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The Coronavirus impact has hit home. After a few days of serious suffering and testing positive, Diego rebounded. He is exercising and evaluates himself at 95%. But that is the only good news. The pandemic is lashing Brownsville and the Rio Grande Valley like a category five hurricane. Humans, like palm trees, are crashing to the earth. In my network of friends and acquaintances, seven persons have died in the last ten days and a longtime drinking buddy is, as the Mexicans say, debating between life and death. The cruelest blow of all has been the COVID death of Jose "Junior" Sanchez, who in his prime was simply known as Junior, his one-name fame reminiscent of the Brazilian soccer players a la Pelé. For those who respect my small accomplishments in Brownsville, Junior, as well as many others from his generation and backgrounds, gave me a credibility and respect that persist to this day.

In my oft-related autobiography that my few readers can recite by heart, I arrived a stranger to Brownsville in April of 1975 following a lead learned in Mexico that the school district was begging for teachers. The rumor proved true. From the fall of 1975 to the spring of 1977 I taught English to tattooed hoodlums and pregnant teenagers before I quit revolted by my own ineptitude. I found a fulltime position as a sports writer at The Brownsville Herald. In the aftermath of backstabbing infighting, I emerged unscathed as the newspaper's sports editor. Besides covering games and composing features, I took my first steps as a writer by penning a column three times a week entitled The Peerless Observer. As a lad I read the columnists in The San Francisco Chronicle and The San Francisco Examiner. They took no prisoners. Their commentary brought the city to life for someone like myself living in Sacramento. Words became a picture. Born and bred for controversy, I brought head football coaches to their knees in Brownsville once I took the reins at the daily, four of the six I dragged through the mud week after week fired at the end of the season. They wanted to blame me for their terminations. Like Trump, they couldn't accept their 0-10 records had accounted for their departures.

To make a long story short, I quit after a year and wandered throughout Texas, California, Mexico and Central America for two years. I supported myself by landing journalism jobs in all those locales. At the end of this Odyssey, I found myself back in Brownsville and unemployed. I returned to the BISD as an English Second Language (ESL) teacher. I learned the craft and stayed in the district for 37 more years. On the social ladder the ESL students ranked at the bottom rung in a community 95% Hispanic. Their fellow Mexican-Americans thought of them as no better than wetbacks. It wouldn't be far-fetched to suggest that Klansmen held African-Americans in higher esteem. Alienated, they were the pariah of the border as they navigated a multi-culture environment that exceeded being Mexicans adjusting to their status in the United States. But they all shared an abiding quality--they were the sweetest kids. As the first gringo to attain prominence in their lives, I fascinated them. I would tell them that they were mesmerized by my blue eyes and they would howl with laughter.

The boys shared the same passion--soccer, or more accurately, fútbol. I would see them in the distance on a patch of grass at the edge of the campus playing their sandlot games. There wasn't a boy who didn't attire himself in an América or a Chivas or a Tigres jersey for class. Their ostracization tormented me. I convinced a wealthy merchant to sponsor them in an adult league. I knew sports and had accrued a smattering of soccer knowledge from my sojourns south of the border. Lo and behold, I coached them to a third-place finish in a ten-team league against twenty-somethings who didn't think twice about using their cleats as weapons or throwing elbows into the unprotected faces of my kids. These frustrated machos, who had never realized their dreams, couldn't accept youngsters were outclassing them. The next year Texas approved soccer as an official UIL activity and the school district named me head coach of the Porter Cowboys. Over the next ten years, six as the official coach and four as the unofficial coach (Challenges complicate life that require adapting to the unexpected circumstances or face relegation to the bench), Porter was either champs or co-champs nine of those seasons.

Junior arrived at Porter as a freshman my fourth year as head coach. Two years earlier I had taken Porter to the state finals only to miss the playoffs by one point the following year with the same crack squad. I had lived on my laurels and had missed the playoffs for my lack of effort. I vowed after the disappointment that I was going to make a 110% commitment or I was going to resign. By the age of 12 or 13, an outstanding athlete's reputation precedes him. When Junior presented himself at the athletic hour the first day of class, I again tipped my hat to the beauty of soccer. You don't have to be a physical specimen to be a star. You can be short and slender, but your talents and your drive can turn you into the axis around whom the entire contest revolves.

In Junior's case, the football coaches might--and with reason--dismiss him as tiny, perhaps fragile on the gridiron. He was 5'5" and 125 pounds at most, but beneath a shock of wavy brown hair emanated a confidence caught in a wry smile. At 14 and with an insistent mother at his side to whom I would only respond, "Yes, ma'am," Junior was his own man. He would soon turn Porter into his own team. Among the many stellar players who hailed from both Porter and Hanna, Junior was the standout of the 1980s. Others might counter, and rightfully so, that Hanna's Salvador Garcia--who is now a legendary coach in a flourishing career crowned in 2015 at Rivera with a 28-0 record and the state's first 6A title--was his equal, but they never went against each other as Garcia had graduated when Junior first stepped onto the field at Sams Stadium. There is no doubt that Junior, Garcia and their many accomplished teammates established a foundation that has culminated in several Brownsville state titles.

