Barefoot Ballers | by Sergio Cervantes

The basketball tournaments at Toberman Park are no joke. They are played year round, the teams comprised of players who live in the Pico-Union district — the panza of Los Angeles. The majority of players are of Oaxacan descent. That is, they hail from a rugged, mountain and valley filled region of Mexico which extends to the Pacific and great many migrate to Los Angeles. They are indigenous folk, known as the Triqui, and they bring their game with them. The summer field consists of over forty teams, matched up in a March Madness style, single elimination bracket. This year, the opening tip-off to the big baile, is to be preceded by a first of its kind, early morning exhibition game, pitting two squads of kids against each other, one drawn and culled from the crema of the valley, the other comprised solely of children of “the true people.”

For the visiting team, the journey to Toberman Park was a long one. In the morning twilight, the young players packed up their gear and loaded onto an aging school bus. The bus driver, a twenty-one year transportation services veteran and self proclaimed “knower” of every street, back alley, unmarked road and shortcut in the city, chose to not give a shit about the series of twists and turns suggested by the bus’s GPS system and instead broke east, merging directly onto the main highway. It was a savvy move, which should have paid off in a handful of minutes saved. But even the Knower could do nothing about the crunch of cars, triggered by the mystery slowdown that compacted traffic through the 101 to 405 interchange. Cap that with an unmarked Caltrans project, which mired traffic between Hoover and Union to a molasses pace and…

This is how forty-two miles turns into an hour and fifty-six minutes of aggravation in Los Angeles.

By the time the San Fernando Valley boys completed their commute from Thousand Oaks, into the Pico-Union barrio of central Los Angeles, they had lost nearly half of their pre-game warm-up time. Only the Knower’s foresight to detour from Union to Washington, prevented the delay from devolving into a hissy fit throwing, tip-off delaying, fiasco. The “home team” had a hell of a journey too. The young jugadors boarded a plane in Oaxaca, Mexico and arrived at LAX. Early this morning, the kids walked barefoot from their host families’ homes, to the courts at Toberman. It was a two-block trek.

If you’re not playing a tournament game at Toberman, come to the game hungry, you are going to want to eat there. By noon, the street vendors and food vendors will be set up. There will be bacon wrapped hot dogs with grilled onions, home made red and green tamales, grilled ears of corn, rolled in mayonnaise, spiced with paparika and ancho chile, tempered with lime juice, tacos al pastor, filled with freshly shaved pork, onions, cilantro. There will Horchata, glass bottles of Mexican Coca-Cola, sweetened with cane sugar not corn syrup, chilled in an ice bucket.

An enterprising old timer is the only vendor to set up shop early, in time for the morning exhibition. He has brought a cart filled with paletas. That is, frozen treats shaped like popsicles, but the similarity stops there. Fresh ingredients are laced into paletas. This could include chunks of strawberry and sweet cream, shaved coconut and milk, sweet corn mixed with rice and cinnamon, scalded milk and cactus. The list goes on and on. I’m buying.

“Que Quieres?”

“Uno ciruela.”

The ciruela paleta is sweet with molasses and cream, chewy with large hunks of prune.

It’s early, but a large crowd is gathering. I walk toward the courts and stake out a spot, setting down my beach chair midcourt, beyond the chain link fence. A young family, mom, dad, little girl, baby, is camped out on a beach towel beside me. This man’s face is familiar, someone I’ve balled with, but his name escapes me. He knows me too. Gives me a nod.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“You coming out of retirement, Arturo? You going to put on a clinic, show the kids how it’s done?”

I shrug my shoulders.

“Manana."

It is almost game time and I have been scoping out the players. The Triqui boys wear gold, the Valley Boys blue, both with numbers, but no names, on front and back. The average height of a twelve year old boy in these Estados Unidos is 4’10.7.” Ever since I laced up my first pair of Puma hi-tops (I scavenged for recyclables and saved up, when I was eleven), I’ve had a gift for eyeballing a player’s height to within a half of an inch of what a tape measure would tell you. (If ever we should meet, try me). And my eyes can tell you that the San Fernando Valley All-Star players, range in height from a shifty little 4’9 ¾” point guard, to an impending giant, rockin’ a retro hi-top fade, that puts him within scraping distance of six feet. The home team is comprised of Triqui Indians, an indigenous people with deep roots to Oaxaca. The Triqui are not blessed with great height but like most Oaxacans, they are filled with a passion for basketball. In my journey to Oaxaca I could find always find two things in any village: A Catholic Church and a basketball court. Being the Christmas and Easter Catholic that I am, I can’t vouch for whether in the church someone was always praying, but I know for a fact that on the court, someone was always playing.

The Triqui people are brethren to the Zapotec and Mixtecs, with some cultural overlap but a language of their own. The Triqui players range downward in height from four and a dime to four and loose pennies. They are basketball fanàticos who run the court barefoot. This is done not to gain some unforeseen advantage or because their sponsors were too stingy to supply them with new pairs of Jumpman Kicks, but simply because they are accustomed to it. For the Triqui boys, flesh to concrete comes natural, the soles of their little feet, tough and leathery. This is not a cultural choice, uh-uh, it is a living in dirt floor poverty one.

