Below: comment on Jennifer Doyle’s article, el Resto del Mundo

Jennifer,

What intrigues me most about your entry/article is the section that covers local footballing culture. I currently play regular pick-up at Pan Pacific Park (usually on Wednesdays), but am constantly in search of better grounds. Though there’s always the option of joining a league or even an officiated formal meet-up, I really can’t commit to anything of the sort. Pan Pacific Park, or “P3,” has but one proper “field,” (i.e. one w. goal posts) one that’s all dirt, dust, rocks, pitons, and storm drains. Everything but hierba; yes, it’s a total favela. This means no firm-ground boots, just the thick-soled hard ground type. When you’re done for the day, you look like you’ve just been teleported from Black Rock City.

The rest of the park is pure green, but littered with those infamous signs. The only sanctioned green areas: mine fields booby trapped with boulders, storm drains, and mini palm trees, all in an effort to deter any would-be 5 v 5 action. OK, so the conspiracy theorist in me ascribes authoritative intent to the random placement of said obstacles. We used to play in these areas, but…

About a year ago, a guy slipped and collided with one of those trachycarpus mini-palms, cracked his head right open down to the gray. Pools of blood. See, this type of palm is squat with no shaft, just an armor of godendag-like stegosaurus plates evolutionarily equipped to render you a Regarding Henry Memento type. Dude didn’t have insurance, much less a green card. Refused to go to hospital; just laid there, supine and motionless. So much for the blood-brain barrier.

Partially at fault for this tragedy, I might add, was the lack of illumination. At P3, only the field and designated football ‘patches’ lie unequipped for nightly use. The baseball diamonds, by contrast, transform into veritable film sets come sundown. This brings me to the war: America’s Pastime vs. The Beautiful Game. Yes, the BASEballers hate us. They won’t return shanked balls, or even respond to our calls. Worse, even when there’s no game on, they’ll kick us off the outfield. I’ve even seen the free youth clinic being booted on a number of occasions. Why? The coaches are in with the management, who, in turn, never hesitate to call LE (similar experience at Cheviot Hills Park and others). One P3 baseball coach called us out:

“You guys have no self-respect. Whenever we reseed the soccer field, you guys tear it all up by slide tackling and over-playing and not respecting the reservation protocol.”

Wonder if by “you guys,” he meant foreigner/imigrant/Euro-trash? Rather than responding with irresponsible accusations of veiled-racism and the like, I’ll say this: the one time they fenced off the area and reseeded, yes, it was beautiful. They manually watered till the leaves grew to knee height and then mowed. But here’s the thing: they used the wrong type of seed. We needed zoysia or plastic; they gave us some stunted bahia strain. And worst of all: after they mowed, they never watered. Within 2 months it was desert again. Sabotage.

In my search for greener pastures, I’ve inevitably looked east. I live in East Hollywood/K-town, so naturally, I’ve tried Mac Arthur and Lafayette. Both are pretty crowded, but offer some rotational (5 in, 5 out) mini pick-up play. Griffith East, along Crystal Spring Drive is the only grassy expanse in L.A. where I’ve been able to find regular, no-reservation, open pick-up where the authorities are lax about the “no” rule. Cool. But the thing is… it’s very clique-y and lacks the “everyone plays” accommodating attitude of P3. At Griffith (and elsewhere), most games are dominated by one homogenous coterie or another. Completely tribal. Salvadorian, Guatemalan, Armenian, Korean, Oaxacan, Sinaloan, etc. No outsiders. No mixing. Where’s the love?

P3, on the other hand, has the best vibe and is vertically integrated skill wise. Fathers, sons, Europeans, Africans, emos, cholos, queens, jailbait, lipstick lesbians, drunks, stoners, little people, university scholars, Korean-Argentineans, middle schoolers, Turks, Armenians, and yes, Palestinians and Israelis. Players from every economic walk of life. Oh, and groupies. There’s even a lady with an ice chest who dispenses cold water to the weary, free of charge. This is true americana. And it’s crowded.

So, after this longwinded rant, here’s my question: is there anywhere in L.A. with a pick-up vibe like P3’s that features real grass?

And lastly, Jennifer, the whole MexiMoz thing is a truly awesome phenomenon. My friends and I have always been fascinated by this unlikely marriage. In a way, it symbolizes the ineffable vibe that is P3 pick-up. See you on the pitch…

Sincerely,
Solus Woodrose

September 27, 2008 2:02 AM

The Century of the Self, part 1/6.

Freddie, Fannie and friends

A Puerto Rican man has been granted his wish to remain standing — even in death. A funeral home used a special embalming treatment to keep the corpse of 24-year-old Angel Pantoja Medina standing upright for his three-day wake. Dressed in a Yankees baseball cap and sunglasses, Pantoja was mourned by relatives while propped upright in his mother’s living room. His brother Carlos told the El Nuevo Dia newspaper the victim had long said he wanted to be upright for his own wake: “He wanted to be happy, standing.” The owner of the Marin Funeral Home, Damaris Marin, told The Associated Press the mother asked him to fulfill her dead son’s last wish. Pantoja was found dead Friday underneath a bridge in San Juan and buried Monday. Police are investigating. (AP)

Thanks Ryan

Best Bank Robbery shootout on film. Heat, 1995.

Best Bank Robbery shootout on video. North Hollywood, 1997.