It’s November 21 and still hot. Dennis Almada reads the Miami Herald seated in the rocking chair he keeps on the front porch of his house. “Qatar 2022— Argentina’s last chance” — reads the sports supplement; a giant drawing of Messi covering the front page.
Dennis woke up early today, combed his white hair back with water and swallowed six pills down with coffee. His glasses are greasy, and they don’t sit straight; he doesn't even care about the green filth that has collected around the hinges. His mind is focused on one thing only —He needs to be certain he can watch the rest of the World Cup for free.
He checks his watch for the fifth time, —already 9:45, and Walter hasn’t arrived— reaches for the mug he left on the floor, takes a sip of coffee and scratches his neck. He usually shaves twice a week, but this is not one of these days. Dennis has been looking forward to this World Cup for the last two years, counting the days these past six weeks. Argentina’s national team is the only thing that keeps him going, the only reason to be alive.
Walter and Dennis are good friends, he lives by himself across the street in a two bedroom prefab. He was born in Cuba and came to Miami with his parents with the early rounds.
Dennis stands up, walks up to the railing of the porch to check on his friend’s house, but one of his Crocs gets stuck in a raised nail. He curses, releases the rubber clog, and checks it for damage. The deck needs work, and so does his outfit —He’s been wearing those shorts he bought at Kohl’s for the past four days.
A woman from the neighborhood passes by and says “good morning”; her little dog pees a bit farther down. Dennis acknowledges the greeting with a nod, but turns his back on her and gets in the house. He doesn’t feel like talking, not even waving, mornings haven't been good for quite a while now.
He comes back with the coffee pot and an empty cup in his free hand. Walter has finally arrived and is sitting in the other rocking chair. He is checking something on his phone and has a paper bag on his lap. Dennis pours coffee in the empty cup and handles it to his friend. “This is the device that you need,” Walter says tapping the bag and accepting the cup; greetings seem redundant. “With this little box, you can watch anything. 657 free channels.”
“Let’s get inside,” Dennis gets the cup he left on the floor and opens the screen door for his friend. “I don’t want to talk about this here. Can you set it up?”.
“It’s working already. Plug and play. A friend of mine bought it in Hialeah. I paid him cash”
Dennis’ living room looks tired, exhausted; a lot like him. The sectional leather sofa is all scuffed, and the recliner part is open. The wooden coffee table just in front, piles some books, and ten or so old National Geographic magazines. A giant amber ashtray full of coins, a lighter, and some small wrenches sits right in the middle, seems bolted there. The wood surface is dusty, stained with rims of wine, water and coffee. The empty and dark fireplace covers most of the right wall. On top of it, a display of old family pictures, school trophies, and memorabilia. There is a framed photograph of a soldier in uniform on the top shelf, along with a lit candle and a vase with fresh flowers.
Walter sat on the edge of the sofa and set his mug on the table. “What is this obsession with soccer, anyway?”
“First of all don’t say soccer anymore. Basta. It’s football.”
“Ok, whatever. It’s just a sport.”
“It is not just a sport. Football is life, faith, devotion, unconditional love. For us, football is like religion. Larger than asado and mate, even greater than the flag. It is difficult to understand, I know. it all begins the day you are born.”
Walter reached for his cup and took a long sip. “No te entiendo.”
“Every Argentinean is born into a club — a team. You don’t get to choose. You have the honor, by blood, to be a fan of the team your dad supports — or your family if your father died, left you, or some other tragic reason — an uncle can also assume that responsibility, or an elder brother, even your mom. But you cannot choose by yourself.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Well, you can do whatever you want, they won’t kill you.”
Walter laughed and took another sip. “¡Me imagino! So, they decide for you?”
“Yeah, and you keep that team for life — changing is even worst. Treason! You get to enjoy, suffer, grieve if your team goes to second division.” Dennis twisted his mouth, nodded looking away. He continued. “Mine did when I was ten, I cried for almost a week. Mom was so worried, she made me breakfast in bed, didn’t even make me go to school.”
“And the National Team? Esta locura I see on the news?”
