Basketball and Bus Rides in Mexico

Dispatches on hoop culture beneath the border

I’m currently riding a bus across Mexico — from the Terminal de Autobuses de Pasajeros de Oriente in Mexico City, through the states of Tlaxcala and Puebla, into the mountainous, craggy roads leading into Veracruz. It’s not my first time rolling along this specific route, which typically goes something like this: hopping on a redeye flight from Oakland, landing in the Mexican capital at some ungodly hour, running around North America’s largest metropolis eating street tacos and drinking jugos for a couple of days (or weeks), then zagging over to my parents’ quiet, verdant hometown in Xalapa, four hours eastward toward the Gulf of Mexico’s humid coastline.

Seeing this place again — the indigenous cacti, the highway vendors with baskets of potato chips and homemade tortas, the faraway peak of Perote — is comforting, something I’ve known since childhood, through my teenage years and into young adulthood, and up until now, as a father with a skittish, open-eyed toddler at my hip. Mexico’s warmth — its literal heat, but also its figurative embrace — has never failed to deepen my appreciation of being wholly American, someone whose consciousness has been shaped by living, and seeing others live, on both sides of a contentious U.S.-Mexico line. It’s an unavoidable reminder of who gets to represent “America,” of what life looks like for so many residents of this vast, complex continent that extends far beyond any singular politic or government entity.

With the privilege of dual citizenship (something I, and my wife, do not take lightly), I’ve leveraged my ability to leave one place to begin life in another. For the past month, we’ve been preparing our new home in southeastern Mexico, away from what has long felt like the chaotic unraveling of the U.S.’s social, cultural and economic fabrics. And yet, our move to Mexico isn’t simply about pivoting away from the failings and endless deceptions and disappointments brought forth by our elected officials; it’s about our own search for self-sufficiency in a different kind of environment. And we’re bringing our friends along (see my homie Darius picture above) to see a different side of Mexico, too.

Speaking for myself, I’ve been doing that through learning more about Mexico’s basketball community, a scene I’ve been covering for the past few years with profiles I’ve written for GQ, SLAM, Basketball Feelings and, most recently, Passion of the Weiss. Currently, I’m researching more about the subject — meeting and speaking with Mexican national team coaches, former and current Mexican-born players and local social media influencers — for a story I’m working on per The Guardian. I’ve also been commissioned to provide a look into the world of los Diablos Rojos, Mexico City’s latest and perhaps most culturally well-positioned hoops franchise, for the woman-owned basketball publication, Flagrant Magazine. It’s a surrealist dream for me to be inhaling La República as not just a journalist, but as the son of Mexican immigrants. Strangely, I’ve reverse-migrated to the exact place my parents once left for reasons of their own. Here, I’m choosing to explore the intersections of cultural exchange and cross-border relations through an international basketball lens, and everything it entails.

There are manifold inspirations here. The folks and outlets I’ve connected with have been informed, genuine, passionate and have provided hella insight into the world of Mexican basketball culture from a fresh, dope perspective (that list includes Eduardo Villalpando; Mitch Thompson; Señorita NBA; Morras on Sports; Rod Drops Dimes; Janín; Lust; El Hoop Bus; and so many others).

Right now, there’s a nascent, optimistic energy surrounding Mexican hoops — and its rising cultural cache — among these open-hearted fans. It’s difficult to translate into the fractured U.S. context of this moment. North America is shifting, the tectonics are re-arranging and tilting in directions and angles unknown. I’m not sure what to fully expect; none of us do. But as I pull into the next bus station to meet with family members and hold whatever awaits, I’ll continue to think about something I read on Twitter this morning, regarding the presidential election and looming sense of dread, while also pursuing my own sense of joy and liberation: “community is made, not elected.”

All love from this side.