You want to know why the Triqui will travel thousands of miles north, to pick tomatoes fourteen hours a day, seven days per week, in exchange for slipped discs and chronic back pain? It’s ‘cause all of the bullshit that comes with being allocated as the underpaid dredge class of citizens in Los Angeles, is still two worlds better than being denied the rights to food, water, while swapping pesos for dollars. It is a poor man’s windfall — or so they convince themselves.

The “Valley Boys” are a traveling summertime team, which consists of local all-stars. Players may tryout by invite only. They are coached by, former Pepperdine point guard, Scott McKay. During the school year, McKay is the assistant coach for a private Catholic School team, which has advanced to a pair of CIF Division III semi-final games, in the past six years. According to the Knower, McKay boasted to a community newspaper, that he had ambitions of teaching his young charges the intricacies of the Princeton offense. Only when he got down to it, it had proven to be too complex for his players to gain a grasp of, much less master, in a couple of weeks. The Valley Boys have been in reality, running the more basic youth swing offense. It employs a 2-3 formation. Cut, pass, wheel and fill. The offense is simple yet flexible, vanilla with a swirl. With the talent loaded onto this roster, it is all they need.

The player who strikes fear into the hearts of opposing the most, isn’t the impending giant. The giant’s frame intimidates, but he’s clumsy, a plodder who can be beat. Oh no, the Valley Boys real star is their shooting guard, the son of former NBA player and Lakers guard, Nick Van Exel. At 5’4 ¼,” VanX, the younger, is already above average height for his age, and will one day be tall. He is already quick and athletic and is possessed with half natural, half refined, offensive prowess. He wears number zero. Nonetheless, it is the giant who will match up with the Triqui player, little numero Cinco, for the tip-off.

Ball up! Cinco doesn’t even bother to jump and instead drops back into defensive coverage. The giant tips the ball to a teammate, who promptly passes it back to him. The giant sees VanX streaking to the basket and fires a pass to him. He hits him in stride, like a quarterback to a wide receiver. VanX lays it in. Two points. The Triquis don’t waste any time. They charge down to the other end of the court, where the defense has settled into a zone defense. Siete pulls up and fires an open three pointer. It clinks off the rim, just off. The Valley Boys rebound. They make their way down the court, the Triquis harass them, one on one, two on one, all the way, the shot clock dwindling. VanX fades to the perimeter, draws a mismatch with the Triquis little point guard, Uno. Swish! VanX hits a three pointer. A quick five to nothing lead. The Triqui guard is nonplussed, drops back into defense. They still don’t have a clue.

Hardcore Oaxacans refer to themselves as the B’ena’Za’a. That is, “the true people,” in Zapotec. It is no wonder that the Oaxacans primal ancestors were simpatico with the world. According to tribal lore, the first ones were pushed forth from the bowels of the Earth, crumbs chipped off layers of folded granite. Unfrozen became their stone hearts — they pumped with life. Those first ones, born of the stuff of which Pico de Orizaba arose. Oh, the hardship they could endure! The next ones emerged from the forest, sculpted from only the elder trees, pines and oaks whose roots ran deep and strong enough to survive the transcendence into flesh and blood. Those are the selfless ones, the nurturers of the people. As for the late ones, those are the beasts that willed their humanity into existence. They owe much to brother jaguar, the clever and oh-so-stealthy one. Jaguar witnessed the crumbling of the first ones, eavesdropped on the rustling of “the next ones”, and gathered their secrets. Jaguar guarded this knowledge, dispensing it only to his sister and brother felines. Those who were bold enough, transformed into the B’ena’Za’a. Oh, to be brave and clever! Those big cats who begot men, they could accomplish anything.

Baila! baila! The Triqui players have picked out their “dance partners,” and shadow them, every step they take, up and down the court. They won’t let up. On offense, they run full tilt on every possession. Six seconds or less. They score off fast breaks, set up pick and rolls, shoot three pointers. Little yellow blurs streaking up and down the court -- like minions on nitro.

And so it was, that the Mexican Indigenous Peoples Basketball Academy received an invite to send a team to play in an International Tournament of junior basketball teams in Madrid, two years coming. By terms of the invite, only one team could represent the region. Rather than assembling a team of All-Stars, the Academy officials decided this. The best team in the Benito Juàrez tournament, this congregation of physically short, exceedingly poor, but mightily fanatic basketball loving peoples, would represent all of Oaxaca in Madrid. For the Triqui boys, the furthest that most of them have ever traveled, is to the neighboring mountains and valleys. They took their game to the villages of the neighboring Mixtecs, ran against the Zapotecs on their home courts in the Sierra Norte. This time, they would travel to Guelatao, to play in the Benito Juàrez. The Triqui boys ran roughshod through the field, into the semi-finals, in which they were matched against the heavy favorites, the Zapotec team from San Pablo Guelatao. In a nail biter, the barefoot boys Triqui, scratched out a sole fraying victory. Their matchup in the finals would prove to be nothing but a formality.

