CRUCIBLE
The glory of Honduras-Progreso’s national championship, the sacred joy of two weddings, and the thrill of Christmas vacation, all were plunged into darkness on Sunday, December 20, with the fatal crash of a bus loaded to standing-room only just minutes from its destination in Las Vegas. The brakes failed on a steep, twisting descent to Victoria, but passengers didn’t even realize there was a problem till it hit with such blunt force that every seat was ripped from the floor and sent airborne, slicing through the bus like a wood chipper, throwing victims out of broken windows, the front of the bus like some monster vomiting debris and passengers. Three dead at the scene, including one decapitated. Another died in hospital, with two or three more lives hanging in the balance.
Chemo and I might have been on that bus, if we had not decided to stay an extra day in El Progreso to celebrate with Nangui’s family the soccer championship. I had attended the wedding of Manuel Figueroa and Gloria, along with his 11 brothers and sisters and their spouses and kids, and his mother Erlinda, the very same Erlinda I was begging your help for some months ago, Erlinda, the widow of Guillermo, who died so tragically of a chemo overdose a couple years ago. Yes, and the mother of Maricela, the mother of six with her husband Juan Blas, including my little namesake Miguel Angel, and Marite, whose sixth birthday pictures are featured in this CASA.
In the accident, Erlinda got a horrid black eye and other strains and bruises; Maricela broke a rib and got enough cuts on her face and hands for twenty stitches; Juan Blas got a walloping bruise on his right leg, which only FEELS like it’s broken; Miguel Angel somehow escaped without a scratch; Marite broke her collarbone and is hefting a big plaster cast. Michelle, 16, a cousin, who often plays Jesus in our Sunday dramatizations of the gospel, just a lovely girl, had the whole back of her right arm sliced open to the bone. Another little niece, Fernanda, has two lines of stitches like barbed wire across her whole forehead.
One death that affected us all was Leydi, a neighbor of mine, a friend to everyone. The wife of Pastor Mauricio, whose little church serves a variety of good folks, she had a simple, some might say plain, face, but it just glowed. When I was president of the parents club in 2013, during Chemo’s first attempt at seventh grade, she was not an actual member of the Junta Directiva, but she helped us with every project all year. I looked in vain just now for a nice photo of her in my archives—nothing, she’s always in the background! I had to borrow a couple from her cousins posting on Facebook. Her little son Quique and his cousin Jesse often come by my house selling bags of the most delicious cookies you ever had, made by Leydi”s mother Alma, who is fighting for her life, after a literal scourging in the havoc of the accident. You see, this family, like Erlinda’s, was returning from a wedding, too. The bus, chartered to accommodate all the folks heading to Las Vegas, including a couple dozen workers getting their Christmas break from sweatshops in Choloma, a suburb of San Pedro, apparently was not subject to inspections the way the public buses are; and the driver, who by all reports has gone insane, is in jail, plagued with nightmares I guess of a route he had never driven before.
In comparison it’s nothing, but at the moment, I thought my experience at the Big Game was the end of my life. As I said, I went to the wedding of Manuel and Gloria, while Chemo went early to the stadium, along with Nangui’s family. By the time I got there, about 6:30 p.m., the gates were closed, with 400-500 ticket holders still clamoring to get in. This had riot written all over it, so I hung back, especially when I saw the police raising their weapons. I figured they had tear gas, too.
But the crowd started pushing, and battering the biggest gate, solid steel, the size of a barn door—and suddenly it twisted and shook and gave way and fell like a stricken dinosaur. Then they really pushed. I tripped and fell, hard, losing my glasses, but something strange happened. A circle opened around me as they helped me to my feet, and somebody returned my glasses to me. In another moment, I was pressed so hard against the metal frame of the fallen gate that I thought my back would snap in two, and I lost my phone; somebody pulled me through, and somebody else returned my phone. Once inside, I thought I’d be ducking bullets, and I clung to some little trees there; a man with a face so sweet I thought he was an angel came to me and held me and asked me if I was all right, “We’ll get you a seat, Miguel.” I looked and looked and finally recognized Alexander Lopez, the MAYOR of El Progreso, a man I know through our mutual friend Wilfredo Mencia. You know, maybe he said, we’ll get you an ambulance, but anyway I was restored, and now brave enough to do some pushing of my own, gently, gently, excusing myself a thousand times, till I made my way to where Chemo and Nangui’s family could see me from the stands.
