La Banda Popular

I joined an American gym. I carried the smallest weights to a corner and lifted them with correct, ceremonial form. A man the size of a vending machine nodded at me and said, "Light day? Respect." It was not a light day. It was my entire strength. He chose the interpretation that protected my honor, and he chose it instantly. I have received less mercy from diplomats. A week later, a stranger asked me to spot him. I did not know the word. He explained: stand over me, and save my life if the bar wins. A stranger. Placing his breathing privileges under my supervision. Based on nothing. I have guarded castle gates with less seriousness than I guarded that man's bench press. Then it was my turn, and I met the greatest lie in America. The bar was too heavy. It sank toward my chest. Instantly there were hands on it, lifting it as if it were empty, while their owner screamed, "ALL YOU, BIG MAN. THAT'S ALL YOU." It was not all me. It was almost none me. He carried the entire bar with two fingers while insisting, loudly, that I was achieving this alone. Everyone knows it is a lie. It is also the truest thing anyone has said to me in this country. The whole gym is held up by it, the same way the bar was. Last month I failed a lift, loudly. The clang brought three men jogging over like lifeguards. Nobody laughed. The vending machine helped me up and said, "We've all been under that bar." We. All. Under the bar. It is apparently a nation. They have taught me the nod. I am now authorized to nod at strangers who are suffering voluntarily at six in the morning. Monday. Six a.m. They leave me the good bench. All you, they will say. It will not be. That is the joke everyone is in on, and no one will ever say out loud.

Hello darkness my old friend

¡Bienvenidos a la familia LAFC, @elmexicanobrand! Orgullosos de dar la bienvenida a nuestro nuevo Back-of-Jersey Partner. ¡Lo mejor está por venir! #LAFC | @elmexicanobrand