The sarcastic little face from Gijón

 

The sarcastic little face from Gijón watches me pass by the La Calzada district sometimes.The first day, it made me laugh, because it would say to me: "What a moron that Scaloni is—how can he set the team up in a shitty 4-4-2, everyone packed into the box like the English?" Then, another day I walk by and it keeps going: "Hahaha, what a total tool Scaloni is with his cowardly 4-4-2; you guys don't know how to play football, just punch people and act like thugs."

Sometimes, the sarcastic little face from Gijón jumps off the wall and follows me, spouting its insufferable garbage: "I ammmm... Spanish, Spanish, Spanish! Long live Spain, long live, long live, yo soy, españó, españó!"

One night I walked by and it appeared behind me wearing a Brazil jersey, shouting: "Messi, you son of a bitch, the whore who birthed you, you old geezer and midget."

I try to dodge this wretched thing however I can; I’ve never seen anything like it since I lost my mind—let alone back when I was sane: the ironic little face from Gijón.

And what a pitiful afternoon it was when, passing by, I saw it dressed in a Real Madrid jersey, burning a poster of Messi and Paredes while dancing like a madman possessed. I’ve tried taking other streets, but the hideous monstrosity follows me for miles with photos of Pedri, Rodri, Oyarzabal, Unai Simón, and Cucurella—photos I refuse to look at.

Sometimes it wears a Cristiano Ronaldo mask and is wrapped in a Uruguayan flag, making me collapse lifelessly onto the sidewalk.

I’ve thought about erasing it with something—I don't know: turpentine, battery acid, heavy water, using an explosive, smashing the wall down—but it was impossible given my advanced age... I hope to die and go to the Argentina National Team's heaven, where there are no red jerseys or naturalized French players.

Let us say amen to this, and to everything else

except for that.

The road to Lethe

In the dream I was reaching the river of unmindfulness, and it came from Hell.

Hell above.

Then I remembered one voice telling me, long time ago: 

"Everything we envision, fearing, it comes true for our own pain".

At that moment, all the warm, angelic faces and their soft voices vanished. The blue turned red, then black, transparent.

The eyes of the one who hadn't always been on our side appeared, filling me with panic and consternation—the eyes of that invisible star.

With tears streaming down my face, I begged him to let me drink from the river; I still beg him, and it was the river of forgetfulness.

In the dream I was reaching the river of unmindfulness, and it came from Hell.

The Afternoon

"I am Mexican and a photographer, and I was behind the English goal and witnessed, from just a few meters away, Maradona's two legendary goals at the Azteca Stadium: 

1. The match was about to begin, and in the stands behind the north goal, the hooligans were screaming like rabid dogs. 

2. The shadow of the Falklands War hung in the air. 

3. At halftime, the score was 0-0. Maradona walked past me, short, strong, and thoughtful, and I said, “Come on, Maradona, go for it!” With my Mexico City accent, he turned around and just looked at me. That look was an affirmation that he understood my comment. 

4. And then came the first Argentine goal. I was with an Argentine journalist behind the English goal, barely three meters away and to the right. At the same time, we turned to each other and almost in unison asked, “Was it with his hand?!” 

5. I remember Maradona’s second goal like this: I saw him coming from about midfield, dribbling past the English players. As he approached the goal, his footsteps echoed through the grass. Closer still, I’m almost certain I heard his breath, snorting like a bull, accompanying each step. And then the legendary goooal, 2-0. 

That’s what’s etched in my memory."

-Paco Macías Velasco

Marianela Buenos Aires: the last bad novella

Marianela runs through the afternoons of cookies and one sunshine, and she runs away, running away, yellow, wrinkled, one little girl.

In both Colegiales and Remedios de Escalada, on the cold days of July, June, and August, she runs and doesn't know why. What happened to my little country at the end of the world? Why did they kill it?

They hated it.

I couldn't tell you if such afternoons still exist.

I couldn't tell you why all my people were murdered. And for whom does the sunshine on those corners now? In both Colegiales and Remedios de Escalada.

Marianela stopped running now, I think. She went to the heaven of the yellow daughters of Buenos Aires.

What happened to my little country at the end of the world? Why did they kill it?

They hated it.

The streets of Videla 1976