IV. Love and Heartbreak According to Football (aka Soccer)
(Note: I know the text is long, but at the end there’s a link to an AI app—AI for short—that, for a small fee, will summarize it for you. If you “upgrade” to Premium, the AI is so smart that the summary will look like it wasn’t written by AI, but by a human Facebook user. Come on, come on, it’s all legit, honest.)
The late SupMarcos used to say that he once scored a goal for his high school team. But he would quickly change the subject, perhaps to avoid having to explain that he had slipped in the goal box and kicked the ball without meaning to. The fall was so spectacular that the opposing goalkeeper was dying of laughter, and could do nothing as the ball, with that parsimony with which great misfortunes and epics unfold, rolled into the back of the net.
Before that epic moment, the coach—seeing that the star player had been injured and realizing he had no one else on the bench—turned to a late SupMarcos, who wasn’t “late” yet and wasn’t SupMarcos yet, and said, “Go on, get in there. And don’t screw up,” and then added, resignedly, “well, don’t screw up too much.” And so it was that a dashing young man, neither the late SupMarcos nor SupMarcos yet, took the field with a charming, lively, and playful style that today’s stars would love to have. But, after all that (which, at the end of the day, didn’t change the score one bit because they were down 7-0), the guy didn’t run toward the stands to dedicate the feat to the object of his late-night longing. Because it turns out that, in the fall, his shorts had ripped, and his private parts weren’t exactly something to show off back then. Okay, okay, okay, not now either. Oh, well. I shouldn’t tell you? Seriously, it’s unbelievable.
Now, since we’re on the subject of artificial intelligence and a rolling ball, let’s turn to football—with the World Cup and all the trappings (imposed by FIFA in alliance with the entire commercial industry revolving around the sport, for that matter) that it brings; the urban disaster it causes in an effort to “appeal to tourists” and which takes its toll on the urban population, regardless of social class; gentrification; the aesthetic (and ethnic) cleansing of removing or “hiding” craft vendors (as they do at Chichén Itzá) and World Cup souvenirs, and other people who give the “Homeland” a bad look (such as teachers, mothers searching for their missing sons, peasants, Polytechnic students, transport workers); and the futile efforts to whitewash reality.
Are there social classes in the rolling of a ball (note: Adidas brand)? Is neighborhood football, played on dirt fields, the same as professional football on synthetic turf? Is it the “opium of the masses”?
One of the nightmares of anti-communism is that, under that horrible system, the population would not have freedom of movement and would be required to provide identification and have their movements monitored. Well, residents and workers in the areas near the host stadiums in Mexico will have to identify themselves at checkpoints… with a QR code. The biometric CURP has already been implemented, its main justification being that, since they cannot stop the violence and disappearances, it will serve to identify corpses and human remains.
Ah, but reality cannot hide behind K-Pop, U2, and the national heroes (the Lópezes, the Monreals, the Yunes, and whoever else happens to be in the spotlight) draped in the tricolor flag.
Over there are the mothers searching for their missing children, there the democratic teachers’ movement, closer to home the indigenous communities displaced by organized crime—that is, by megaprojects; in those streets, the students of the Polytechnic; and everywhere, the victims on the field of “welfare.”
But don’t get distracted—take a look at the following news article: “Eight Naucalpan Residents Arrested for Defending Football Field” (Silvia Chávez González. Correspondent. La Jornada. April 29, 2026). The article describes the residents’ opposition to the destruction of a football field, the arrival of the police, and the “majority” opinion that led to their imprisonment. Defending a space for play, recreation, and community is a crime punishable by imprisonment. This in a municipality, a state, a country… governed by progressivism.
