Spanish writer Javier Marías used to say el fútbol es la recuperación semanal de la infancia – football is the weekly recovery of childhood.
Surely he meant turning on the TV or getting into the heart and soul of a stadium. However, the most real way of all is living it in the first person: putting on those shoes, special shorts and a jersey with your name on it, then jumping on the field on a Sunday morning.
That is how I spent most of my childhood and adolescence, every weekend playing football all morning on pitches from Puebla to Cholula. My dad would take me to matches and tournaments no matter how far or how early. That’s how we explored a good part of Mexico.
I did it all: I watched football with my dad on the TV, and at least once a week we attended a match so I could, later at he smaller pitches, do everything I watched at the Cuahutemoc Stadium (two times host stadium at the World Cup: 1970 to Pelé and 1986 to Maradona).
This started keeping my family company: something that seemed vital and later, would become a pillar for me. At the time, there were not many girls’ teams, but I made my way by finding other girls looking for the same right to have that space.
Once there, I met my best friends – and all of us were ready to respect and keep each of the traditions and cábalas we had to make so everything went well.
In football, mainly in Spanish-speaking countries, a cábala is a bunch of superstitious practices one must do to keep bad luck away, such as stepping into the field with the right foot or covering our wrists with tape.
My goalkeeper back in that time would wet her gloves before playing. My coach used to wear the same shoes and even the same underwear she had on when we won.
Of course these don’t always work, like praying before a match – Johan Cruyff said that, if that was the case, every match would end up tied, but it is always good to have something to believe in and take some responsibility from one’s shoulders.
Besides, who would like to mess with luck if it is not to flirt with it?
Weeks and then years passed by like that. The results could vary, but the ritual was always the same: driving with dad, playing with the team and having a bite or a drink after the match – because it’s not a match day if you don’t close it with a beer, late breakfast or good meal.
Normally it was street food, something fast or deep-fried, all kinds of tacos but especially asada (tortillas with grilled meat), tacos de canasta (fried tortillas with a variety of stews), tamales (corn dough stuffed with different ingredients) and tortas (special bread split in half and filled with different ingredients).
A lot of the games were played in Cholula, the same fields you can see in the photos. Natural grass, artificial turf or just dust, it didn’t matter.
The most beautiful thing is that this space isn’t a unique experience of mine – it still is replicable for a lot of people.
A tour of San Andrés and San Pedro, and you can find an abundant offer of local football. Most of those pitches belong to different families from the region.
For example, Rodrigo and his dad manage the football pitch that his brother founded. Every Saturday and Sunday, no miss, they host matches all morning; they also organize tournaments, and in the same space they offer food options and cold beer for the families and players once the match is done.
Rodrigo told us that his brother proposed they build a football pitch when he came back from the U.S. – just like the ones that had welcomed him so warmly back there.
They found an abandoned piece of land, fixed the papers, cleaned it up, levelled the terrain and planted grass (the most difficult part of the process).
This was 15 years back, and according to Rodrigo, it was the first football pitch in Cholula. Now, there are more than 10 close to them.
It just takes a moment to notice that indeed it doesn’t matter if there are more rocks than green grass, if the view is the famous church on top of the pyramid, or if it is surrounded by farmland. People don’t miss their weekly appointment on Sunday.
A town known for its large number of churches can also brag about the number of football grounds. The ball and its faithful followers don’t break either ritual, and it is as easy to fill the stands as it is to fill the chapel’s seats on Sunday morning.
The tradition of gathering and having a good meal wasn’t only ours; every pitch comes along with its own gastronomic offerings and a space to share the laughs and complaints inseparable from the game.
Grassroots football is a good example of how this game has spread to every inch of the planet: the democratization of the sport that, living far from multimillion-dollar deals or brand relations, beats harder than ever.
Dogs running across the field, dusty clouds when kicking. Teams of all sizes and ages. Entire families witnessing the encounters.
And even though it is all about the love for the game, nobody forgets that what is at stake does have an impact on people’s lives.
It seems insignificant, but few things compare to bathing in the useless glory of a Sunday league game win. That taste, a pride that feels eternal but only lasts until next Sunday.
I’ll always be grateful for having those spaces to grow my community. Those spaces to feel invincible, to cry over trivial sorrows, to feel rage and impotence, or certainly to bathe in glory. Everyone should have the right to it.
I’ve never felt more comfortable than on grounds like those, and I’m sure I’m not the only one.
Photos by Irene Basaldúa & Aina Canales