“Club and team extend to National Team! All that faith, that devotion, that unconditional love, goes beyond the realm of your family and friends. It transcends in every neighborhood, in every city, and turns into a national craziness. For Argentineans, the winning of the world cup is larger than life. We live, suffer, and die for those little stars we collect on top of the AFA badge.
“Ok, got you. I still don’t understand why we need to watch the game here. Why can we just go to the Argentinean Bakery and avoid this aparatito thing. Every single soul in that shop will be Argentinean. You have the passion, same locura you told me. They even have a giant screen!”
“The one on 52nd? Ni loco. I was there yesterday for the opening match. Too many kids, too many women. We stay here, we can curse, shout …
Walter untangles the power cord, connects the device to the HDMI output on the rear of the TV. “Oye, with this you can watch everything. Movies, series, Netflix, Hulu.”
“Telemundo?” Dennis refills his mug and stands by him; he munches a chocolate chip cookie.
“Of course. Let me ask you something?” Walter takes a sip of coffee and doesn’t wait for an answer. “We paid $200 for this aparatito; basic cable is only $29 per month, including Telemundo. You keep it for a month, then you cancel.”
“It is not about the money. I don’t want to give anything to the government.”
“Hold it there for one second. Dionisio, it is not the government you are giving the money to, these are private companies, stock corporations.” Walter closes his eyes, breathes twice, trying to keep his cool. He is the only that calls him Dionisio. That is Dennis’ real name —Dionisio Ricardo Almada. Dionisio was born in Argentina, moved to the United States in 1982 in a bit of a rush; he had just turned 18 and the military drafted his whole generation to fight in the Malvinas war. He bought a plane ticket the very same day he received the telegram, and he never looked back. In Miami he got himself into community college, graduated and found a job as a teller at a small bank in Coral Gables. A Cuban girl named Lizbeth called him Dennis one night at a club and he liked it. A year after he went all the way, dropped the Ricardo and threw away his Argentinean documents. He even cried at the naturalization ceremony when they played the National Anthem.
“And who runs the stock market?” Dennis still has his mouth full, but is now yelling and the crumbles fall on his shirt. “Don’t you see this isn’t about the money? I don’t want to give them anything. You hear me? Nothing, nada. And you know why? Because they took it all.” His eyes suddenly flood and he twists his mouth in a sterile effort not to show he is about to cry. “They took away my wife — they ripped me apart from me the person I treasured the most.” He walks to the wall with the family pictures, and his fingers barely touch the dusted photograph of his son smiling in uniform.
Walter lowers his gaze and pretends to check the connection on the back of the TV. Dennis goes to the kitchen, throws the mug into the sink and slams his hand on the countertop.
“Perdona, I didn’t mean to.”
Dennis hugs his friend. “I am the one that needs to be sorry. You always help me, you are the only friend I have.”
“Have you called her? You said you would”
“She doesn’t want to talk to me, Walter. It’s been 12 years.”
“She still loves you”
“How do you know.”
“Dionisio, por favor. She’s my cousin. She talks to me; she asks about you. I know.”
“She cares for me. I’ll give you that. But she still thinks it was my fault.” He opens the cabinet and reaches for two clean cups, replaces the filter of the coffee maker, and adds to scoops of Folgers.
“We lied to her,” he kept on saying, “we both lied to her, when I took Richard to the tryouts. I even bought tickets to the Daytona 500 to create the full illusion.” Dennis is now refilling the machine with water, closes the lid, and hits the “brew” button.
“I didn’t know that.”
Dennis nods. He put his hands in his pockets, he doesn’t want to look up.
“We told her we were going to the races,” he keeps on saying, his eyes on the floor, “and instead, we headed to the Marine Corps tryout in Fort Lauderdale. And you knew Richard, he was the best, the best at everything. He got in with flying colors, they offered him a full ride. Lizbeth cried the day we told her, and not because of joy. She was so pissed with both of us. One thing led to the other, he graduated top of its class, went to Miramar and became a pilot. Before we knew it, he was flying in Iraq” He points again to the wall full of his son’s photographs.
“But Richard made a choice, he could have chosen any other path—”
“I pushed him, Walter, and he was fearless. No tenía miedo de nada. Fear can be good sometimes, it protects you. But I pushed, and pushed —and he trusted me. The kid believed in me. If it weren’t for all the pressure, and my own frustration —my fear and my shame— he could have been whatever he wanted, a writer, a journalist, a filmmaker. Now he’s wrapped in a flag” His words suddenly stumble, and he can’t help it—he just loses it.
