This Love Is Not for Cowards (6 page)

“I hear thousands of daily stories about how the Indios have helped someone out,” Francisco tells me as we roll toward the capital. “These stories are very dramatic. It puts a huge pressure on me.” As he speaks, a motor coach slips past our SUV, the bus wrapped in an advertisement for a gubernatorial candidate. There will be a major election on July 4. The governor who won't fund the Indios will leave office soon thereafter, a victim of term limits. Francisco's headed to the capital to lobby the men most likely to take the governor's place, candidates of both major political parties. When Francisco first bought the Indios, he imagined the team would take up maybe 20 percent of his time. Since the violence started, the ratio has inverted. The Indios are taking up 80, maybe 90, percent of his day, he says. Most of that time is spent on the phone with senators and state representatives or, when necessary, on the highway traveling to Chihuahua city and back. He's searching for a politician—for anyone, really—who views the team the way he does, and who is willing to spend whatever it takes to make that vision a reality.

“I feel much responsibility to the people of Juárez,” Francisco says. “A huge responsibility. A responsibility that no one gave me but myself. When I started Indios, it was just for me. It's not just for me anymore.”

“THE SOCIAL MISSION is probably more important than the soccer, honestly,” says Gil Cantú, the Indios' general manager. The first time I saw Gil, at a practice the first week I began following the team, I could tell he was in charge. With Francisco Ibarra out hustling up government support, it's Gil who runs things day to day. He walked onto the practice field looking and acting like the most grown-up guy around. He wears his silver hair slicked back from his forehead until it curls onto his shoulders. His wool coat is the same solid black as his dress shirt, his wrinkle-free flat-front slacks, and the dress shoes he shines to a high gloss. Reporters buzzed around him that morning, recording his thoughts on the future of the Indios, on whether or not head coach Pepe Treviño blows smoke, on the weather itself—freezing cold—and on the general health of the team. His every response appeared in the papers the next day. That first time I saw him, as I admired his straight-up posture and the elegance of his clothes, I extrapolated a host of suave details about his life. I bet his wife is beautiful. I imagined he drove an Italian car of some sort, or perhaps a Porsche. I wasn't yet aware of the upside-down car culture in Juárez, how the last thing anybody would drive is something flashy.

“That game against Monterrey, to be honest with you, that was a disaster,” Gil tells me now. I'm back in Juárez, riding shotgun once again, this time in the car Gil actually drives, an old Pontiac minivan with Texas plates. It's a Thursday afternoon, five days after the Monterrey loss and three days before the next game, at home against Santos. The Indios just wrapped a light practice at Olympic Stadium, a venue change from their usual workouts at the Yvasa complex, on the far south side. Gil insists that the team practice at the stadium at least once in the week before a home game. He wants the players familiar with the way the pitch gently slopes for drainage from the center of the field to the sidelines. Marco and his teammates can study the bounce of the ball on the weather-bleached (though still spongy) turf. A lot of the players prefer to practice at the Benito, simply for the commute; the stadium is located a lot closer to home for most of them. With training wrapped up, Marco hops in his
fronterizo
for the ten-minute drive to his house. Gil and I are headed to the border. I'm flying back to Miami in the morning to attend a wedding. I plan to return to Juárez in my car, which will be loaded down with the rest of everything I own. My flight leaves from El Paso, where Gil lives. He's agreed to take me across the bridge and drop me off at a hotel near the airport.

“It was a disaster,” he continues, still rehashing the Rayados loss. “The players gave up. Mistakes from three players were unforgivable. Maybe they had a bad day. That happens. When the whole team plays bad, that's a leadership issue.”

Gil's full title is vice president of soccer operations. He's part of the four-person politburo—Gil, Francisco, Coach Treviño, and traveling secretary Gabino Amparán—who collectively make the big decisions. Like when to release a player, or when to bring in a new fullback to patch a hole in the defense. Finding talent is primarily Gil's responsibility, and it's the hardest part of his job. The Indios are the poorest team in the Primera. They don't make enough money from ticket sales or merchandizing or beer sales on game days—even with El Kartel in the stands—to pursue the talented but expensive players needed to seriously compete. All morning, I listened to Gil work the phones to Guatemala, where he has a lead on an economical forward. Last night he made a couple calls to China. Gil scours the globe because with the Indios there are complications beyond simple economics. Gil must find players who are talented, affordable, and, above all else, willing to play in Ciudad Juárez.

