Gracias fútbol
Latinx Files readers and Times staff members share what the World Cup means to them. Read more memories and appreciations on Page 7 and online at latimes.com/graciasfutbol.
“Iwas in the press section of Azteca Stadium in Mexico City and the buzz was that Diego Maradona’s first goal had been scored with his hand. From high, we clearly saw he outjumped Peter Shilton and saw him score a header. Some nearby monitors offered a few inconclusive replays so we didn’t pay too much attention to it. Then five minutes later came the goal of the century, the most impressive, best goal I have ever witnessed in all of the goals I have called in my life. When Diego started his slalom past midfield, I remember that I and my colleagues from El Gráfico magazine, for which I was working that June 22 day, started a slow-motion synchronized move out of our seats that concluded after the goal was scored with a giant hug between all of us. I had tears, a lot of tears in my eyes, some friends were outright crying. We kept hugging as if it were the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve or a birthday celebration. We all knew we had witnessed history. So much so that it is so vivid in my mind as if it had happened last weekend.” — Andres Cantor, Telemundo’s chief World Cup commentator 2
018. It was my first time in Europe and I was traveling with some fraternity brothers. When we got to Moscow for the game against Germany, it was as if every type of Mexican that God has ever created was there. You had people from places like California, New York, Texas, Michoacán and Jalisco. Right away we all just bonded. You could feel the energy as we walked to the stadium, and once inside all you saw was a sea of green. That’s when it hit me that we were the home team. Sure, we were playing Germany in Europe, but we outnumbered them. And then the national anthem started playing. I just got goose bumps. It made me think about growing up and being with my parents and family as we watched the 1986 World Cup.
I’ve been to big collegiate games at the Rose Bowl and the Coliseum, but nothing compared to this. When Chucky Lozano scored, things went to another level. We cheered but that’s when the nervousness set in. We’re Mexico fans, after all, so we were all just waiting for something bad to happen. But nothing ever did. We actually won. I remember the joy of everyone leaving that stadium, the train ride back. We all celebrated well into the night. — Edgar Navarro
This was an especially big one. It was in 1994 when the U.S. hosted the World Cup. I worked for La Opinión then, sponsors of the event, so I had access to many games at the Rose Bowl. To be honest, I’m not sure if it was the game between Argentina and Romania. Perhaps it was the final between Italy and Brazil.
It was in one of those games that then-Gov. Pete Wilson took the mic and the whole stadium booed him so loud they drowned out what he was trying to say. Goose bumps ran up and down my body. I clapped and applauded in joy! No surprise, given that the anti-immigrant Prop. 187 was in full swing, which Wilson supported. Perhaps someone who is a real fútbol aficionado will remember at which game this happened.
— Susanna Fránek
The most memorable World Cup for me was the 2006 tournament. I remember watching Mexico lose yet again in the round of 16, this time against Argentina. I was watching with my dad in South Texas. In the eighth minute of extra time, Maxi Rodriguez scored a goal so impressive that it convinced this lifelong agnostic that God did exist, and that he hated Mexico. That goal still haunts me from time to time during quiet moments. I was miserable, but at least I was in the company of the person who made me love this sport in the first place.
A few days later, I found myself in New York City. I was en route to Paris to study abroad that summer but made a pit stop so I could watch Germany face off against Italy in the semifinals with my very German friend, Cory. If my team wasn’t going to win, then I wanted my buddy’s team to win. That didn’t happen.
Italy scored two goals in the waning moments of extra time, and life was sucked out of Lederhosen, the nowclosed German bar in Greenwich Village where we watched.
By the time I landed in Paris, France had already secured a spot in the final and my fellow classmates had made plans to watch the final at a nearby soccer stadium with tens of thousands of Parisians. It was exciting — here I was in a country that had a real shot at becoming world champion. That jubilation quickly turned to dread in extra time. In the 110th minute, French captain Zinedine Zidane was shown a red card after headbutting Italy’s Marco Materazzi in the chest. The momentum had swung in Italy’s favor after that, and the Azurri won it in a penalty shootout.
What sticks in my mind all these years later about the 2006 World Cup is that suffering because of soccer is truly a universal experience. It’s part of the human condition in most parts of the world.