Gentle cabrones:
I come from a family of athletes.
My brother played varsity basketball; both of my sisters played varsity softball. Cousins made all-league in high school baseball, CIF in wrestling. Almost all my male cousins were baseball stars, and some even worked for major league franchises. From my parent’s generation to mine to the younger ones and beyond, we sport.
Me? I was good in NCAA Football ‘06 running non-stop options (Tommy Frazier-style options, not this postmodern read-option bullshit that all high schools and colleges now seem to run). Oh, and I was the yearbook sports photographer for Anaheim High my senior year.
That was it.
My lack of athletic skills was particularly galling because I came from a sports-loving family. Because whenever we’d hang out, and we inevitably played sandlot baseball or schoolyard basketball (never soccer — we were zacatecanos, after all)…I had to play, too.
I was the anchor that weighed everyone down. I’ve written about the embarrassment that was my Little League years. It was worse with the cousins. I was always picked last, and almost always fulfilled my status. No one wanted Gus, and who could blame them?
But damnit, I tried.
With them, I only had two games of any note. One time was when I scored three touchdowns in a game, with the last one seeing me juking one cousin as if I was Barry Sanders, then trying to run over my cousin Carlos only for me bounce off of him like the penny flying against the wall (cousins pushed me into the end zone, where I fell flat on my face).
Only I remember that day, though. But everyone who was there still talks about the time I channeled a Dutch baskerball player to dominate the world for half an hour.
Gentle cabrones:
I come from a family of athletes.
My brother played varsity basketball; both of my sisters played varsity softball. Cousins made all-league in high school baseball, CIF in wrestling. Almost all my male cousins were baseball stars, and some even worked for major league franchises. From my parent’s generation to mine to the younger ones and beyond, we sport.
Me? I was good in NCAA Football ‘06 running non-stop options (Tommy Frazier-style options, not this postmodern read-option bullshit that all high schools and colleges now seem to run). Oh, and I was the yearbook sports photographer for Anaheim High my senior year.
That was it.
My lack of athletic skills was particularly galling because I came from a sports-loving family. Because whenever we’d hang out, and we inevitably played sandlot baseball or schoolyard basketball (never soccer — we were zacatecanos, after all)…I had to play, too.
I was the anchor that weighed everyone down. I’ve written about the embarrassment that was my Little League years. It was worse with the cousins. I was always picked last, and almost always fulfilled my status. No one wanted Gus, and who could blame them?
But damnit, I tried.
With them, I only had two games of any note. One time was when I scored three touchdowns in a game, with the last one seeing me juking one cousin as if I was Barry Sanders, then trying to run over my cousin Carlos only for me bounce off of him like the penny flying against the wall (cousins pushed me into the end zone, where I fell flat on my face).
Only I remember that day, though. But everyone who was there still talks about the time I channeled a Dutch baskerball player to dominate the world for half an hour.
**
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Rik Smits was a 7-foot-four center who spent his entire NBA career for the Indiana Pacers. He was a cornerstone of the great Indiana Pacers teams of the 1990s, part of the first wave of European basketball players that revolutionized the NBA.
But for Mexican kids growing up in Southern California during the mid-1990s, Rik Smits was a lumbering nobody. Today, basketball fans remember him best as a nice, lumbering gabacho.
My best friend and favorite cousins loved to play pick-up basketball, and I sometimes would join. Actually wasn’t bad as a defensive player, but my offense was unsurprisingly bad. Not fast enough to be a point guard, not strong enough to be a forward, not tall enough to be a center. Pretty useless.
Except for one magical game at Holifield Park in Norwalk.
I’ve always been more attuned to the going-ons of the rancho than my cousins, so I have no idea how we ended up going to one of the baseball games Jerez ranchos have held at Holifield every major non-religious, non-COVID era holiday for nearly 40 years. But we did, and at one point we started playing basketball.
A group of white boys hit us up, back when white boys still lived in Norwalk. They took a quick lead over us. And then Rik Smits’ spirit took me over.
I dominated the game like I never had before or since. I drilled threes and drove past players. I rebounded and blocked shots and flicked passes like Bob Cousy. Everyone was stunned, especially the white boys who didn’t think much of this cholo nerd and were now being SCHOOLED by him.
My cousins and best friend were besides themselves with awe. How the hell did Gus become such a good basketball player? My crowning achievement was driving towards their tallest player, juking him out then jumping toward the hoop before doing a reverse hook.
Swish.
“Gus was like Rik Smits!” one of my cousins exclaimed afterward. And it stuck.
It wasn’t exactly a compliment — they weren’t comparing me to Jordan, after all. I was still lumbering and talentless and forgettable — but for that one game I was invincible.
We still talk about it 25 years later. My cousins definitely respect me now more than they did back then, and proudly tell anyone who asks that we’re related.
