On Wednesday, as I sat at my desk at 1 o’clock in the afternoon,
I realized the U.S.-Mexico World Cup qualifier was starting and
made a beeline to the TV that sits above the news’ desk. The
outcome of the game was crucial to Mexico’s chances of qualifying
for the world’s biggest sporting event, while the U.S. looked
poised to finally record a victory at Estadio Azteca in Mexico,
where the Americans were entering the match 0-22-1.
One of the major perks about sports writing is that you can say with a straight face, ‘I need to watch this game. It’s part of my job.’
My ex-girlfriend hated this claim. She often retaliated by taking control of the clicker later in the evening to gain dominion over the household. She paid me back with marathon sessions of Food Network programming. I hate Emeril. I hate Paula Dean. I hate Rachael Ray.
Things didn’t work out.
So, on Wednesday, as I sat at my desk at 1 o’clock in the afternoon, I realized the U.S.-Mexico World Cup qualifier was starting and made a beeline to the TV that sits above the news’ desk. The outcome of the game was crucial to Mexico’s chances of qualifying for the world’s biggest sporting event, while the U.S. looked poised to finally record a victory at Estadio Azteca in Mexico, where the Americans were entering the match 0-22-1.
Trying to exhibit some restraint for my co-workers – whose eyes rolled off the table when I provided the explanation as to why I was sitting in the middle of the office with a notepad, watching TV – I turned the volume low.
Eight minutes into the contest, the U.S. silenced all but one of the 105,000-plus people in attendance when Charlie Davies put the Americans ahead on a shot slotted into the net following a perfect through ball by Landon Donovan.
“Gooooooooooool!”
I gave a little fist pump, feeling like the U.S. just might pull out its first-ever victory in Mexico, before being brought back to reality. Sara Suddes, our education reporter, was clearly annoyed.
“What is that?” she said in disgust.
“It’s the announcer. He says that after every goal, and usually it goes on for a minute or two.”
“It’s terrible. And why is he so excited? Aren’t they in Mexico?”
“He’s an announcer. He supposed to be impartial even if he speaks Spanish.”
Her eyes rolled. She went back to the phones.
My eyes rolled. I went back to the tube.
A little more than 10 minutes later, Mexico returned the favor on a fantastic strike 10 yards outside the top of the box by Israel Macias Castro. The ball clipped the bottom of the crossbar before ricocheting across the line, and 105,000-plus, plus one announcer, went crazy.
Two U.S. yellow cards later, things were getting testy and Mexico has a free kick that threatened to break open the game were it not for a great save by goalkeeper Tim Howard.
Suddes looked up at the TV, saw Howard, turned and said, “Why is he wearing Mickey Mouse gloves?”
I immediately decided the office is not the place to watch the rest of the game.
With only one true sports bar in Gilroy, I head to Stubby’s despite the fact that three days earlier a confused car drove through the entrance and parked itself in the dining room. The bar is remarkably clean and patched up, but I chose a table that was blocked by my own parked car to be on the safe side.
The second half featured fatigue for both teams, making for a more open, entertaining game. Realizing I needed a closer view, though, I made my way around the bar to an open TV. The bartender on duty, a lovely little woman named Janice, offered to change the channel to one that had the broadcast in English rather than the Telemundo version the rest of the patrons – all pro-Mexico – were watching.
I consented, but a minute later I realized my broadcast was five seconds ahead of everyone else’s in the bar.
I started feeling nervous. Any outcome, good or bad, would be delivered prematurely by my response. I asked Janice to go back to Telemundo, language barrier be damned.
With less than 10 minutes left, all but one person sitting in Stubby’s – you can guess who – erupted in glee when Miguel Sabah, who entered as a substitute just three minutes earlier, corralled a loose ball in the box and unleashed a screamer that would have cropped Howard’s bald head were the keeper in need of a haircut.
A few forgettable U.S. attempts to equalize went by and Mexico walked away the victors, remaining undefeated at home against their neighbors to the north.
I tipped my glass to the nearby patrons in deference, feeling a small twinge of disgust for how the game got away. Then I took a look at my glass and realized it was still half full: A portion of my work day had just revolved around watching sports.
Even defeat doesn’t feel as bad as watching the Food Network.
