As Mexico advance to the last 16 with their first World Cup knockout game victory in 40 years, they have lifted what many in the country viewed as a curse. The near-mythical quinto partido – a fifth game – is now a reality, and it could be a blockbuster one at that. If it is England heading to Mexico City, they’ll face a side who’ve only lost twice there in 89 matches.
In our latest issue, the great Mexican author Juan Villoro explores the dubious joy inherent in being a fan of El Tri, and the power of the Azteca to drive them on:
Elias Canetti once wrote of the "ring crowd" that fills a stadium and, seeing itself arrayed in a great circle, becomes conscious of its own power, transforming into its own spectacle. Nothing better captures the Mexican fan, convinced that the real drama unfolds not on the pitch but in the stands. It is no accident that the wave — that pastime in which energy migrates from the field to the terraces – made its international debut at Mexico ‘86.
As for the scoreboards, the national team has supplied us with enough ordeals to satisfy the harshest religion. Our record is a veritable road of penance: Mexico lost the very first match in World Cup history; played in the least-attended game ever (a mere 500 spectators watched our defeat to Chile in 1930); has conceded 101 goals in 60 matches; holds the records for most losses (28) and own goals (4); was barred from Italia ‘90 for falsifying youth documents; and in 2005, received a record fine for mishandling the doping cases of two internationals. Even our glories are tinged with melancholy: goalkeeper Antonio Carbajal appeared in five World Cups without once advancing beyond the first round.
Our finest World Cup performance came in Chile ‘62, when we defeated Czechoslovakia 3–1 – a team that would go on to finish runner-up. How was such a feat possible? The answer lies in our peculiar psychology: already eliminated after losses to Brazil and Spain, Mexico played with the serenity of a man who has nothing left to prove.
Usually, when the national team gains the lead, it grows frightened by its own strength and retreats into its penalty area, as if yearning to crawl back into the maternal womb. That is precisely what happened in the fourth match of Brazil 2014, against the Netherlands. We played brilliantly in the first half, and Giovani Dos Santos scored a goal out of legend. Then what? Coach Miguel Herrera removed the goalscorer, as if success itself were a punishable sin, and the team fell back. In the 87th minute, the inevitable occurred when everything is decided inside your own box: Arjen Robben took his dive, the referee believed him, and the most painful penalty imaginable was awarded against us.
How deeply is defeat rooted in our culture? Do we fail because that is what we are, or because the rich pre-Hispanic cosmos neglected to create a god of penalties?
Our supporters live in a permanent state of tachycardia, and it is hardly accident that the Azteca Stadium stands only a few streets from the National Cardiology Hospital. If passion burns so fiercely, what makes us shrink in the decisive moment? For us, victory demands more than defeat ever does. Failure is easily forgiven because it is the expected ending to so many of our entanglements. In Mexico, affection always outweighs justice: the one who fails is effortlessly welcomed back into the tribe, while the one who triumphs becomes estranged from it — the apostate who, by distinguishing himself, distances himself from his own people.
Yet for all this, football flourishes in Mexico. When I covered Italia ‘90, few surprises matched arriving at Naples' San Paolo Stadium to find my countrymen's banners proclaiming: "Mexico: Number 1." Our team was 10,000 kilometres away, shamefully excluded for falsifying birth certificates in a youth competition, yet Mexican fans in Naples displayed their incomparable ability not to let reality interfere.
During the 1993 Copa América, we in Mexico City celebrated the team's victories at the Angel of Independence. In the final, Argentina beat us 2–1. Did that stop the celebration at the Angel? Of course not. It would be false to say the crowd celebrated defeat. It did what it has always done: it celebrated itself.
And yet, now and then, something suggests that things might be otherwise. On October 2, 2005, Mexico won its first world title, in the Under-17 World Cup, defeating three-time champions Brazil 3–0 in the final. What happened? Is there some parallel universe in which Mexicans are different? In 2011, we confirmed that triumph by winning again.
The Under-17 side proves that the raw human material is there. Tragically, those gifted youngsters enter a league ruled by speculation: short tournaments that make long-term planning impossible, the suspension of promotion and relegation, and teams allowed to field seven foreign players with two more on the bench. In our league — sponsored, fittingly, by a betting house — success depends less on sporting merit than on television rights, advertising and transfer fees. Mexican football resembles our soap operas: poor quality is immensely profitable.
The finest thing about Mexican football is the celebration it inspires: whatever happens on the field never disturbs the unbreakable passion of being together.