I stayed down by the fence, and swore I would not move no matter how hard it rained. Well, I moved at least five times, to shelter under the stairs. Motagua, a 13-time national champion, a legend, a tradition, and a cheater (they had their own version of deflate-gate that got their coach suspended) scored first. But Honduras-Progreso kept its cool and evened the score before the half ended, by which time both teams were so covered with mud, it was a guess who was who.
Controversy in the second half, as the referee waved off a goal by Motagua for being off-sides. Well, you know, every champion needs a little luck! (In the game the week before, at Motagua’s stadium in Tegucigalpa, the “homer” referee red-carded a Honduras-Progreso player on some made-up infraction right after he scored the first goal; but even shorthanded, Honduras-Progreso managed a 3-3 tie against the Big Boys.) And when Nangui came into the game ‘long about minute 65, the whole stadium erupted in wild cheers. I swear, even the Motagua fans were joining in!
Ninety minutes, and thirty more of overtime, till it came down to penalty kicks. At first, Honduras-Progreso looked completely lost; they were just standing around chatting or something, while Motagua was busy as bees running and pointing and pretend kicking. Turns out, our coach had a hunch the title would be decided by “penales,” so they’d been practicing for over a week, winnowing out any weak links, till the crew of five was composed strictly of players who had not missed a shot. Ready when you are, Motagua! Of course, I was nervous as hell, but when the first Motagua player sent the ball totally over the net, I let myself believe—a bit. When the second Motagua kick also sailed over the net, I began to think of what I would say to Nangui. Meanwhile, Honduras-Progeso made every one of their shots. As Homer Simpson would say, No problemo!
So we won! Glory, rapture! And as huge as the crowd was, 7000 fans crammed in a stadium built for no more than 3500, there was no undue celebrating, turning cars over, throwing things, setting fires (another thing Motagua had been suspended for a time or two), much less any fights (Motagua’s biggest suspension came when their fans actually beat a rival fan to death!). So, really, the whole “futbol” world—at least the Honduran portion of it—agreed: Honduras-Progreso was a worthy champion, in only its third season of operation. It was like a sandlot bunch of kids taking down the New York Yankees, David v. Goliath. “Go crazy, folks, go crazy!”
Then the bus accident, so I barely posted on FACEBOOK about the game at all. And I felt so helpless that I was not with the mourners and the injured in Las Vegas. Actually, there was not much I could have done; Dora called me to ask if Leydi’s family could borrow my chairs for the wake; and the injured were not home themselves, with hospital stays and such. A time for weeping.
I really think the best news of this CASA is Chemo’s First Holy Communion. For me, it marked not just the season but the whole year with grace. Leila had prepared him so lovingly all year long, with his little class consisting of nieces Cecilia (“Chila”) and Reina, and a very shy boy named Emerson, who came down from Guachipilin, an hour’s hike, for their weekly lessons. We celebrated with a special “triple” cake from Carlota, since it was also Chila’s birthday. I kept reminding Chemo and the girls, don’t forget about your second First Communion and your third First Communion and so on. Chemo’s already up to his Seventh Holy Communion, including a 6:30 a.m. Mass at the Cathedral in Tegucigalpa. That early rising was a miracle for Chemo right there!
We went to Tegucigalpa for Lily’s graduation. The first in her family ever to attain a university degree, she graduated from La Pedagogica, the largest teacher school in the country, and Magna Cum Laude at that, in a class of over 500 graduates. The whole family went, her parents Elvis and Dora, and the kids Dorita and Doricel; her other siblings Neysey and Elvis Jr. were already there, also “universitarios.” A timely Christmas gift from a dear friend in the States helped with all the travel, and also a big celebration afterward of Chinese food—take-out, of course!
All the best for the New Year! Keep us in mind, as we pick up the pieces, here in Las Vegas and there in the Flood Plain.
Love, Miguel
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