A dispatch from Azteca Stadium

Be warned. An ill-planned venture into peak-hour traffic in Mexico City can quickly go drastically wrong. A veteran of many hours spent wedged upright in sardine-can subways and impossibly congested buses, I was peeved to find myself suffering the commuter dread. I thought I was immune. But the destination would be worth it, if I ever got there.

Situated somewhere in the sprawling metropolis, south of the bubble which I reluctantly leave, is the great cement monolith – Azteca Stadium. Spoken of in awed tones only, it was the site of Maradona’s hand-of-god goal, I now know. It is also the only stadium in the world to have hosted two World Cup finals. History abounds then, and the less-than-highly-rated Mexican national team may have felt the weight of the stadium’s tonnes of concrete on their shoulders as they approached the match. They had performed poorly in the first leg in Tegucigalpa in Honduras, and were 2-0 down. Conceding a goal tonight would likely be terminal and would mean ignominious elimination from the Concacaf Nations League. At the hands of the lowly ranked Honduras, no less. They needed a 2-0 victory to push the match to extra time. 

The much anticipated leisurely pre-game drink was severely compromised by traffic and poor planning, even though I had left home nearly four hours before the 8:30 kickoff. We had one large, rushed beer at Hooters and walked twenty minutes through congested streets to the stadium. Tension was palpable, and many ill-prepared people were stranded outside the stadium, trying desperately to register for FanID, a platform where fans had to upload a copy of ID, personal details, and a selfie. Minimal internet signal did not help, but the locals handled the stress without much complaining. 30 minutes were wasted, and finally, we were inside, jogging up to the top level, sitting with much-needed beverages as the game reached the 10th minute. 0-0

My host for the evening was Alejandro, a CDMX native with a passionate dislike for Honduras, apparently. He was stressed like everyone else, mentally prepared for failure and possibly disgust, maybe preferring the well-known safety of underachievement over the fraught potential of success. Or was I projecting?

We agreed that one goal was needed in the first half, if only to appease the tense, packed stadium. The first half was quite even and as the last few minutes ticked by, a 0-0 half-time score looked likely. But no. Mexico scored from a cleanly struck free kick and entered half-time 1-0 up. The mood was more buoyant, optimistic. A great help was that one beer was actually two cans of Corona rather than just one.

Honduras had come with a pretty obvious plan to frustrate their opponents, and many players spent minutes on the ground being attended to by the doctors, only to inevitably be up playing again moments later. As the second half progressed, they stopped attacking altogether, and settled in to try to wait out 25-30 minutes in grim defence. Mexico started to dominate as the rain poured down. Opportunities, rare in the first half, were now everywhere, gilt-edged and inexplicably squandered. At minutes 72, 86, 87 and 95, easy chances were missed, and the crowd, sensing a loss, got shitty.

As the widely hated Honduran goalkeeper took his goal kick, fans in the top deck united in calling out ‘puto’, a pejorative term considered unacceptable at games. The clock ticked, and the term reverberated around the monolith. Another small chapter of infamy observed by the walls. The authorities did their best to curb it, starting with an announcement, and then trying in vain to start up a ‘Mexico, Mexico’ chant or a song as the keeper started his run-up. To no avail. If the team were to lose, the disgruntled fans would get some satisfaction, however minor. Only a goal would stop it…

Injury time came, and despair and feigned indifference. Some substitutes had been made earlier in the half, and a common favourite, Chino Huerta, was dominating the right wing. He had his opponent befuddled, but his crosses and creative passes were not converted. Ten minutes of injury time mostly elapsed, wasted; enter the last two minutes of pointless, counterproductive urgency and poor decisions. Panic. Eyes on the tiny clock on the scoreboard, and at 100, resignation. 

One fan next to us had spent half an hour calling relentlessly for Santi to come on. Santi did, but this guy was still annoyed, and in those vital final moments he was, apparently, in the toilet. Hard to believe a piss could ever be that urgent. Whether or not he was on his way home is his secret to keep, but from wherever he was he heard the HUGE roar as somehow, in the last instances of desperate, formless mess inside the box, the ball ended up in the net. 2-2. Pandemonium, disbelief, endless cries of ‘no mames’.

No replays on the screen. Just the goal in your mind. Maybe you saw it, maybe you were drifting away, planning your exit, your trip home, work tomorrow. Maybe you thought you saw a ball and someone kick it but who knows, there were 20 players in the box. Whatever. The human mind quickly paints the memory, stores it in the short term, and this new fan, not even Mexican, just a general sports enthusiast, zealous like a recent convert, celebrates wildly. 15 seconds later the whistle. Extra time. 

30 minutes of ET. Poor Hondurans, waiting for execution, far from home, outnumbered. Holding on. Everyone can feel it. The spectre is there, looming. The dirty ending. And so it happens.

The Mexican keeper saves the first shot, and soon they are 3-2 up. Enter Chino. Dynamic and incisive in the second half, a local favourite, future cult figure, natural footballer, he is the type of player one expects to handle the pressure, convert, walk away, no stress. He doesn’t. Shot saved, disbelief. No mames. But wait. Honduran goalkeeper, anointed fall guy, public enemy 1, was off his line early. A cynical viewer could imagine the ref’s bank balance growing. In pesos. 

Now in these few seconds between penalty one and penalty two, both keeper and striker can consider their options. If he went left, will he go right? If I went left, should I go right, or will he think I’m going right and so I’ll go left? And onwards. Chino goes right, gets saved again. Keeper off his line again. Ref loaded now. Retake. Chino gets it right on the third try. No mames. Moments later, game over. Mexico wins.