They hug again for a bit, finish the coffee in silence, Walter goes to the living room and powers the TV. Going through the guide, he finds Channel 51, click it and the screen fills all its 54 inches with a Telemundo signal.
Dennis tapped Walter’s back. “Thank you, buddy. Thanks a lot. Are you coming on Saturday?”
“Dale. At what time?”
“You need to be here at 5:00 for the national anthems.”
“Perfect. I’ll bring you some wine.”
“5:00 in the morning, Walter. Better bring una colada, pastelitos”
“Cinco de la mañana, ¿tu estás loco? I retired two years ago, so I don’t have to wake up early ever again. You can tell me the score later.”
Dennis woke up at 4:00 that Tuesday. The sun hadn’t risen yet, but the sky was clear, and the air was crisp. Still in his pajamas, he prepared the usual pot of coffee, took his pills, showered and shaved. He unpacked a brand-new Argentina jersey, with a black number 10 on the back and the word MESSI sitting right on top. The navy shorts were new as well.
He lit the candle by Richard’s picture, left the pot of coffee and a small plate with cookies in the center table. He powered the TV with the remote, but Telemundo wasn’t there anymore. He tried to change stations, but the blue screen didn’t even flicker. He, therefore disconnected Walter’s device, plugged it back again, and waited for the system to boot as his friend had taught him. Nada, a giant “BIOS ERROR” right in the center of the screen. He went to his bedroom, took his wallet, phone and the car keys. On his way out he blew out the candle by Richard’s picture and touched it briefly; he mumbled a prayer, took his son’s medal and fold the purple ribbon around. “For good luck”, he said out loud, and off he went.
Dennis arrived at the bakery right on time, parked in a hurry and was lucky enough to find the last empty spot at the high-top table in the center of the room.
The little placed was packed, adorned with Argentine flags and filled by families, including women and children exactly as Dennis had predicted. A girl with a high ponytail, in a blue and white apron approached the table to take his order. Dennis asked for a café con leche, a glass of water and three medialunas. Just beside him, a boy of about ten, was dressed just like his father in a blue Messi jersey, denim shorts and black Nikes; he kept looking at the screen and crushed a blue bucket hat with his hands.
“Don’t be nervous.” Dennis placed his big hand on top of the boy’s head and messed his hair. The kid acknowledged, smiled.
“I’m afraid” he said.
“It’s ok to be afraid, this is an important match. But whatever happens, we still have time. It’s only the first match” The kid raised his eyebrows and bit the inside of his cheek. “What’s your name?” The screen was now showing a Wendy’s commercial, and everyone seemed to decompress for a moment. “Pablo —Paul.”
“I like Pablo a lot better than Paul”, said Dennis and the boy shrugged. “I am Dionisio. Nice to meet you.” The kid’s father gave Dennis a wink.
The match started shortly afterwards, and Argentina lost 2 to 1 that day.
Twenty minutes after the game, Dennis asked for yet another café con leche –his third –and waited patiently to pay his bill while the tables slowly emptied. He texted Walter “1-2 — sad emoji”, signed the credit card slip, crushed the receipt and headed out. In the street he saw Pablito and his father. They were both seating in the curve of the road, sharing a ham and cheese sandwich. Pablo had the blue bucket hat on and was crying. Dennis approached them and kneeled in front of the boy. When the little one looked up, he took Richard’s medal out of his pocket and gave it to him. The kid got curious and dried his tears with the jersey. He carefully unfolded the ribbon and showed the Purple Heart Medal to his dad. “We cannot take it, sir”, the guy told Dennis the moment he realized what the present was. “Please, pa. Can I keep it?” The boy tears have gone, and he was now smiling. “Por favor”, said Dennis. “This is the first time this medal has brought happiness to someone.”
Dennis carefully pinned Richard’s medal to Pablo’s shirt. “Mark my words, if you use it from now on, we will win this cup.” The boy smiled broadly this time.
On the way to his car Dionisio took out his phone and dialed the only number he knew by heart.