When Junior arrived, he was the piece--an attacking midfielder--around whom I would have to rebuild my eleven, but I was blessed with an incoming squad who would be baptized by the Herald as the Fabulous Freshmen and subsequently the Super Sophomores. Frank Perez was the forward with the unforgiving shot. Kevin Gaona, who had played alongside Junior since they were nine, was an outside midfielder with tree trunks for legs that fired missiles from outside the area. Happy-go-lucky Fausto Retta solidified the defense as a left fullback. And no team can aspire to a championship if the players don't have a blind faith in their goalie. I informed the new arrivals that I didn't have a returning goalie. The next day a tall, solidly built youngster appeared in a goalie jersey wearing gloves the size of baseball mitts and for the next four years Alejandro Lara would be the class of the Valley.

These five and their teammates were socially different from my inaugural recruits. Even though they had deep ties to Mexico and a profound pride for their roots, they had been in the BISD since their primary years and were at home on the north side of the river. But like the ESL students, they were a pleasure to teach and coach. They were also studs, reviled by the football coaches for their skills (The Porter football team was in the middle of a 47-game losing streak), and they were intent on taking Porter to eminence. I would be remiss if I didn't add that this quintet was surrounded by top talent and a capable bench, but Junior, Frank, Kevin, Fausto and Alex started from day one and would be the face of the team for the next four years, four years that seem like yesterday but have been more than 30 years ago during which time Brownsville has solidified its fame not only in the state but in the nation, the product of Junior and his teammates as well as their bitter foes from Hanna. The showdowns between those two during the 1980s, called El Clásico, were the most anticipated of all sporting events in Brownsville and everybody at their favorite restaurants over migas the next morning would be asking the same question even if they didn't know the first thing about soccer, "Who won?"

Junior and company shared a co-championship with Hanna their freshmen year and advanced two rounds into the playoffs before falling to a physically overpowering adversary, in high school the strength and speed of 18-year-olds too much for the finesse and touch of 14-year-olds. But the Cowboys had drawn a line in the sand, which communicated in no uncertain terms that they would be a force in the forthcoming seasons.

"Great teams carry the day if they have a great player leading them," said Juan de Dios Garcia, Hanna's mentor for more than three decades and the true father of Brownsville soccer who in his youth starred on the clay-baked pitches in Matamoros before reaching the professional ranks. "From the beginning of his high school career, Junior was that key element. He was the difference maker. I knew I had to stop him if we were going to stop Porter; their game flowed through him. I would place my defensive midfielder in front of him, my stopper behind him and warn my sweeper to keep an eye on him, but besides being a capable scorer himself with a magical right foot that made him dangerous on free kicks and corners, he was an unselfish player who as a deft distributor derived as much satisfaction from an assist as he did from a goal. He didn't seek the spotlight; he sought victories, which was clearly evident during his 85-and-16 reign."

Gaona, his boyhood buddy, described Junior's skills in this matter: "In American football terms, I was the fullback who could bull his way for a first down in a crucial third or fourth down situation, but Junior was a precursor of today's premier quarterbacks who could run or pass for a score from anywhere and at anytime on the field. He was an athletic artist, always moving, giving him an almost invisible presence on the field with the uncanny skill, perhaps instinctual, of being in the right place at the right time. Despite his slight built, he was both tough and fearless and he never missed a game during those four years. With weapons like Frank and the many other fine players who proudly wore the blue and white of La Máquina Azul, he was our Tom Brady who gave us the conviction we could beat anyone. We didn't feel invincible. We had too much respect for our opponents and we knew that every game was yet another test to prove that we were worthy of our distinction."

As sophomore and juniors, Porter, with Junior as the Cowboys' captain, notched consecutive district championships. Their style captured the public's attention as much as their accomplishments. Like Magic Johnson's Los Angeles Lakers, they were run-and-gun, their style more vertical than horizontal. Their concept of an impenetrable defense was another goal. They operated with emotionless precision. The motor never overheated. They performed with the coolness of a predator stalking its victim.

"Hanna had formidable teams with no weak links," remembered Retta who anchored a defense that would bend but not break. "The Eagles' achievements speak for themselves. They came within an inch of qualifying for the state finals when in the semi-final match Kevin Salgado's penalty hit the crossbar in overtime before they lost in a shootout. But Hanna was all intimidation. They would taunt you that your sister was a puta and they would sleep better at night knowing they had bruised your legs and bloodied your noses. They were trying to unnerve you with their 'mamas verga' and 'chinga tu madre' insults because they wanted you to lose your focus, but we would never fall for their barbs. We concentrated on the ball at all times. We knew that the ultimate 'chinga tu madre' came at the end of the game when the scoreboard read: Porter 1, Hanna 0."