“I had one player from Atlas loaned to us,” Gil tells me as he drives. Atlas is another team in the Primera. “I talked to him on the phone and he said, ‘Okay.' And then he called me back and he says he talked to his wife and she said, ‘No way.' So he's going to play for a club below the Primera, at a much smaller level. And that's what I've got to confront. I tell you, brother, I'm so busy.”

We're on a highway that follows the curve of the international border. The boundary fence, a tall black grille, shades a berm just off the shoulder, on our left. Our immediate destination is Zaragoza, one of the four bridges connecting Juárez and El Paso. This will be my first visit to this particular bridge. The Zaragoza was built to serve the American trucks picking up car batteries and seat belts at NAFTA maquiladoras. It's also a favorite bridge of everyday international commuters like Gil, who's purchased a credential that allows him to pass through customs quicker than other drivers. Even with his speed pass, the fifteen-mile drive from the Indios' training complex to Gil's house in El Paso can take an hour and a half on days when the bridge is clean, meaning traffic isn't backed up. If there's a bust? If customs spots a pickup truck with cocaine sewn into the seat cushions or tucked behind its door panels? Add another hour or even two.

“It's not that dangerous in Juárez,” Gil opines, slipping into what is obviously his recruiting sales pitch. “Just live in good neighborhoods, stick to main roads. You can live here just fine. Ask Edwin [Santibáñez, the offensive midfielder]. He's been with us the whole time, and he's fine. Ask Marco—he's been with us for years and he's fine, too. We tell them we're right next to El Paso, where their wives can go shopping. No other team can offer that. We tell them they'll be safe if they take proper precautions, but some of them, their wives step in. We lose so many [prospects] so often I no longer count. South American, Mexican. They turn us down right away or their agent says, ‘You know what, I'm not going to let him play in Juárez.' But Juárez is not only violence, I tell them. There are good sections of town.”

I don't know about that. Judging by the map on my wall, I'd say nowhere in Juárez appears immune from the killing. There are obvious trouble spots, like bloody Colonia Altavista, where Maleno Frías grew up. But I've read about murders in Campestre, an upscale community built around a golf course. Colonia Nogales, where I live, is supposedly one of the better parts of town, yet two people have been murdered already on my very street (though thankfully not on my block). The Mexican grocery chain S-Mart is the Indios' main sponsor, their logo the biggest image on the team jerseys. Someone shot two people outside the S-Mart closest to my apartment, where I continue buying my tortillas. These murders have not been isolated incidents. A car waiting in line for gas at the station two blocks from my home was pumped with bullets fired by automatic weapons, the driver slain as morning commuters whizzed down López Mateos. Five diners were assassinated at a Chinese restaurant across the street from that gas station. It's very hard to deny that Juárez—everywhere in Juárez—is violent like nowhere else.

Before I got here, I figured all the players on the team lived in El Paso, for safety. None of them actually do. Not one. Crossing is too much of a hassle. There was one kid in the Indios' youth program who tried commuting for a while. The youth teams play their games immediately after the regular Indios games, in stadiums emptied of fans. So many kids are trying to climb up through the system that their jerseys display absurd numbers as high as 168 or even 217. They don't interact with the players on the big club very often, but sometimes they'll be at the training complex at the same time, practicing on the other of the two full-size fields. I was sitting on the bleachers one morning when a kid named Jorge approached and asked if I spoke English. He told me he was from Phoenix. His dad had played professionally for the Cobras, and he, Jorge, had recently dropped out of high school to follow his father's path. Even though his father was Mexican, Jorge didn't speak any Spanish. That seemed more tragic to me than his decision to drop out of school.

“Have you seen any bodies yet?” he asked. He'd seen two, and he'd only been with the organization about a month. He saw his first body in the street outside the house he shared with some other prospects. The second body landed on the very doorstep of that house. Jorge had to hop over the body to get outside. His parents immediately moved him to El Paso. Jorge told me the commute wasn't working out that well. A little while later he quit the team altogether.

