Free This Love Is Not for Cowards by Robert Andrew Powell Page A

operations. He’s part of the four-person politburo—Gil, Francisco, Coach Treviño, and traveling secretary Gabino Amparán—who collectively make the big decisions. Like when to release a player, or when to bring in a new fullback to patch a hole in the defense. Finding talent is primarily Gil’s responsibility, and it’s the hardest part of his job. The Indios are the poorest team in the Primera. They don’t make enough money from ticket sales or merchandizing or beer sales on game days—even with El Kartel in the stands—to pursue the talented but expensive players needed to seriously compete. All morning, I listened to Gil work the phones to Guatemala, where he has a lead on an economical forward. Last night he made a couple calls to China. Gil scours the globe because with the Indios there are complications beyond simple economics. Gil must find players who are talented, affordable, and, above all else, willing to play in Ciudad Juárez.
    â€œI had one player from Atlas loaned to us,” Gil tells me as he drives. Atlas is another team in the Primera. “I talked to him on the phone and he said, ‘Okay.’ And then he called me back and he says he talked to his wife and she said, ‘No way.’ So he’s going to play for a club below the Primera, at a much smaller level. And that’s what I’ve got to confront. I tell you, brother, I’m so busy.”
    We’re on a highway that follows the curve of the international border. The boundary fence, a tall black grille, shades a berm just off the shoulder, on our left. Our immediate destination is Zaragoza, one of the four bridges connecting Juárez and El Paso. This will be my first visit to this particular bridge. The Zaragoza was built to serve the American trucks picking up car batteries and seat belts at NAFTA maquiladoras. It’s also a favorite bridge of everyday international commuters like Gil, who’s purchased a credential that allows him to pass through customs quicker than other drivers. Even with his speed pass, the fifteen-mile drive from the Indios’ training complex to Gil’s house in El Paso can take an hour and a half on days when the bridge is clean, meaning traffic isn’t backed up. If there’s a bust? If customs spots a pickup truck with cocaine sewn into the seat cushions or tucked behind its door panels? Add another hour or even two.
    â€œIt’s not that dangerous in Juárez,” Gil opines, slipping into what is obviously his recruiting sales pitch. “Just live in good neighborhoods, stick to main roads. You can live here just fine. Ask Edwin [Santibáñez, the offensive midfielder]. He’s been with us the whole time, and he’s fine. Ask Marco—he’s been with us for years and he’s fine, too. We tell them we’re right next to El Paso, where their wives can go shopping. No other team can offer that. We tell them they’ll be safe if they take proper precautions, but some of them, their wives step in. We lose so many [prospects] so often I no longer count. South American, Mexican. They turn us down right away or their agent says, ‘You know what, I’m not going to let him play in Juárez.’ But Juárez is not only violence, I tell them. There are good sections of town.”
    I don’t know about that. Judging by the map on my wall, I’d say nowhere in Juárez appears immune from the killing. There are obvious trouble spots, like bloody Colonia Altavista, where Maleno Frías grew up. But I’ve read about murders in Campestre, an upscale community built around a golf course. Colonia Nogales, where I live, is supposedly one of the better parts of town, yet two people have been murdered already on my very street (though thankfully not on my block). The Mexican grocery chain S-Mart is the Indios’ main sponsor, their logo the biggest image on the team jerseys. Someone shot two