MOSCOW -- That ingrained feeling. That one, that it can be done. That one, that it's wanted. That one...
In the elevator of the hotel, Mario Carrillo and Jared Borgetti straighten their attire. "Let's see a new story...", says Jared. "It helps to be positive, that always helps", adds Carrillo, both more devoted to the Mexican national team than worried about the German national team.
They still perspire the field, that hybrid and proud musk of victory and defeat. Because the medals they hang, were given to them by the game, the dressing room, the World Cups.
"Some people believe we can't, the important thing is that we all believe we can", explains Borgetti on his way to the hotel lobby.
"And down there, there, on the field, you are alone, it's a team, but there are also individual battles, and those you face alone. I've been there twice, and I know what it's like", adds Mario Carrillo.
In the press center cafeteria, Chucho Ramirez and his wife Lourdes feed their nerves with the meager menu of the cafeteria. The U-17 World Cup champion in Peru 2005, hardens his face: "Today, before the game, everything is already about conviction, transmitting, showing them the greatness of the moment, and what comes after the greatness of that moment", he explains while squeezing his face with the gesture of a Spartan.
"And of course, you expect some tactical detail about the opponent, to surprise them, but you have already done the work you had to do", he adds with that nervous message that time consumes its minutes like snails.
Yes, there are some who yearn, dream, identify, project themselves, blend in, get restless, suffer because they had the blessing of the field, the moist blessing of their own ecstasy and agony.
Because, in the end, they were, have been, are and will be, them, Borgetti, Carrillo and Chucho, national team players... And yes: they believe in what they want to believe, without believing in the past.
THE CROWDS...
And the others. Those, the wanderers of faith. Those, the Mexicans. Those, the pilgrims of faith and hope.
Four hours before the game, they besiege the Luzhniki Stadium. Four hours before the game, some rest in the shade, obviously recovering from their hangover. Moscow nights have, Alberto Cortez would describe, a huge "sarape woven with star fabric, and a moon hat". El Cielito Lindo lights up the lights of the Kremlin and calms the ghosts of the Red Square, as it is adorned with Mexican attire.
The ritual? The same as always, with the same people as never before. Masks like butterfly wings. Zapatista, villista, northern hats. Makeup dominates their faces. Those faces smeared with the flag, those three finger marks as if blood evidence were necessary to exude their origin.
That gene, that wandering DNA, that compass without a north, that Rose of the Winds of abandonment and reunion, brings them close, with that passion for the Mexican national team.
Los Angeles fans paid a thousand dollars in resale to witness if there is any glimpse, any miracle that their fantasies are not overcome by reality. Thousands, tens of thousands, are immortalized by the eyes and memories of all countries. Moscow has a noisy guest, although it knows that around there, in the immediacy of the fourth match, the longest night should arrive, the farewell night, the one where discouragement becomes as loud or even louder than celebration.
In the end, always, that wandering cathedral of faith, consumes and consummates its ceremony with the same vehemence and ardor. Whether it is to bury its living illusions or to unearth its dead customs.