And part of their pride was that they were there way back when, and they’ll tell you how much I WERKED despite my lack of natural abilities. And if you talk to them long enough, they’ll say that despite everything I’ve done in my life, I never stood taller than the day I was Rik Smits.
Because that was proof for them to never give up, never underestimate people, and to always show up.
Because who knows? One day, you just might dominate, even if for a day, as the Dunking Dutchman.
GRÍTALE A GUTI
This is the column where I take your questions about ANYTHING. And away we go…
Have you ever attended your high school reunions…and how did it go?
What’s the point? I don’t live in the past unless I can extrapolate a canto out of it. The people from high school that I want to talk to regularly, I do; everyone else, I’ll like their posts on FB or leave a comment. I’ll sometimes catch up with people if they live elsewhere if I’m in their town, because why not?
But I won’t attend a high school reunion until the 50th one. Should be fun!
Got a question for Guti? Email me here.
**
Enough rambling. This was the semana that was:
IMAGE OF THE WEEK: Album cover featuring Mexico’s greatest singer-songwriter. Now, to get a JuanGa one…
QUOTE OF THE WEEK: “Keep on writing, no matter what! That’s the most important thing. As long as you have a job on hand that absorbs all your mental energy, you haven’t much worry to spare over other things. It serves as a suit of armor.””
—Eugene O’Neill
LISTENING:“Eighteen Wheels And A Dozen Roses,” Tina Adair. Great bluegrass remake of a ’80s country classic — as someone whose papi was a truck driver, I can tell you this song SOARS like a Kenworth barreling down the 110 toward the ports. One of the few times the cover is better than the original.
READING: “Tura Satana Taught Me to Find Power in My Asian Identity”: Awesome history about a cult film actress, awesome personal essay from a fan.
SHOUTOUT TO: The one person who became an L.A. Taco member last week based off my prompt — thank you for caring about independent journalism. Just one person — man, I’m about as influential as a tailor at a nudist camp smh.
Gustavo Appearances
Nov. 13, 10:30 a.m.: The L.A. Times and Washington Post Latino caucuses are teaming up for a student open house! Check in via Zoom for FREE on panels from reporters, photographers, editors, audience engagement-ers and more about how we made it in the industry. Open only to students, though. More info here.
Gustavo in the News
“When Will LA County Lift Its Ongoing Pandemic Mask Mandate?”: Eater L.A. shouts out a podcast episode of mine.
“A journey to discover the rich traditions of Día de los Muertos”: One LA Times newsletter you should subscribe to plugs a columna of mine.
“The disappearing piñons”: Axios shouts out a podcast episode of mine.
Gustavo Podcast
Latest roster of episodes for “The Times: Daily news from the L.A. Times,” the podcast that I host. Listen to them, and SUBSCRIBE. Don’t let me become the Poochie of podcasts!
“Just 5 countries could make or break climate change”: The Times’ World-Famous World Panel checks in to talk COP26.
“Mexico’s wine country gets big — maybe too big”: Get to Valle de Guadalupe before it turns into Napa.
“Extreme heat, the silent killer”: We focus on a disturbing L.A. Times investigation about how California is undercounting deaths from heat.
“What it’s like for L.A.’s female firefighters”: Never figured firefighters could be such toxic creeps, but here we are.
“Make way for women, LGBTQ and POC skateboarders”: In which I learn I’m washed — but as long as I’m not cheugy, you know?
Gustavo Stories
“Grítale a Guti UNDER ATTACK”: Once again, Instagram has decided to fuck with my IG Live capabilities, so I offer a rant on that.
“Grítale a Guti IN EXILE”: When I can’t do GAG to my liking, I go to Hook Hall for an inferior version of GAG, and do my best Ace Rothstein/Charlie Day impression haha.
“‘Cool City’ winner: Irvine receives $1 million to reach carbon neutrality by 2030”: My latest KCRW “Orange County Line” talks about one of the few good things besides food and UCI that Irvine can boast of.
“Pronunciation Demystified”: I appear on Dave Chang’s podcast to butcher French, do good Vietnamese, even better Mandarin, and strike out on Ethiopian and Icelandic.
“This priest died of COVID-19. His congregants got vaccinated in his honor”: My latest Los Angeles Times columna talks about Father Francisco Valdovinos, a legendary priest who passed away just before the vaccine was readily available. KEY QUOTE: “The most lasting tribute to Valdovinos wasn’t readily visible, though: Mecca’s COVID-19 vaccination rate. News accounts in the wake of his death quoted residents who vowed to roll up their sleeves in his honor. And they did.”
“L.A.’s sheriff called me a ‘vendido,’ a sellout. Let’s talk about selling out”: My next latest LA Times columna deals with L.A. County Sheriff Alex Villanueva trying to clown me. KEY QUOTE: “Throwing your community under the squad car to grandstand? You don’t need a Facebook Live grieve-a-thon; you don’t need a shiny badge to know what that makes you. That, Mr. Sheriff, isa vendido.”
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