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Yes, football can be used to cover up crimes, as was the case in Argentina in 1978. But it is also where, for example, the German Paul Breitner refused to play as a sign of protest against Videla’s military junta. And, more recently, the Catalan Lamine Yamal, of the Barcelona team, celebrated a victory by waving the Palestinian flag. Earlier, Bofo Bautista donned a balaclava when he scored a goal for Chivas in 2004 in Tuxtla Gutiérrez, Chiapas. And, in March 2006, the “Frente Rojinegro” (Red-and-Black Front), a fan group of Atlas, showed up at a meeting as supporters of the Sixth Declaration with a banner reading “Attacking from the Left.” It is said that the artist Banksy painted a mural in a Zapatista community, depicting a football player wearing a balaclava performing a “bicycle kick” over a five-pointed red star, with the phrase “To freedom through football.” Obdulio Varela, captain of the Uruguayan national football team in the 1950 World Cup, gave a master class in tactics and strategy, resistance and rebellion, at the Maracanã Stadium, and taught more than all the political manuals combined.
And groups of Searching Mothers are now exposing the cruel reality behind the sham of a World Cup sponsored by cola drinks, snacks, and alcoholic beverages—and by the Trump-aligned FIFA, which purports to lecture others on morality and good conduct. Over advertisements and photos of players, the searchers confront them with photos of their missing loved ones, just as reality imposes itself on the virtual world of the cola drink that sponsors the morning press conference.
The collective from La Sexta, “The Conscious Fan Base,” is also present; if they manage to sneak into the stands (it’s difficult: prices are beyond any average budget, let alone those who live hand-to-mouth), they will unfurl a banner with a question that is a true social diagnosis: “WHERE ARE THEY?”; a question that serves just as well to ask about the disappeared as it does to challenge the authorities and the media, in addition to questioning the whereabouts of old-fashioned words like “shame,” “dignity,” “truth,” and “justice.”
Football, like almost everything else, is torn between crime and resistance, between authoritarianism and rebellion, between business and the game, between barbarism and nobility.
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Juan Villoro, who could also be described as a bard of football and a heretic of all religions other than that of football—and who has written quite a few lines reflecting on that system of ideas, doubts, and certainties—points out, more or less, that a football match is always several matches: the one that takes place on the field—at a specific time and place; the one narrated by the announcers and commentators; the one experienced by the fan watching; and the one that will be recounted in the reports, days, weeks, years, and even decades later. Actually, I don’t know if that’s exactly how Juan put it, but it would be something like that.
“Football is an unfathomable mystery, like the existence of God, the vastness of the universe, and the alchemy of raw turkey tamales,” Juan Villoro seems to be telling us. His main flaw—supporting Necaxa instead of the Jaguares de Chiapas (who haven’t lost a single match in 10 years)—is forgiven because, among family, even if under protest, faults are forgiven, even if they are flagrant and inside the box.
And although all the parts may even contradict one another, together they form the whole, the Aleph of football. It is in that multiverse that the player, but above all the fan, both suffer and go to great lengths, and thus endure a torment that not even the Spanish Inquisition could imagine.
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In the past, in some places it was common (I don’t know if it still is) for someone to bring a small transistor radio to the stadium and listen to the game broadcast while watching the match. If the home team was losing and just couldn’t get it together, it was not surprising if those around him would shout at the person holding the radio: “Turn up the volume on the radio—we’re winning there!”
And not only that: whereas before, arguments, taunts, celebrations, and lamentations were limited to friends, neighbors, and acquaintances (and, if you were paying, to fellow diners at the bar, tavern, or restaurant), in the age of social media and AI, you have to fight and defend your “team colors” against bot farms of all kinds. That is, against “the majority.”
But if you ask the AI what football is, it will say the following: “Football is a team sport played between two teams of 11 players each, the objective of which is to kick a ball into the opposing team’s goal to score a goal. The team with the most goals at the end of regulation time wins the match.”
Whether you’re a fair weather fan, a hopeless football fanatic, or an expert in data and statistics, you’ll conclude that the AI doesn’t have the faintest idea what football is.
And if you check the AI’s source of information, you’ll discover that it’s… the Dominican Olympic Committee! If you want to learn more about the sport, the AI recommends checking with FIFA.
Yes, asshole FIFA, which will surely also ban one of the most notorious expressions of protest—usually directed at the referee, though sometimes at one’s own or opposing players as well.
