Border Clash : American Football Team Gets Its Comeuppance in Friendship Bowl Against Mexican Hosts

MEXICALI, Mexico —  A 5-9, 34-year-old, semi-retired, semi-pro football player, Bob Faeber defies the gods of the gridiron only once a year, suiting up as a representative of his country and the High Desert Football League in the annual Bola Amistad, the “friendship bowl” pitting American all-stars against a team of Mexicans.

Defensive coordinator for this year’s team, Faeber expected to play a lot and get bruised, belted and occasionally trampled. But he reasoned all his contusions would occur on the field as he attempted to cover and tackle the young Mexicans from the Centro de Estudio Technicales y Superior, the local university.

Faeber never thought he’d wind up in a postgame rodeo on the back of a 700-pound bull. Actually, he never thought he’d wind up under the bull. But Faeber, who has had to throw a lot of bull in his career selling cars, managed to get thrown by a bull, an ornery beast that stepped not too gingerly on Faeber’s chest and hand before snorting away.

That put an immediate end to Faeber’s stay in Mexico. Forgoing the traditional party later that night, he got into his van and began a five-hour, one-handed drive home to Calabasas. On his cellular telephone, he called his wife and told her about his injury. She assumed he had been in a fight. Faeber did not want to tell her about his adventure on the bull. Not on the phone, anyway. Those things are best explained in person.

Although his American teammates had the good sense to keep off the bulls, their visit, too, was marked by gross miscalculation and embarrassing athletic ability. Expecting only token resistence from undersized, inexperienced Mexicans with reportedly little knowledge of football, the all-stars were gored, 26-0.

“I can’t say I’m shocked, but I am surprised about our showing,” said Michael McShane, a defensive back from Granada Hills. “This game is just for fun, but, damn, losing like this is still hard to take. I guess we messed up. We got sleep last night. We should have come down the night before and partied like we usually do.”

Which was exactly what Jim Lott did not want. Lott is the 82-year-old, hard-nosed commissioner of the league, which he founded more than 50 years ago in a Reseda poolroom. Since 1954, Lott has been taking his teams to Mexico for the friendship bowl, and this year especially he was going to make sure that the players he selected were not the kind who put partying and chasing women ahead of diplomacy.

After years of bad playing conditions--dirt fields, no markings, no referees--and no publicity, Lott knew he was going to get first-class treatment and plenty of attention for the game last weekend because NBC was sending a producer and camera crew to Mexicali to shoot a segment on Lott for “SportsWorld,” which is scheduled to air next Sunday on Channel 4.

Tipped off by Lott that network television was going to make everybody famous, the local tourism commission went out of its way to promote the virtues of Mexicali, a border city of 1.5 million. Officials put on their version of a spectacle, complete with a banner welcoming NBC, colorful flamenco dancers, long-winded speeches by local dignitaries and a halftime show longer than anything ever staged at the Super Bowl.

Three hours before the game, when Lott assembled his 36 players at the DeAnza Hotel in nearby Calexico, he warned them to behave themselves, ordering them not to take beer on the university campus. “So don’t say, ‘I didn’t know,’ ” Lott told them. “You’re representing your country. Afterwards there’s a party and you can do anything you want--act like American boys again.” Some players snickered.

Known for his iron-fisted rule, Lott quickly straightened them out. “Only one guy’s talking and that’s me,” he snapped. One player continued to chatter. Lott singled him out. “If you’ve got something more important to say, come up here and say it,” Lott growled at him. The player lowered his head, others murmured. “Let’s knock it off, will you,” Lott groused.

After Lott’s speech--”Jim tells us about the same thing every year,” Faeber said--a caravan of Americans drove across the border and rendezvoused in the parking lot at the university, three miles from the heart of Mexicali. Faeber assigned the jerseys, giving them out from the back of his van like a hustler selling hot car stereos. He kept careful records--in a league that always scraps to survive, jerseys are a valuable item, and they would have to be returned.

It was only when the players got their numbers that they began to take on an identity. Most had not played together or even known one another, a situation that can create chaos in a supposedly complex game like football.

But in more than 40 friendship games, Americans had won about half, simplifying their offense and defense, capitalizing on their size advantage and lifelong exposure to the intricacies of football through hours of watching “Monday Night Football.”

“We just use the basics on offense,” said quarterback Ron Ellis, a stunt man from Canoga Park who first played in Mexico 15 years ago. “Most everybody here has played a few years, and if you know something about the game, you can get pretty well organized. For instance, our formations will be pro right and pro left, I right and I left, and I’ll call plays like ’24 dive,’ which everybody knows is the two back through the four hole.”

Forget about the timing that comes from hours of practice. The offensive linemen, including Ray Powell, 32, a 6-5, 270-pounder from Simi Valley who has been “slowed down a little” by six knee operations, would disobey football’s fundamental commandments by merging as a unit on the parking lot and refining their cohesiveness during the game.

“We’re not real sophisticated but we’ll get done what we need to,” Powell predicted. “Ninety percent of the time we’ll use straight-ahead blocking. On pass plays it’s strictly area blocking.”

