Flashback to 2018. June 28. The Juan de la Barrera Gymnasium. FIBA qualifiers heading to the 2023 World Cup, in China. Gustavo Ayón’s raised fist. The screams of Juan Toscano. The impossible baskets of Paco Cruz. And open your eyes. Chihuahua November 2021. So much water has flowed this river. Suspensions, emergencies, federative ignorance, selections made to the steam, Gustavo Ayón is no longer there and Juan Toscano excels in the NBA, increasingly far from the ’12 Warriors’. Open your eyes. Three years and five months later the glories of Juan de la Barrera were transferred to Manuel Bernardo Aguirre. It happens once in a while, but it’s a reminder. A joy. A manifesto: that in Mexico basketball is played, as long as the managers get off the floor.
Never before has the Mexican National Team scored more than 80 points against the United States. Never before has the Mexican National Team scored more than 30 points against the United States in a quarter. Never, never before has the Mexican National Team scored more than twice as many points against the United States in a quarter. 48.6% of triples. 12 offensive rebounds. 10 robberies. A + – collective of 120. And seven thousand souls in ecstasy. The night in Chihuahua was heartwarming, although the first strokes were not the most promising. An Isaiah Thomas in the Celtics2018 version drove the Quintero perimeter block crazy. Medium shot, penetration, assists from the key, first line of defense. Thomas was Pancho Villa, indefensible, wild, unstoppable. 21-28.
When a double heeled by Thomas opened the distance (11 points), Quintero went to the flasks. Not that he was experimenting, but that he had everything planned. On yellow alert, Gael Bonilla, with his first-time ease, and Irwin Ávalos, the carefree veteran, refreshed the rotation. Mexico hung on Thomas’s train and hoped. Méndez’s miraculous triple, contorted in the air and the ball in the skies as the horn exploded, was a prelude. And then the symphony.
‘The 12 Warriors’ entered flow. In dance, in lighting, in lyre, in rapture. Basketball of joy, eyes closed and a colossal smile. Beethoven composing the Ninth. Orlando Méndez, matusalem, made his aim (and his age, and his talent) a world heritage site (7/11 from behind the arc; 27 + 6 and an astronomical assessment of +33); Omar Quintero is already looking for cooling methods to guarantee his stay until the 2027 World Cup (or until the next FIBA suspension, or whatever happens before). Mexico tortured the United States with manual basketball: Stoll’s masterful pick & roll (18 + 11, as in his best times), Méndez’s deadly tino, Amigo’s drill (18 points in the painting) and his right-handed silk hand, Girón as a safe-conduct and Jaimes as a titan with the procession inside: his personal tragedy was his state of grace on wood.
When Amigo left a floater that caressed the nets (64-64), Mexico was already a hurricane. Jaimes, the basket of the heart and pride, confirmed that tonight there was no way to lose (66-64). No, there wasn’t. He couldn’t afford it. Mendez paid two triples for insanity. The third quarter ended in a historic 31-12 that should remain framed in the Ademeba offices as a warning. ‘The 12 Warriors’ continued to be touched by the gods (and by the approval of the judges) until night closed in Chihuahua. Isaiah Thomas ended up in exile for landing on Stoll’s nose and BJ Johnson couldn’t handle the load. Boylen’s high defense wasn’t the solution either. Stoll managed to break the levee with choppy passes and Amigo feasted on the low post above the ruins of Harrison. Ruins that Jaimes had helped demolish with his affliction turned into fury. And we opened our eyes and it was true. It’s not 2018, but it looked like it. And a lot. It happens every so often, but it is a reminder. Here you play basketball. As long as.