I can’t repeat the word because it’s banned, and they might fine the Zapatista women’s football team (which has the good taste to call itself “Las Perdedoras”—“The Losers”—and doesn’t play to win, but because sometimes it’s better to kick a ball than the head of the bastard who said, coldly, “It’s over” and told her to get lost, forget about me ‘my little sweetheart’”), but it’s not homophobic; rather, it refers to an attitude in the countryside. And it’s also what, in southeastern Mexico, they call the cloth diapers where babies poop. But FIFA expects the fans to shout “Pusilánime!” and if not, they’ll be fined.
The great Roberto Fontanarrosa once said that “there are words among the so-called bad words that are irreplaceable: for their sound, their power, and their physical structure.” And, forgive me, but “pusilánime” has none of that; rather, it sounds like a sexually transmitted disease or a progressive politician. So, without any qualms, let’s declare that FIFA is a bunch of assholes, period. And, since they gave Trump an award, then three times the assholes. *
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A football game highlights the generational divide: older adults view the game with skepticism and never miss an opportunity to point out that, in their day, players weren’t made of glass and you needed an axe to take them down; adults see themselves as head coaches and sense that the absence or presence of a certain player gives them a bad feeling and, of course, is a strategic mistake; young people declare they’d rather wait for the game to come to Netflix; boys and girls already have the ball in their hands and anxiously await the final whistle to run outside and recreate—not the game, but the version their imagination produces.
Even if disconcerting things happen: the hero of the Zapatista Dení (now 9 years old, then 5) was Memo Ochoa!, “because he dives so beautifully, it looks like he’s flying.” Following that journalistic instinct, now somewhat forgotten in the trade, I interviewed the accused to hear her side of the story. La Dení was aware of the lynch mob atmosphere surrounding her and clarified: “I don’t remember; I was just a little girl back then” (she turned 9 in April of this year). A friend tried to help her and interjected: “But Memo is handsome.” The booing was unanimous.
The generation gap can also be spotted by observing people leaving a grocery store or general store (or “convenience store,” as I believe it’s called): children come out with candy and sweets; teenagers with “energy drinks”; adults with cans of beer; and older people (or those “of sound judgment”) … with a wide variety of antacids.
If football doesn’t appeal to you (“God’s vineyard has everything,” my grandmother would say), and you foresee a few weeks of deafening solitude ahead, don’t lose heart. There must be apps that spare you the embarrassment of having nothing to say when everyone else is voicing their opinions. My recommendation is that, no matter the game, you badmouth the refereeing. That never fails and brings everyone together.
Don’t listen to those who criticize football. Referees are criticized (all of them, regardless of gender, “are in the pocket” of the rival TV network), the head coach (who will always need the help of the fan watching to decide on a strategy), the player (“Who said that guy (or girl—don’t forget gender parity) knows how to play?!”).
But never—read this carefully—never, ever should you criticize that terrifying mystery that causes a crowd of absurd beings (sometimes even players) to run after a ball for 90 minutes, plus stoppage time, plus extra time, plus the final shootout.
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And this is where AI is just adding insult to injury. Together with FIFA and the “national” federations, they are the antithesis of football. And they’ve turned it into a decadent spectacle that serves only as an excuse to get drunk, cause destruction, and curse the whole world, especially the referee—bought off for 30 pieces of silver—the coach who fielded a lineup that made you want to cry, the players who seemed oblivious to the fact that the survival of the human race rested on their feet, and the damn VAR that seems to create videos with AI and is just as blind as the ref, because, we all know, that was a “dive,” a performance (a bad one, by the way), and, besides, it was outside the goal box.
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The system has turned the concept of class in football into a deadly affair: while in “professional” matches the battle is between television networks, snack brands, and alcohol companies; in rural or neighborhood football, the gravel and mud fields have become the battleground between organized and disorganized crime cartels (that is, between governments of different political parties and their police forces).
