Free This Love Is Not for Cowards by Robert Andrew Powell

the men most likely to take the governor’s place, candidates of both major political parties. When Francisco first bought the Indios, he imagined the team would take up maybe 20 percent of his time. Since the violence started, the ratio has inverted. The Indios are taking up 80, maybe 90, percent of his day, he says. Most of that time is spent on the phone with senators and state representatives or, when necessary, on the highway traveling to Chihuahua city and back. He’s searching for a politician—for anyone, really—who views the team the way he does, and who is willing to spend whatever it takes to make that vision a reality.
    â€œI feel much responsibility to the people of Juárez,” Francisco says. “A huge responsibility. A responsibility that no one gave me but myself. When I started Indios, it was just for me. It’s not just for me anymore.”
    â€œTHE SOCIAL MISSION is probably more important than the soccer, honestly,” says Gil Cantú, the Indios’ general manager. The first time I saw Gil, at a practice the first week I began following the team, I could tell he was in charge. With Francisco Ibarra out hustling up government support, it’s Gil who runs things day to day. He walked onto the practice field looking and acting like the most grown-up guy around. He wears his silver hair slicked back from his forehead until it curls onto his shoulders. His wool coat is the same solid black as his dress shirt, his wrinkle-free flat-front slacks, and the dress shoes he shines to a high gloss. Reporters buzzed around him that morning, recording his thoughts on the future of the Indios, on whether or not head coach Pepe Treviño blows smoke, on the weather itself—freezing cold—and on the general health of the team. His every response appeared in the papers the next day. That first time I saw him, as I admired his straight-up posture and the elegance of his clothes, I extrapolated a host of suave details about his life. I bet his wife is beautiful. I imagined he drove an Italian car of some sort, or perhaps a Porsche. I wasn’t yet aware of the upside-down car culture in Juárez, how the last thing anybody would drive is something flashy.
    â€œThat game against Monterrey, to be honest with you, that was a disaster,” Gil tells me now. I’m back in Juárez, riding shotgun once again, this time in the car Gil actually drives, an old Pontiac minivan with Texas plates. It’s a Thursday afternoon, five days after the Monterrey loss and three days before the next game, at home against Santos. The Indios just wrapped a light practice at Olympic Stadium, a venue change from their usual workouts at the Yvasa complex, on the far south side. Gil insists that the team practice at the stadium at least once in the week before a home game. He wants the players familiar with the way the pitch gently slopes for drainage from the center of the field to the sidelines. Marco and his teammates can study the bounce of the ball on the weather-bleached (though still spongy) turf. A lot of the players prefer to practice at the Benito, simply for the commute; the stadium is located a lot closer to home for most of them. With training wrapped up, Marco hops in his fronterizo for the ten-minute drive to his house. Gil and I are headed to the border. I’m flying back to Miami in the morning to attend a wedding. I plan to return to Juárez in my car, which will be loaded down with the rest of everything I own. My flight leaves from El Paso, where Gil lives. He’s agreed to take me across the bridge and drop me off at a hotel near the airport.
    â€œIt was a disaster,” he continues, still rehashing the Rayados loss. “The players gave up. Mistakes from three players were unforgivable. Maybe they had a bad day. That happens. When the whole team plays bad, that’s a leadership issue.”
    Gil’s full title is vice president of soccer