That's My Story

Published originally in Baja Backbeat in Western Outdoor News Magazine Summer 2006

SOCCER ISN’T MY GAME!

Let me preface this issue’s column by saying that I am not a soccer fan. I grew up playing football, baseball and basketball, and although my nieces and nephews run up and down the field kicking that little white ball around, I hope if I have a kid, even if it’s a girl, she signs up for Pop Warner and puts on the pads. Besides…it hurts when someone kicks you in the shins!

That being said, it’s still hard living here in Baja and not getting swept up in the recent World Cup thing. It makes our American Super Bowl pale in comparison as literally billions are watching what looks like a simple (and at times) boring game to my admittedly uneducated eye and myopic brain. I can sure appreciate the athleticism of the players, but find it hard to understand the enthusiasm and fervor of the fans for a game for which I have no use and is seemingly broadcast 24/7 here on Mexican TV when I wish they were showing the NBA finals instead.

But there’s a lot to be said about such a popular sport and I have my own soccer story to tell. It underscores the real beauty of any sporting endeavor which is the ability to draw different people together on a level playing field where briefly the only color and social differences are the colors of the opposing jerseys and knowing who has the ball.

Years ago when I first found myself living and working in Baja, I worked at a small and rather exclusive boutique hotel on miles of deserted beach in a hidden bay. The owner had built a paradise on several hundred acres accessible only by dirt road or private plane and he made no bones about wanting to cater to the well-heeled portion of the traveling population. You had to be well-heeled to afford the nightly high rent, but you got some great service and facilities. I worked as the fishing guide, dive master and wore a few other hats as well.

Living and working in the “big house” with el jefe (the boss) and his wife, was a great life and they were always good to me. They were incredible folks but the owner had a short fuse when it came to the local commercial fishermen who had built a semi-permanent fish camp perhaps a quarter mile down the beach from the hotel. As with many gringos who buy ocean-front Mexican property, there’s a certain sense of entitlement that with land ownership comes beach ownership as well. In El Jefe’s mind, these cretins were on HIS playa (beach) trashing his property; lowering his property values; living in eyesore ramshackle huts and he could not stand them and did as much as he could to harass and get them to leave to little avail. Mention the fishermen down the beach and you could expect a Vesuvian eruption of Span-glish epithets, a gnashing of teeth and rattling of sabers!

Of course, being a trusted employee and having limited access to few locals in this remote place other than the large local staff, I was quickly indoctrinated into the “party line” of basically not liking the riff-raff down the beach. I didn’t hate Mexicans. I just didn’t like the vagabundos on our beach! They didn’t like my boss, me, his family or have any use for the sprawling hotel or the rich gringos clients either so there was a tense cease-fire co-existence most times. Fine.

Well, as with many Epiphanies, mine started innocently. Much like when your baseball accidentally gets hit into “Old Man Jones’ yard” and you realize you must interact with the curmudgeonly neighbor, One of our plastic kayaks blew off the beach and drifted down the beach to the “bad zone.” Uh-oh…

Well, the boss wasn’t going to get it and being low man on the pole, it was up to me to go fetch. I walked over with much trepidation not to mention not much more than my high school Spanish that was still a major work-in-progress.

Have you ever heard those stories where opposing armies in a great conflict sometimes stop the shooting over the simplest human needs? In the American Civil War, Union and Confederate soldiers sentries often secretly shared tobacco or hard tack with each other and put down their guns to chat. In World War One, German and British soldiers came out of the trenches on Christmas day to play soccer in the mud of no-man’s land and sing Silent Night. Stuff like that.

As I walked over, I noticed the kayak was in the hands of the “bad guys.” Being Sunday, no one was working so the camp had about 30 guys in it and as they saw “El Chaparito Hawaiiano” (the shortie Hawaiian as they came to call me later) activity stopped and I could tell everyone at the camp was watching me. Guys stopped cleaning their pangas; repairing nets; came out’ve their clapboard, plywood and tarpaper huts.

The two young guys who had the kayak on a rope walked warily toward me. I was nervous.

“Su kayaka?” (your kayak?) asked one of the younger ones as he handed me the tether rope.
“Si. Gracias” I responded. I nodded and we kind of stood there for a moment. I think a smile flickered between the 3 of us.
“Tienes cerveza?” (Got beer?) asked one of them. (Ah…the international guy code!)
“Si, una caja, porque? Esta en mi hielera en mi casa.” (Sure, a case, why? It’s in an ice chest in my house)

“Frio?” (Cold?) I was asked. (Ice and cold beer are a luxury out there!)

“Si, Frio!”(Yes, cold!) I responded now smiling. I saw more smiles and teeth…albeit not good teeth, but something was happening here between me and the vagabundos!
“Ven aca mas tarde en la tarde.” (Come here later in the afternoon). With that the walked away. I stood there knowing I was being watched feeling a bit like Kevin Costner in “Dances with Wolves.” Hmmmmm…

Several hours later at dusk when my boss couldn’t see what I was doing, I snuck away. I grabbed several ice chests of bottled Pacifico and canned Tecate and drove down the beach to the camp.

What I found was a soccer game in the sand! Lit by the headlights of their beat up pickup trucks and non-descript rusty Chevy’s and Fords, they had laid out a little field and had just started when the short Hawaiian showed up. Around the perimeter they had little “smudge pots” made of tin cans with oil or something in them that they had lit and now burned and emitted a stinky gritty smoke that carried on the ocean wind over the camp. I got out. Not much was said, but when I pulled out two ice chests of beer…well…I quickly found myself playing goalie for the guys in the cutoff shorts and grungy t-shirts. These guys had game too! Within a few minutes I wasn’t sure if I was playing soccer or rugby or keep-away, but I was covered in sand and sweat and the best part…smiles and laughter.

We played soccer into the night and I still don’t understand the game. A bonfire was lit and I think we ate barbecued pig or something, (when you’re a guest in the “enemy” camp you just eat it and smile) but it was incredible and somewhere at the bottom of that big stock pot of soup was a goat’s head that I never would have ever tried. With cebollas (onions) and ajo (garlic) and other vegetables, it rivaled any soup we served in the hotel restaurant and it was perfectly fine to eat with your fingers and wipe it on your shirt afterwards and then use your sleeve to wipe your mouth. When in Rome…

I don’t recall that we talked about the problems they were having with my boss, but for me, it was really my first introduction into “hanging” with the boys in the local ‘hood. Handshakes, smiles and cold beer seem to be universal vehicles of good will. And a soccer ball bounced back and forth…and we all yelled and screamed and laughed. I guess I had gone over to the “darkside.” In the dark and shadows of that remote beach lit only by the headlights and campfire, we all looked alike…dirty and sweaty.

El Jefe has since passed away, but the camp endures more than a decade later and some of those fishermen have remained my friends to this day. We sometimes talk about how they met the funny looking brown guy who worked at the hotel and what a lousy soccer goalie I had been.

That’s my story. You can always contact me at riplipboy@aol.com or www.tailhunter-international.com