"We advanced to the regionals our sophomore and junior seasons," said Lara recalling the good old days. "But different from now when Brownsville hosts regional tourneys, we would pile into an old yellow school bus, huff and puff our way to San Antonio and encounter their two best teams on their field on a Friday night and a Saturday afternoon. In those days Churchill, MacArthur and Alamo Heights were their stellar squads. They were tough teams comprised of big, fast, strong, rich white boys who had been playing soccer since they were five and many were members of select teams. We might eke out the Friday game, but we didn't have the little extra to squeeze out a Saturday result. The center ref annulled one of Frank's goals with a non-existent off-side call that cost us a trip to state, but that's a whole other story about questionable calls that don't go your way."

As seniors, Junior led a juggernaut. Porter steamrolled through district and the playoffs until the Cowboys met Churchill on a hot Saturday afternoon in the Alamo City. Churchill scored early and dominated the first half, but Junior placed a 25-yard free kick into the corner of the goal where the spiders spin their webs and Porter managed to reach half-time even. Only Lara's acrobatics had repelled Churchill's onslaught. The second half commenced and once again Churchill tallied early, but the heat began to take a toll on the home team. The Valley boys, at home in the suffocating humidity, turned the tide as they controlled the tempo against their heavy-legged foes. With five minutes left in regulation time, there was a scramble in front of the Churchill goal. A dozen legs flailing in every direction, the ball trickled into the back of the net to send the contest into overtime. In the second overtime, Perez was knocked down in the area and the ref awarded Porter a penalty.

"I was going to take the penalty, but the ref ruled that I was injured and I had to leave the field," recounted Perez. "The responsibility fell on Junior. Who wouldn't you want to take the penalty at this crucial juncture? He had connected over a wall from 25 yards. Here it would only be him and the goalie from 12 yards. Rather than aiming for inside one of the posts, Junior thought that the goalie would guess either right or left and would dive in one of those directions because he had already been victimized by Junior's marksmanship. Anticipating the goalie's strategy, Junior fired a shot straight down the gut. The goalie didn't move and easily snared the ball. Churchill prevailed in the shootout and a week later they garnered the state championship.

"As I come to grips with Junior's passing, I can visualize him placing the ball on the ground and preparing for the shot," continued Perez. "In the years that followed, we would have barbecues and feast on fajitas and guacamole. We would drink late into the night and jibe each other as friends do, but we would never mention the penalty. We loved Junior too much and we knew that the miss haunted him. Anyone who knows soccer and has had the honor and pleasure to play at our level recognizes the crushing magnitude of a missed penalty with the game on the line. Soccer was our religion and we worship those memories. We share a sense of satisfaction that we paved the way to Brownsville's many state champions. There is no doubt that Junior was one of the storied pioneers. It's hard to believe that he's gone, when he was giving so much back to the community from his own experiences."

Failure, for the undaunted, is a steppingstone to success. Gaona explained Junior taking his game to the next level: "Everybody from the time we played together at Hesston College remembers him the same way we all do. Just a good, all-around kid and a fantastic futbolista. More than ever I am so glad I was able to recruit him to go there and play. It was our time on the pitch and we had a standout season. We only lost to the eventual NJCAA national champion, Yavapai College. He was the quarterback, just like at Porter, in terms of ball distribution, attacking, etc. He was the team captain and made a huge impact. We went undefeated at home that year and made it deep into the playoffs. We had Yavapai on the ropes in the first half in terms of ball possession and scoring opportunities. But something happened in the second half and once they scored we panicked!"

Junior returned home and completed his college education at UTB. No longer the student but the mentor, he embarked on his teaching and coaching career. In a moving tribute, one of his admirers posted, "Junior was an awesome teacher. He was always willing to help our students. He listened to them. He gave them guidance. He worked with ESL students at Coakley Middle School in Harlingen. He was an innovator and exhorted the importance of bilingualism. He was very much a promoter of mastering two languages. And if that wasn't all, he was an excellent coach. When athletes play for you, you know that you bring a special quality to the table."

In a sorrowful anecdote to Junior's passing, his mother, who nurtured him at every turn, died a few day's prior to his death. She had long battled diabetes, but friends and family lament that the unremitting anguish over her beloved son's deteriorating condition was too much for her to bear and hastened her demise.

With deaths eclipsing 140,000 and cases significantly beyond three million, Trump claims ad nauseum that we are winning the war, but with the passing of Junior, we have lost another battle. For Trump, it's a number. For us, it's a tragedy. Junior was hitting his stride. The athletic star had evolved into his community's star. His triumphs as an individual transformed not only Brownsville but the Valley into a region renown for its soccer prowess. He was in the vanguard of this movement, a man measured by his deeds.

He may not have appreciated his stature. He was not a self-centered, egotistical person, but he was a role model. Rest in peace, Junior.