Yesterday, Mexico took on Croatia for a spot in the knockout rounds of the Cup. There were some good reasons to root for Mexico:
1. Croatia has the ugliest uniforms of all 32 teams. Not as bad as the old 1994 US jersey I sported, but close.
2. Mexico is in our region. More wins for the US, Costa Rica, Honduras and Mexico might mean more slots for our part of the world in the next World Cup.
3. We speak Spanish better than Croatian.
4. Mexico is in the Americas, and there’s a strong pull here in Brazil to support all “American” teams, especially against Europe (In case you’re wondering, Argentina gets lumped in with Europe.)
5. Our kids once had the chance to escort the Mexican players onto the field for a friendly, so they both had a personal connection.
6. The Arena was filled with Mexican fans, so it would be much more fun (and safer!) to belt out Cielito Lindo (“Ay yay yay yay, canta no llore!”) than to join in the Croatian chants.
7. There were no Croatian chants.
All that said, boy was it hard to root for Mexico. It’s like rooting for the New York Yankees or the Miami Heat. You can respect their talent, but that doesn’t mean you have to like them. After all, they are our arch rivals.
On the metro ride to the arena, we met fans from across the Mexican diaspora (and that includes Aztlan!). They were decked out in green, doffing gigantic sombreros, passing around bottles of tequila, whistling, and singing rousing songs. Much more fun than the staid Germans, the boring Portuguese, and the timid Spaniards we had seen in earlier games (I’m leaving out the Dutch, because they always know how to enjoy a game). The costumes were outrageous — a pack of 10 goalkeepers with 80’s-style Jorge Campos jerseys, a band in red jumpsuits in the style of superhero parody Chapulin Colorado (“He’s like superman,” someone tells me), Aztec headdresses, and, of course, Mexican wrestling masks.
In the stadium, where they vastly outnumbered the Croatians, the Mexicans were intensely partisan, booing the start of the Croatian national anthem, whistling mercilessly every touch of the ball by their opponents, and shouting insults in unison at the keeper on every goal kick (try explaining the word “p#to” to an eight-year old). Perhaps this was just my Yankee bias, but they seemed downright mean at times. I started to understand the intimidation that American players feel when they play in the Azteca. And for a while, when a nil-nil draw or even a lucky Croatia win looked to be in the cards, I started to wonder what a surly crowd might look like on the metro back to town.
Fortunately, the game came alive with three Mexico goals, each punctuated with a gigantic roar and a drenching shower of Brahma beer around the stadium. And indeed, despite having attended upwards of 20 World Cup games, feeling the cold sticky beer down my neck was something like a baptism. Viva Mexico, at least for today.