This makes Gil the only one in the organization who pulls it off. (Francisco Ibarra lives in El Paso, but he's not a regular commuter; he's visited the practice compound only once this season.) Although Gil was born in Monterrey, he's an American citizen, and has been for a while. “You can really see your tax dollars at work in El Paso,” he has told me. “You see it every day in things like trash pickup, electricity, water. You can live in a very comfortable way. I got an offer for another job down in Cancún, but I don't want to leave El Paso.”

More than ten thousand cars and trucks cross the Zaragoza Bridge every day. When we pull up to the bridge, I notice the road forks in two. Gil steers his passenger car to the left, away from maybe two hundred tractor trailers lined up on the right. There are a lot of cars ahead of us. Gil's Pontiac rolls to a stop because of the traffic, so I grab my duffel bag, get out of the minivan, and tell Gil I'll see him on the other side—he's not allowed to take a passenger with him through the express line. A pedestrian walkway arcs over the Rio Grande. The river is mostly dry, just a small stream of water I could probably leap across if I had to. As I walk, I study the long line of trucks. Swift. Mesilla Valley Transportation. A couple flatbeds carrying neat stacks of two-by-fours. The trucks (and also the passenger cars) are backed up as far as I can see. This isn't the clean bridge Gil was hoping for. I veer to the left with the passenger cars. As I approach the gates where customs officers inspect each car before letting it into El Paso, I notice that all but one of the seven tollbooth-ish bays have been cleared. Steel gates affixed with stop signs have been lowered across every lane, preventing any cars from moving forward. Only one car remains in a bay, a white Ford Taurus. I count sixteen officers standing around the car, staring at it. I think we have a bust. No one's getting through for a while.

No one behind a wheel, that is. I'm one of only ten pedestrians on the bridge, and I pass through customs quickly, without incident. Gil is so far back I can't even see him, so I walk over to a parking lot, prepared to wait for a while. BIENVENIDO A LOS ESTADOS UNIDOS DE AMERICA, states a sign. I'm back in my home country, for the first time in a month. I smell the air.
Is it any different?
I see only sand and blacktop and a couple scrubby trees without leaves. No stores or houses have developed the land near this bridge, so it's hard to make a comparison between the countries. I wait more than an hour for Gil to clear customs. When he finally pulls up, I open the passenger-side door and reclaim my front seat. Gil and I drive into Texas together.

“Juárez is a city where you find a job easily,” he says, sounding like he's still on his sales pitch. I'm astonished at his focus. “You find a school easily. You have the blessing of being close to the U.S., which really is a blessing. And Juárez is a beautiful land, a beautiful atmosphere. And the people are a warm people, always willing to receive a person regardless of where they're from. That's the difference of Juárez. Once you get here, you feel from here, like you've been living here forever.”

We merge onto I-10, traveling at high speed for five minutes until we exit the highway at Lee Trevino Drive, named after the professional golfer. We roll past gas stations and budget hotels, heading deeper into the safety and security of El Paso, where Gil, for all his kind words about Juárez, has lived for years. He pulls his Pontiac into the parking lot of my hotel, turning to ask me when I'm coming back. Will I need to be picked up at the airport? I'll return in a week, I reply, and thanks, but a ride won't be necessary. I'm driving back in my car.

“Your car?!” he cries. “You're bringing back your car? To Juárez? Are you crazy? They'll hunt you like a deer! They'll figure out where you live and your routine. You'll be nervous every night, brother. I would not do that if I were you!”

I'VE GOT AN evening to kill in El Paso. Wonderful. How exciting. After I check in at the hotel, I stroll a few blocks down a wide commercial street called Montana Avenue. I like walking around cities, but there isn't much for me to see out here, marooned near the airport. I find an elementary school. I find strip-mall cell-phone and clothing stores and a gas station parked next to a Burger King. I enter the restaurant and buy a Whopper, ordering in Spanish like everyone else. I take my time eating. When I finish, I duck into the gas station to buy a can of Bud Light and Clamato for tonight (I'm acquiring a taste) and a small protein shake to save for breakfast before my six A.M. flight. I wince at the bill: seven dollars, for what would cost me no more than three dollars in Juárez. All this safety costs money.