant white grins from Victor, Jorge and Sergio. They gripped each of us firmly on the shoulder, their eyes drilling into ours: “Como estan? Como fue el viaje? Llegaron bien?”

Por Dios! It was like The Godfather. There was such a drama and intensity that you could only wonder what might happen to you, or the airline staff attending you, if you answered in anything but the affirmative. 

(I am making fun. Their conduct can only be described as summarily 
cariƱoso.) 

They rove us to our boutique guest house in the old downtown. Entering the secure gate from the street, you walked down a narrow brick passageway to emerge into a series of small courtyards brimming with tropical plants and flowers. A cross between a Tuscan villa and Bilbo Baggins’ cottage. There was a pool and a pergola where we ate fresh papaya each morning. The juice ran down your chin.

We walked the plazas of old Guadalajara and drank margaritas and beer. The next day, we took the bus to the city of Guanajuato where I lingered in the main plaza past midnight, just as you wished. The swirl of the crowd young and old, the music of the buskers, the mariachis, the imposing stature of the Teatro Juarez, and the pulsating joy of everything.  

I met two young men who had been expelled from the United States. They had been born in Mexico in a time before memory and smuggled across the border, and now they had been repatriated. We drank vodka and grapefruit juice on a terrace overlooking the plaza and they asked me about women.  

When we returned to Guadalajara, it was time to meet our destiny. The rest of our soccer team was arriving at the Mendoza Hotel via all conceivable routes to Jalisco. We gathered to organize the team gifts for the opening ceremony on Saturday, then we departed to the evening reception at the host club.



Santa Maria! What a place. Like a miniature FC Barcelona. The restaurant was likely just as fine, and the change rooms perhaps even better. I can’t imagine what 3,000 square feet of marble and porcelain tile would cost. The lockers looked incongruous, as well appointed as they were.

We played soccer for the next three days. The Mexicans put three past me in the first half on Saturday. I took this humiliation with customary composure, having become acquainted with picking the ball out of my net in games against Latin American opponents.

I went out in the second half and tried to recapture my dignity as a forward. Unsuccessfully. You would have done better. You say no, but your modesty is unbecoming.

We played the Costa Ricans on Sunday and they were tough. I think they they still resented that we tied them last year on their home field.

I had started the day with every intention of playing in the midfield, but I began to wilt in the extreme heat prior to our noon kickoff, so I chose to cower in goal under the protection of my baseball cap and 16 applications of sunscreen. 

They put three past me over the 90 minutes. They had one forward who scored two of their goals. One almost severed my head – a cannon blast from six yards into the roof of the net. We got two back. 

Monday promised redemption (Santa Maria!) in a 10 AM meeting with the Americans. We came out of the blocks quickly. I started in midfield alongside one of our two other Brians. At one point, I let my mark get away from me, and the louder Brian scowled: “What are you doing?!? Are you dating this guy?!?”

He’s a Celtic fan and a Scot, and his impassioned plea met a suitable response in me: bewilderment and a fleeting sense of shame.   

But it did me good. Early in the second half, one of their centre backs decided to entertain the crowd with a display of his ball mastery. I stripped him of it about 25 yards from goal, and as he tried to recover, I feinted right, then drew the ball sharply back onto my left. And I took a breath in that instant.

Remember, Zen mind? A fundamental precept of our years coaching together. In the matter of an instant, I took a glance at goal and spotted the keeper cheating a bit to his left. I dropped my head, kept a firm gaze on the ball, and I stepped into it with the grace of Baryshnikov as I applied precisely 50% power to my strike. 

Santa Maria. It rocketed into the back of the net along a trajectory twelve inches off the ground over the full 25 yards.

At least that’s how I remember it. Apparently there’s video, and if history tells us anything, it will demonstrate that I was lucky and the keeper didn’t bother to dive. 

But we now had two on the boys from San Mateo. All we had to do was close out the match and we would walk away with a stylish 2-0 victory to conclude our tournament.

Two American goals came in quick succession to knot the score. And at least one involved me dating my marker in midfield. 

Deflated, heads bowed, we were already heading for the change room when the final whistle sounded.

But what was this? The Mexican match officials were summoning us to the centre circle. There would be a penalty shootout to determine a match winner! 

I approached the head official and addressed him in Spanish.

“Senor, do I understand correctly that we get a minimum of five shots?”

“That is correct.”

“And the Americans only three?”

He laughed hard enough to split his sides.

“Si!”

(It never hurts to endear yourself to the referees. It may pay dividends in the event of a close decision later.)

We took the Americans through five shots each, and then we beat them in sudden death.

All in all, a good tournament and a great adventure in Mexico. Our hosts treated us to a closing ceremony of unprecedented scale and luxury, with bands and dancers and presentations and feasting, and they continued to embrace us all the while in the Godfather style.

Don’t say it – I already know. “Lenny, maybe one day you can do something for me.”  Caramba!

Speaking of Caramba. A few of us went to the coast afterwards and stayed in Puerto Vallarta for a couple of days. We went to a restaurant called Ah Caramba atop a hill overlooking downtown, and it provided us with a spectacular view of the sunset over the ocean. It also provided insight into how to pull a confidence scam and robbery of superlative sophistication. That’s a story for another time, but for now I’ll just say avoid Ah Caramba if you are travelling to Puerto Vallarta. You’ll be glad you did. So will your wallet, your credit card, your driver’s license and possibly your passport.

(Ah Caramba was the first restaurant I saw in Mexico where the head waiter was 220 pounds, dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt, and covered in tattoos. Apparently Mexican prisons excel in training personnel for the hospitality industry. We all made it home to Canada in one piece, and that’s the important thing.)

I haven’t asked how you are. This is because I know that you are in good care. Many are called, but few are chosen. And you are a rare spirit, dear friend.

You are well remembered here, Brian.

You are well loved and well missed.

Jim

Brian Goodacre
1957-2012

Copyright © 2013 by Jim Grove. All rights reserved.