In football, the frivolous and superficial are prioritized: whether the stars’ partners are attractive, the cars they drive, where they vacation, how much they earn. Below and to the left, children will dream not of Messi’s monetary wealth, but of his dribbling skills; not of Ronaldo’s fancy clothes, but of his precision on free kicks. Meanwhile, above and to the right, perhaps they dream of being part of FIFA—that team never loses—and becoming the equivalent of financial capital in football, that is, of owning the ball.
It is to be hoped that the most important aspects of this World Cup will take place outside the stadiums—in the streets and fields, on the coasts and in the mountains—where it is not the spectacle that will be celebrated, but rather memory and struggle, resistance and defiance.
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But if you really want to know what football is all about, put aside the AI and read Roberto Fontanarrosa’s short story “The Old Man and the Tree,” and discover what AI will always fail to grasp: the magic of the arts. Or save up a little and get your hands on the books by that collector of raindrops named Eduardo Galeano, and rediscover that small things remain small even when they’re big.
I don’t know what love exicts within football, but I do know that heartbreak has to do with an unfavorable score, with walking away, with bitter frustration, from that legendary fifth match in a World Cup, and with that foul call—which even that idiot AI would know wasn’t a penalty. But above all, it has to do with realizing that up there, cynicism, simulation, and malice reign supreme.
Conclusion: AI isn’t smart at all; not only will it deceive you, but it will also manipulate you and gradually impose “mainstream” cultural norms on you. It will also dress itself up in the garb of wisdom and knowledge, when, in reality, the only thing covering its private parts is a “smartphone” that fits its budget.
Because there’s a world of difference between underwear, folks. To each their own method, fashion, and style. But, hey, those leopard-print briefs… hmm… I don’t know… they just don’t work, you know. “And you think” they’re sexy, but they’re the minimalist expression of passion-killing underwear.
And, anyway, you won’t escape the existential question that Shakespeare’s Hamlet didn’t ask, but should have:
“Which team are you rooting for?”
(to be continued…)
From the stands of the Zapatista football field, “If I’ve seen you, I don’t remember.”
(Watching the female militia members kick at the air, the ball oblivious, with the goalkeeper searching for the slightest patch of shade under the crossbar —it’s 40 degrees with a heat index of 45—and mentally drafting, without resorting to AI, her column “The Losers: Cohesion on the Playing Field” or “We’ve Never Lost a Game; We Just Ran Out of Time to Win It”).
The Captain.
(He’s handsome, whatever your taste may be, in his flashy orange T-shirt, but wearing long pants so as not to show off his beautiful, shapely legs. Wow! Note: Do not sexualize).
Mexico, May 2026.
P.S.—And the link for the AI app? It’s still being tweaked. Don’t despair; I figure it’ll be ready before the “tourism infrastructure” projects in Mexico City are. So it’s going to take a while, mind you.
P.S. Video. – Check out the following video: it shows the female militia members as they were preparing, five years ago, for the Tour for Life, and a clip from a match with comrades from Europa Insumisa. The audio is from the fan club of a Moroccan team, Raja Casablanca, singing a chant in honor of Palestine, on the very same date that La Montaña—that Contreras-style (that is, Zapatista) frenzy—crossed the Atlantic to invade Europe. Several of those female militia members are now married. It’s likely that, as they watch these images, they’ll remember, turn to look—with love or without—at their respective partners, and murmur: “Shakira be damned! Women don’t cry anymore; they fight… and score goals.”
Amen.
Imágenes: Tercios Compas Zapatistas
Música: Rajawi Falastini – La Voce Della Magana/Afición del Raja Casablanca
* An expression of ridicule, for refs or players on the other team, or on one’s favored team, if they are disappointing you would be culero, which has several connotations in Mexico, one of which is considered especially vulgar as a homophobic slur, but which is also broadly used as the equivalent of asshole, and often with the association of cowardice. The word puslilanime, also implying cowardice, lacks the ring of stronger profanity…
Original text published by Enlace Zapatista on July 24th, 2026.
Translation by Schools for Chiapas.