The Valley Boys had to admit, that they had been caught off guard by the Triquis high-octane style of play. Approaching halftime, the game had turned into more of a track meet than they would have preferred and the Triquis were matching them shot for shot. Their one advantage, the Triqui couldn’t seem to find an answer for VanX. With their full court pressure and roving double teams, the Triqui proved capable of bottling most of the Valley Boys up, but not VanX. As such, the Boys kept kicking the ball back to him. Yes, it rendered their offense one dimensional, but what a dimension!

That the Triquis trip occurred at all, was a minor miracle in and of itself. The funding began with familial donations, from Oaxacans residing in the U.S., mostly those in Los Angeles, sending money, countless church fundraisers and collections, handwritten letters to philanthropists, crafted to pull at heartstrings, press releases to both the Mexican and U.S. media, emphasizing the underdog “story arc” of the team emphasized by a crude indigenous peoples league website, which features photos of the kids posed for team photos or in the heat of competition or just goofing around with their friends. Serious. Intense. Adorable.

Their efforts went better than expected. The first thing they bought were new ball and practice equipment, then came the uniforms. And then came an offer to supply the team with shoes, which the Triqui accepted and the boys awed over but didn’t necessarily use. Many of the players chose to auction the shoes off unused, instead. These are expensive shoes, which could be sold by posting photos for the world to see, they were told.

“On the computer? Serio?”

“Yes.”

There is a guy who could do it, and he would charge only a modest fee. They wondered how many months of food, each pair of shoes would buy.

Ten minutes to go and to the Valley Boys disgust, they’re down by two. Since minute one, the Triqui have been running on overdrive, matching shots with the All-Stars. VanX gets doubled, drives right and breaks baseline toward the basket. Ocho stay with him. VanX and Ocho elevate, locked in a balletic mid-air tangle. Shot off, but Ocho gets a hand on it. The ball clanks off the front of the rim. That’s lock down D! But the ref sees it otherwise. “Ocho” he says and makes the signal for hacking. Ocho reacts with an ear to ear grin and walks away from the ref, toward the sideline, with hands on his hips. He rolls his eyes toward the heavens.

VanX takes two free throws. Sinks them both. It’s a tie game. Triqui ball. Uno is the inbounder. He looks for an open three, two, one… there it is. Uno guns the ball in a microsplit second before Ocho breaks hard left, he is wide open. The ball goes out of bounds, hard right. Miscommunication. Valley Boys ball. McKay calls for a timeout. He applauds as his boys gather.

Once the American media got wind of the carefully crafted narrative, of the barefoot Triqui basketball playing children, the donations really started to pour in. There were invitations to play exhibition games across America, in Houston, New Jersey, Denver and Chicago. Room, board and plane tickets would be provided, of course. The first trio of exhibitions would occur in Los Angeles. I know this is going to come off like some cornball cliché, but for Triqui kids to have the opportunity to soar off the mountains, into the skies, to represent all of Oaxaca on an international stage, across America, well, that’s a reward… no, fuck that! Jaguar people don’t play for moral victories.

And we’ve reached the point of the game where fatigue sets in, breakdowns occur, momentum shifts. VanX stands erectly in place near mid court. Ocho sets to his right, hands on his knees, gulping air like a Labrador. The inbounder, Seven, spies the space between VanX and sees that Ocho is winded, and being lazy. He has foolishly taken his eyes off of VanX, opening up an unguarded inside lane. Seven floats the ball to lead VanX. He knows that VanX will have an easy drive to the rim and… Seven has taken the bait. Ocho flashes toward the ball, intercepts it — his fatigue a ruse. He drives swiftly, unguarded to the opposite rim. Layup, score! The Triqui regain the lead.

Now this is the part where I'm supposed to lean into the narrative tension, make it seem like the game was going back and forth — but I won't bullshit you.

From here on out, the score won’t get any closer than this. By now, VanX, the focal point of the Valley Boys offense, was spent. Ocho, the Triquis best player wasn’t. Ocho switched over to guard VanX full time. It was a complete shutdown. Minus the offensive crutch they had relied upon, the Valley Boys offense broke down and the Triqui went on a scoring run. When the dust settled, the Valley Boys would wonder how they got run off the court by a team of short, shoeless, ballplayers.

This came as no surprise to Oaxacana fans, it was expected. Were the game to replayed in five years, once the Valley Boys have grown into their frames and learned to play above the rim, it would most likely be a different story. They might well win by twelve, maybe twenty. But here at Tolbert, right now, they still play under the rim, with speed and heart, and furious intensity. Beneath the rim, this is the domain of the True People. Oaxacans own this game.