the preferred sport

When I think of soccer in the U.S., I think of those little league YMCA soccer games where half of a 5-year-old team is a glued pack around the ball, the other half is off picking daisies, and suburban soccer moms are looking on with sliced oranges and Capri-suns packed in coolers.

But when it comes to the favorite sport here in Aztec country, there's no question. Futbol is a whole different ball game. We're definitely not in Suburbia anymore. Only B's inherent competitive drive and love for goal-scoring is pushing him to keep up. These kindergarten-age kids are like mini-me's of their dads, yelling when their teammate misses a goal, dribbling and passing like pros and blocking shots with their heads. B's learning fast, though. I took some pictures one day at school and he was yelling along with the rest of them, "Pasela! Pasela! Pasela! Mire! Mire! Aqui! Aqui! Aqui!"







This inherent competitive drive will either make him a really good futbol player or a little messed up. I'd be lying if I said it didn't make me nervous. However, this ambitious nature cannot be a surprise when considering the source from whence it sprang. The other night, Bruce got together with some guys from work and they played another group from a different firm. It was freezing, but Geraldine and I were dutiful wives. Go, team.


Too bad I was rooting for the losers. I admit, in my mind, I totally generalized all Mexicans as good futbol players. But I forgot to account for the accountants. The other team creamed Bruce's colleagues. Bruce was the only one to score from his team. Probably because he was in a mad, adrenaline-rushed craze from losing so badly. I think the final score ended up being 8 to 3. And only a 5-goal difference because the other team decided to show mercy. Nice going, accountants. Not only did you lose, but you let the Americano score for you. I obviously need some practice taking action shots at night. None of the pics I took turned out, except this classic one of Bruce lying next to the goal in pure cardiovascular agony.


Bruce and his motley crew.


The winners. They even look bigger, fitter and faster than those accountants up above. AND there was less of them. Sad, so sad.


At least I'm not stuck watching baseball in this place.