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170 pages, Paperback
Published July 11, 2023
'For most people around the world, Pablo Escobar is the only idea that exists of this country. Pablo, cocaine, and coffee.'
'Andrés Escobar, Colombia’s best defender, scored an own goal. Ten days later he died in Medellín. He was shot six times. According to witnesses, the killer shouted gol each time he pulled the trigger.'
'Chile’s best player, Arturo Vidal, missed the first penalty of the shootout. Argentina’s Lionel Messi, the best player in the world, missed the second. — Messi was on the verge of tears throughout the rest of the penalties. Everyone else was able to convert, except for another Argentinian player, Biglia, who had his penalty saved by Claudio Bravo. When this save was made Messi began to cry, — he began to sob. Openly. — We were mostly quiet as we watched. Several times my mom muttered the same phrase she always did during shootouts. “Penalties are not fair."'
'Raúl was the most yellow-carded player on the team. He picked one up every game. But, unlike some of our other teammates, he never saw a red. I never worried he would, either. It’s been said that knowing how to defend is knowing how to foul. By this metric, Raúl was the best defender I’ve ever known. His infractions were not acts of frustration, aggression, or retaliation. They were simply correct decisions. Like the sly tug of a forward’s shirt during a counterattack, or a subtle trip of an opponent running full speed. — He wasn’t always in exactly the right place, but he always knew where he was. That, and where he needed to be.'
'I felt the players from both teams inching closer to intervene. I heard someone mention the police. I kept going. I stood over the referee as he tucked his whistle — That’s when Raúl put himself between us. He pushed me slowly and firmly away, repeating himself. “It doesn’t matter, — This doesn’t matter."'
'Electronic Superhighway (Nam June Paik) was always crowded. Typically, people would be most fascinated by whatever state they were from. They took a lot of pictures. Of themselves, mostly. There was a man who always happened to be sitting on one of the benches no more than ten feet away from the installation, staring at the screens but not one in particular, as if he were staring into a void. I loved the way he sat there, as if it were his own living room, as if he didn’t mind who came to visit so long as they eventually left him alone. There was something honest about the way he’d decided to surround himself with televisions. I’d sit on one bench and the man would sit on the other. There was never a word between us. I’m not sure if he ever noticed me.'
'— born in the fall. I in the rainy October of Medellín; you in the North American November, the month when the leaves turn and die, only to be raked into piles and burned. — born into a world of war. Remember this, always. There is blood in our oil. There is blood in our batteries. There is blood in our sugar. The world we live in is made of this blood. Death is nothing short of law on this stolen land.'
'Do not obsess yourself with the spectacular. Know this. The pyramid is a tombstone. The opera is a circus. The pageant is a bullfight.'
'Be lucky. It’s the best thing you can be in this life.'