Gringo for a Day

Mexico's annual match in San Diego provides sights and sounds rarely seen

There I was, surrounded by lucha libre masks, sombreros, zarapes, knockoff soccer shirts and the smell of cooked carne asada. No, I wasn’t at the border crossing at TJ, I was a gringo in Qualcomm Stadium.

It’s not every day you can have a genuine out-of-country experience in your own backyard. But when Mexico’s national soccer team rolls into San Diego for an exhibition match, as they did on June 4, Qualcomm Stadium feels like anywhere but America. And while live soccer—“the beautiful game”—is, for admirers, spectacle enough itself, the environment, atmosphere and especially the parking lot provides sights seldom seen outside Mexico. Leave it to Mexicans to adopt, embrace and celebrate all manner of the wackier aspects of their culture for the evening to cheer on their beloved El Tricolor.

If the game is the main event, then outside, in the parking lot, is a pre-party to match any the Chargers put on. The Q was completely sold out, as a stadium-soccer-record 68,498 turned up to see Mexico take on world-ranked No. 1 Argentina. Statistically, this meant there must have been roughly 10,000 of those silly wrestling masks, twice as many zarapes—adorned with either the Mexico national team logo or one’s favorite club team—several mariachi outfits, and approximately 67,000 green shirts. Someone is definitely making money, as Mexico soccer shirts and t-shirts were worn by everyone from adults to teens to even the tiniest (and biggest) children and babies.

I got a wonderful sampling of all this at a tailgate before the match in an event-filled aisle of the parking lot. Whether looking for spots or just driving around, Mexican fans flew flags all afternoon from their cars as they drove by, which never once failed to draw ecstatic cheers. Kids and adults blowing whistles and those ubiquitous plastic horns provided a taste of what was to come inside the stadium. Not to be outdone, a car drove by with the passenger tooting on a real trumpet—not that he was playing any sort of tune. Soccer balls were passed back and forth. A chubby shirtless kid sprinted through the aisle with an enormous flag. Responding to the applause, he then repeated the trick twice more. Meanwhile, the damp weather did nothing to quash the wonderful aroma of grilled meat and tortillas, or the barbecue embers themselves.

But those wrestling masks. Occasionally, when two guys who happen to be sporting them cross paths, a wrestling match will begin (the fake, theatrical kind, of course). As a crowd circled in the street, the luchadors traded fake punches, slaps and kicks. Before anyone had a chance to jump off a car hood or wield a folding chair, the police, who slowly weave up and down all the parking aisles, took notice, as they tend to do when there’s a crowd gathered around men who appear to be fighting. The officers in the squad car made their presence known and the crowd slowly disbanded, yet as the car passed by, a spectator carrying a Mexican flag made a hilarious, beautiful and accurate matador’s pass, with the police car as the bull and the flag his cape, to the delight of the dispersing crowd.

Suffice it to say, this crowd was up for it. Anyone who dared wear an Argentina shirt found himself or herself being labeled “c*lo!” by all nearby, as a neighbor of ours was. Trouble was, he almost certainly wasn’t from Argentina, according to the experts. “He’s a Mexican—we know what our own people look like!” said my tailgate-mate. Perhaps he was simply hedging his bet.

Inside the stadium, the roar was deafening—during the warmup. When the two teams walked out of the tunnel for the actual match, it was hard to hear one’s own thoughts. Voices screamed, horns blared and handmade signs remarked on both the team (“Viva Mexico”) and national diplomacy (“Mexico sí, migra no”).

If Mexico were to get anything from this match, these enthusiastic fans would have to help provide the spark: Argentina were ranked No. 1 and featured most of their very top players, including world-class 20-year-old Lionel Messi. Meanwhile, Mexico didn’t recall some of its European-based players and were in the midst of a coaching flux after failing to qualify for this summer’s Olympics.

Nonetheless, the game got off to a flying start: Argentina’s movement and passing were fluid, beautiful and precise, while Mexico’s attacks were exciting, frenetic and with reckless abandon. A mistake at the back by Mexico saw Argentina almost score, only to be denied by keeper Oswaldo Sanchez. But in the 11th minute, Argentina didn’t waste a second golden opportunity, as they capitalized on more sloppy defending to go one goal up.

Seven minutes later, Argentina doubled their lead with a beautiful goal that deserved every replay the Jumbotron paid it, as Messi was both architect and finisher in a multiple-pass buildup that left Mexico looking very flat-footed, and very Washington Generals to Argentina’s Harlem Globetrotters.

Twelve minutes later and Mexico was effectively finished, thanks to Maxi Rodriguez, who also buried them two years ago in the World Cup with the best goal in that tournament. Though the rain let up, the mood in the stadium was severely dampened, and Mexico was showered with boos from the crowd as they exited the field. Supporters remarking “p*ta madre” to themselves in the restroom during the intermission summed up the deflated atmosphere.

In the second half it was again grace versus bluster, although, as with the first half, the wind was effectively gone from Mexico’s sails, as their runs and passes became more hopeful than crisp and confident. Eventually in the 62nd minute a speculative shot from outside the 18-yard box by Mexico’s Naelson found the back of the net, giving all those fans something to cheer about, and the first reason in an hour to blow on their plastic horns. Yet Argentina, not to be outdone, added one more of their own as the hardworking Sergio Aguero, who happens to be squiring the daughter of none other than Argentine legend Diego Maradona, slipped one past Sanchez to make it four. A bad night for the keeper (although perhaps not as bad as two nights later, when he was arrested in Chicago for celebrating a bit too late and loud at the team’s hotel after beating Peru).

And while it was a quiet night game-wise for Argentina’s own net minder, Roberto Abbondanzieri, the Mexican tradition of shouting obscenities as he kicked the ball all evening was the least of his worries. He was also rained on with all manner of cups, plastic bottles, wadded-up paper and anything else that could be thrown as fans tried a bit too literally to get into the match. No amount of complaining to the referees and no amount of pleas from the Spanish-language announcer (who still used that enthusiastic, over-caffeinated tone for even these announcements) stopped the trash storm.

Exiting the stadium was as somber as the entrance was elative, though much easier, as most of the fans had already left. Exiting the parking lot, however, was nearly impossible, as 68,000 fans were still trapped in the massive lot, outmaneuvering each other to lean a bumper into a tiny hole that just opened up, or flooring it and changing lanes to advance 20 feet. Largely gone were flags, good nature and postgame tailgating of any kind, as opposed to last year, when Mexico triumphed over Venezuela 3-1.

The party was over for this year. But it’s a very good bet that Mexico’s next match at the Q will be just as wild and entertaining—inside and out.

Plenty of time to buy myself a wrestling mask.

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