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May 10, 2019

Hats Off to (Marcelino) Bernal

By Jose Oseguera

We jumped out of our seats
As high as our Nike Airs allowed us,
And yelled Viva México
In spite of being reprimanded
By our teacher not to speak
Spanish in the classroom,
Even though it was technically recess.
*
“El pinche indio Bernal
Scored a hell of a goal
On those fancy, cocky-ass Italians,”
Kept running through my head,
Neck to neck with my adrenaline
As the two Italian defenders
Who couldn’t get there in time
To prevent his shot.
*
We celebrated his goal
Not as if he had equalized a losing game
But as if 1994 was finally the year
That Mexico would win the World Cup.
*
The goal itself was as well-placed
As it was unceremonious.
Mexico’s number 6 sprinted in celebration—
Faster than he had all game.
*
Marcelino’s mullet flapped on
The nape of his neck
Like black crested caracara feathers,
His white jersey thrashed loosely
Under his arms as eagle’s wings:
Our hero,
Our cock in the fight.
*
I was sure that had his teammates
Not tackled him,
Bernal would have flown out
Of Robert F. Kennedy Memorial Stadium
Into the blue skies of Washington DC,
Over the Lincoln Memorial,
And into heaven like Elijah.
*
The English-speaking commentators
Were speechless—
Jaw-dropped as they saw a prince
From our tribe be marvelous, divine—
So quiet that our teacher was afraid
That all of our jumping around
Had somehow broken the television.
*
They couldn’t describe what they had seen:
A flyover country scaling Olympus
And landing a jab on Zeus himself?
Had these journalist found it
Worthwhile to research Marcelino’s stats—
Butchering his name
As if reading it for the first time—
They would’ve known that
That 5 foot 11 inch man of bronze skin
From Tepic, Nayarit
Had a rocket-launcher of a right leg.
*
As dumbfounded as they were,
They deemed the phenomenon an error
On the part of the Italians—
A fortunate rebound,
An act of voodoo chichimeca
Rather than a feat of athletic ingenuity—
Their analytical minds
Couldn’t understand what
Three bean-and-tortilla fed
Fourth-graders knew in their hearts;
Something their aunts and uncles
Never allowed them to forget:
“Nobody ever gives nothing to people like us.
That’s why we need to celebrate
All the small victories
Because who knows if we’ll ever hit it big.”
*
We crossed our fingers,
Held our breaths,
And prayed a Hail Mary
For every minute of play
Until we turned blue all over.
We were prepared to die
On the field along with the Mexican team:
Playing a game of a lifetime,
Yet losing as everyone expected.
*
The school bell rang,
Our teacher switched off the TV
And flicked on the lights.
The sweaty chatter and sneaker screeches
Of our classmates flooded the room.
We rubbed our eyes
Adjusting to the incandescence
And wiping tears of joy
For the men in whose faces we saw our own.
*
We knew that after the goal
Mexico would probably get trampled on the field
Because there were still 30 minutes left of the game.
But maybe, just maybe
A goddamn, sumbitch indio
Would get away, for once,
With more than he could ever dream of:
More than any of us ever deserved.
*
*
*

Jose Oseguera is an LA-based writer of poetry, short fiction and literary nonfiction. Having grown up in a diverse urban environment, Jose has always been interested in the people and places around him, and the stories that each of these has to share, those that often go untold. His writing has been featured in Meat for Tea, Sky Island Journal, The Esthetic Apostle, and The Main Street Rag. His work has also been nominated for the ‘Best of the Net’ award and the ‘Pushcart Prize.’ Visit his website at joseoseguera.com

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