I really loved the year 2013. It was a great time for me. My wife got her papers and could finally come to the US and live with me. She also brought along my two stepchildren who have grown into beautiful, amazing, brilliant individuals who inspire me every day.
MORE IMPORTANTLY, I successfully Kickstarted a nonfiction book on the history of Real Madrid & Barcelona. A year before the Kickstarter, I acted as my own literary agent and “queried” the idea to some publishers in the US and even the UK. I actually got some decent responses and one face-to-face meeting. However, nobody pulled the trigger. I kinda sorta felt like a conspiracy: I was “liked” to death. Like, why are people so kind but then unwilling to pay me? My sister, a recovering TV producer (and mother), explained being “liked to death” is uber common in both LA and elsewhere. It happens. A lot.
Thus, one full (wasted) year after my idea, we Kickstarted, you supported me, you got your rewards, you were elated, and, two months later, I found out that Sid “Mother Fucking” Lowe was writing on the same topic. Understand that I write “Mother Fucking” as a compliment – Sid is boss. He is badass. He researches like an academic and interviews in that classic bipolar Oprah fashion that is 50% your best friend and 50% jaded civil rights attorney in a deposition. He gets access without selling out. He churns out more columns AND match recaps in a single day than I do in a month. I found out about Lowe’s project on a WSC forum, and thought: fuck me. Fuck me hard.
I exchanged emails with Sid and he was as kind, courteous, and professional as the day is long. Yet I thought: how can I write something good knowing that this maestro is fucking bringing it AND BRINGING IT HARD. Still, I love history, I love research, so I cobbled together a pretty nice and light guide to the rivalry that shed light on the seedy politics. It was bite-sized, but, like, I made rookie mistakes like not Kickstarting enough to, you know, pay my bud Erik for a dope af cover. People judge books by covers, apparently.
Thus, my friends, to the present. I wrote a fantastically odd, bizarrely weird, 464 page novel about an undocumented kid from the RGV who tries to make it as a pro soccer player. It is NOT a political novel: I fucking hate when a singular ideology hijacks characters and plot and humor. If you are a Marxist, my apologies. You can (and should) rot in Hell. Send my regards to Lucifer and wear red when you get there – he loves that color.
Please support my book and make it happen. Right here. (Just kidding earlier – Marxists welcome! Our tent is big enough for all if you give me at least dos dolares.)