Junito: Paternal Persistence and the Pastorcito Mentiroso

Junito, I’m sad to say, was born a politician. Or a Manuel Pellegrini. But definitely not a decisive and partisan political talk show host. Conspiracy theorists be damned, Junito is no Glenn Beck. Why am I so sure?

Well, in the Turner household, a raging debate fumes. On the one hand, as a Mexican American, I was raised to love Real Madrid by their association with Hugol Sanchez. However, the little lady does not share this passion. As a gorgeous morenita bonita raised and reared in Nicaragua, she rejects abundance for that which was scarce: white males, known as cheles. What player leads the Barca flock? Leo Messi, a prototypical mullet-laden Argentine of epic chele proportions.

Che may mean “friend” in Argentine Spanish, but the tensions threaten household hospitality on game days. And Junito sadly sits on the fence.

Just to make a point clear – I will love Junito no matter where life takes him. Terrorist? You mean insurrectionist. Murderer? It was self-defense! Cule? Umm, no lawsuit to terminate parental rights is pending. That’s as good as it gets. I would not set foot in the Nou Camp, but I also wouldn’t wish him to be in reality as harmed as Dani Alves simulates. Not that I’m worried about Junito joining La Masia anytime soon – I would never permit such heresy. But his answers to questions have troubled me as of late.

For example, I asked him in front of his madre – “Junito, con que equipo vas?” And he said Real Madrid. But then his adorable almond eyes looked at his mother, and he said “pero Barcelona me gusta tambien.” I also heard from his sister that while riding the school bus, she overheard Junito talking bad about Real Madrid. But this leads to another problem: the hazy land of truth and fiction.

As a middle child, I am familiar with sibling rivalries and disputes. Yet Angie and Junito take the cake for barely credible denials. If Angie pushes Junito, she claims he fell over his own feet. If Junito punches Angie, he asserts she grabbed his hand and hit herself, attempting a clever set-up. Frequently, rather than sift through mountains of hearsay, we punish both children in case of disputes. When factual clarity melts into molten lava, little option remains.

While the recent Real Madrid loss to Barcelona was fully deserved – Pepe really is a walking red card, even if that foul was not – the oft repeated and classic Cule “Franco” arguments in the face of defeat remind me of my toddlers. The recent Copa del Rey response was no exception. Here are my grievances. First, even assuming such a link, blaming current fans & players for the sins of the past undercuts reconciliation and tosses the innocent newcomer under a bus.

Second, the historical “facts” asserted by Cules don’t necessarily add up. While I won’t go as far as Mario Gomez and call them “lies,” the inconsistencies in the Barcelona version of the Di Stefano signing and the Copa del Rey Remontada raise the eyebrow. Rather, I envision a reversal of cause & effect. Real Madrid started to have success, so General Franco latched onto the team because of their popularity. Currently, de facto Dictator Daniel Ortega has done similar spin jobs with Nicaraguan boxers. Yet nobody accuses him of rigging matches.

More importantly, Barcelona fans fall into two circular discourses. First, their plodding version of possession football is the only beautiful thing. If you don’t play it, you are ugly. If you beat them, you are ugly. Second, if Real Madrid wins, then jump into a cloudy land of historical hearsay to vilify contemporary fans & players with no ties to General Franco whatsoever. So long as the mainstream media unblinkingly and uncritically accepts these assumptions as stone cold fact, Madrid can never “win” in terms of morality. Only on the pitch. And even that has become a rare occasion.

While Junito’s analytical style may mirror the Cules, I am a bit embarrassed that my chele chulo sits on the fence. Conversely, my angelic daughter Angie has shown a closely proclivity to the merengue cause. Up until this point she has insisted on being a girlie girl (despite my gifts of soccer equipment), but who knows? If the feminine La Liga can get their financial house in order without selling compromising calendars, then Angie may be the Saeta Morochita of the lady Real Madrid team.

Until then, I can only read and re-read and re-read Pastorcito Mentiroso to my chavos and implore them to not cry “conspiracy”, “limit of violence,” or “Francooo” without a wolf in sight.

“Papy Elliott, verdad que Franco fue entrenador de Madrid?”