I’ve had a reoccurring dream for a few months now.
I’m standing in a dimly lit corn field, and I can’t make out much more than the shadows of downed power-lines and a golden hue in the distance. Naturally, as a god-fearing man, I head towards the light, expecting some sort of fortune-cookie divine guidance about which path my life should take, but just as my uncertain steps settle, I stumble over a shadow in the corn field. I look down and see a familiar figure lying face-up in a mess of dust and mud. The body’s mine, and I’m not breathing.
I panic, and look to the horizon for a sign, but the golden mass is gone, replaced by spheres of red and blue rotating in the distance. 3 sets of lights, 4 sets, 5 sets. Every inch of the field is lit in a nauseating blur of neon, and the emergency alarms are so loud that my head feels like it’s compressing in on itself. I run towards the lights, desperate for their attention, and slip inches short of a passing ambulance. I stagger to my feet and stumble after the vehicle, shouting and waving for help, but it continues on, lost in the twilight.
I race back to my body, but it’s too late. My time’s up. I wake up.
I’ve been staring at the front of this Hugo Sanchez card for a few hours now, since finding it nestled in the pages of a chalky Deportes Illustrated in a box in my parent’s attic. Situated between a disorienting Spanish-language article about Don Shula and a moderately convincing ad for Price Micronite Filters, the card bookmarked an article about Hugo’s 1994 move to Mexican First Division side Atlante.
By the time the article was published and the card packaged in commemorative World Cup Happy Meals, Hugo had already experienced his best years. Five Pichichis, a European Golden Boot, a UEFA Cup, 5 straight league titles with Real Madrid, an impossibly successful career for a kid from the suburbs of Mexico City. The loose claims he offers in the article, describing Atlante as the Barcelona of the Mexican First Division, embody a man understandably confident in his abilities.
Nevertheless, the photos that accompany the article, much like the image chosen to represent Hugo in Upper Deck’s World Cup 94′ collection, belie the unflappable exterior. His chest swells, his legs tighten, his waist expands. Age, like a jilted mistress, catches up with us all. Most concerning is his face, haggard with evasive eyes. He knows that his time is up, yet he continues.
A year with Atlante would be followed by stints in Austria, the United States, and a return to Mexico in 1996. Each arrival trumpeted as a historic moment for his suitors, his farewell party seemed to follow only weeks later. Sure, he contributed to the clubs with a respectable goalscoring record, but a certain blur accompanied his exit. Fans, coaches, and players, much like the footballer in the background of the card were always left in a daze as Hugo slipped away.
“Who was that wearing the Sanchez jersey?”
“Was that really him?”
“He seemed so… average.”
I imagine Hugo felt like my dream self: shadowed by memories, impotent to move forward. Sometimes though, you just can’t save yourself.
A Portrait: Hugo Sanchez
- Maxi Rodriguez
I’ve had a reoccurring dream for a few months now.
I’m standing in a dimly lit corn field, and I can’t make out much more than the shadows of downed power-lines and a golden hue in the distance. Naturally, as a god-fearing man, I head towards the light, expecting some sort of fortune-cookie divine guidance about which path my life should take, but just as my uncertain steps settle, I stumble over a shadow in the corn field. I look down and see a familiar figure lying face-up in a mess of dust and mud. The body’s mine, and I’m not breathing.
I panic, and look to the horizon for a sign, but the golden mass is gone, replaced by spheres of red and blue rotating in the distance. 3 sets of lights, 4 sets, 5 sets. Every inch of the field is lit in a nauseating blur of neon, and the emergency alarms are so loud that my head feels like it’s compressing in on itself. I run towards the lights, desperate for their attention, and slip inches short of a passing ambulance. I stagger to my feet and stumble after the vehicle, shouting and waving for help, but it continues on, lost in the twilight.
I race back to my body, but it’s too late. My time’s up. I wake up.
I’ve been staring at the front of this Hugo Sanchez card for a few hours now, since finding it nestled in the pages of a chalky Deportes Illustrated in a box in my parent’s attic. Situated between a disorienting Spanish-language article about Don Shula and a moderately convincing ad for Price Micronite Filters, the card bookmarked an article about Hugo’s 1994 move to Mexican First Division side Atlante.
By the time the article was published and the card packaged in commemorative World Cup Happy Meals, Hugo had already experienced his best years. Five Pichichis, a European Golden Boot, a UEFA Cup, 5 straight league titles with Real Madrid, an impossibly successful career for a kid from the suburbs of Mexico City. The loose claims he offers in the article, describing Atlante as the Barcelona of the Mexican First Division, embody a man understandably confident in his abilities.
Nevertheless, the photos that accompany the article, much like the image chosen to represent Hugo in Upper Deck’s World Cup 94′ collection, belie the unflappable exterior. His chest swells, his legs tighten, his waist expands. Age, like a jilted mistress, catches up with us all. Most concerning is his face, haggard with evasive eyes. He knows that his time is up, yet he continues.
A year with Atlante would be followed by stints in Austria, the United States, and a return to Mexico in 1996. Each arrival trumpeted as a historic moment for his suitors, his farewell party seemed to follow only weeks later. Sure, he contributed to the clubs with a respectable goalscoring record, but a certain blur accompanied his exit. Fans, coaches, and players, much like the footballer in the background of the card were always left in a daze as Hugo slipped away.
“Who was that wearing the Sanchez jersey?”
“Was that really him?”
“He seemed so… average.”
I imagine Hugo felt like my dream self: shadowed by memories, impotent to move forward. Sometimes though, you just can’t save yourself.