But Powell was not about to let minor details like playing football obscure the real purpose for the trip. “We come down here to have a good time,” he said, “and the Mexicans make sure we do. In the game, you hit people and get going, but after, you’re the best of friends. We all look forward to the party. Plenty of food. Plenty of booze.”

While the Americans were having pregame visions of genuine corn tortillas, refried beans and Tecate beer, the Mexican players were practicing on the field, earnest in their pursuit of good publicity, cognizant of the unusual media blitz, eager to show Americans the quality of their football. Despite their old uniforms and equipment, some of which had been donated by Lott over the years, the Mexicans looked sharp in their drills, a well-oiled team, disciplined and conditioned.

It was Lott who introduced football to Mexicali in the ‘50s, supplying gear to semi-pro and youth teams. But Mexican high schools are still too poor to afford the sport, so it is available only to university students. In Mexicali, equipment is so scarce that the varsity and freshman teams have to share uniforms in games against American high school teams from nearby California cities like Brawley and El Centro.

“They’re not big,” Ellis said, “but they come at you from the first play of the game and don’t stop regardless of the score.”

In other years, this may have been translated as: Those tough little guys never give up no matter how badly we beat them. But Ellis learned last weekend that the Mexicans could be relentless in victory, too. From the first two series of the game, it was apparent that the Americans were outhit, outsmarted and out of it.

After Ellis completed a pass to a Mexican player, the Mexicali offense did its impression of the Denver Broncos, scoring quickly, a scatback slithering 32 yards for a touchdown. When the defense came off the field, an angry McShane raged, “That’s the last time I’m going to be embarrassed.” After the the score became 20-0 late in the first half, McShane was saying, “It looks like we’re not even showing up.”

Despite their predicament, nobody on the American team seemed overly concerned. “We should start dominating,” Powell said. “Right now we’re making too many mental errors.” Defensive back Brian Spear remained optimistic. “No big deal,” he said. And McShane was forecasting a comeback: “We’ll win by one.”

The Americans had a few things to be grateful for during this trip to Mexico. One year, Lott’s team had to play on a riverbed, the field drawn into the sand. This year, the field had grass, even though it was a dull brown color. There were even lines on the field, most of them in the right places. And instead of having one or no officials, there were four, including a referee who used a cane. But even pregame hype heralding the presence of NBC failed to lure many Mexicans to the game--only about 100 showed up, each paying 2,500 pesos, or $1.

The Mexican team was doing a lot of kicking off, giving the public-address announcer an opportunity to hum what sounded like a salsa version of the theme from “Dragnet.” None of the Americans had expected their opponents to have so much firepower and finesse. Maybe the Mexicans had watched a lot of “Monday Night Football.” Such was their knowledge, insight and understanding that they were calling their receivers the Three Amigos. Football, the international game.

“In 20 years, Mexico will be playing pro football,” Pepe Limon, Mexicali’s director of tourism, told NBC’s Greg Lewis during a halftime interview.

The Mexicans also had a quarterback who looked like he had been taking lessons from John Elway. Miguel Angel Posada, 23, is tall (6 feet, 4 inches), had a delicate passing touch and an ability to avoid the rush. Late in the third quarter, he crouched under center, barked, “ Bajo, listos, rojo , go!” and floated a touchdown pass to one of the Amigos. Mexico 26, America 0.

Lott, wearing a denim cowboy hat and boots, watched in disbelief on the sideline. “I thought we’d beat these guys easy,” he said, laughing. “I really did.”

In the fourth quarter, the all-stars were still trying to iron out the kinks. Fumbles and interceptions continued to plague them. Offense and defense were being run by committee. Players were still calling one another by jersey number. They wasted a timeout to count players on the field, only to come up with 11. When Darrin McNally, a defensive lineman from Canoga Park, yelled from the field, “ Agua ? Do we have any water?” nobody responded, so he said, “never mind” and trudged back to the huddle.

Despite a fourth-quarter goal-line stand by the defense, the Americans had little to cheer about, their minds no doubt processing the fact that their failures would be receiving national television exposure. Getting the most heat was Ellis. At 48, Ellis is perhaps the world’s oldest tackle football quarterback. And while his body seemed to be in remarkable shape, his passing arm was acting its age.

“You’re throwing ducks, Ellis!” shouted linebacker Craig Pylant of Northridge, who was watching the quarterback gamely but vainly try to rally the all-stars. At least Pylant had learned Ellis’ name.

After the game, the Americans lingered on the field, wondering what went wrong, and Lott had to take charge. “Go take your showers,” he ordered the stragglers, who were pleased to discover that hot water awaited them in the locker room.

By the time the players from both teams had polished off a down-home Mexican meal in the school cafeteria, international brotherhood was swinging into high gear. The teams walked together to the rodeo arena on campus, where bottles of Tecate were iced and free. Urged on by the PA announcer--”Don’t be afraid . . . come on down”--a few Mexican players rode the bulls, showing off their courage. The Americans squirmed in the wooden bleachers.

Faeber stood by the rail, studying the bulls. Lott came over. “I rode a bull in ‘38,” Lott said, trying to reassure Faeber that survival may be possible. Faeber continued studying, like a coach on the dugout steps. “I’ll pay your hospital bills,” Lott said, holding back a grin. Faeber watched a Mexican take a bull to its knees, then made his decision, jumped the rail and climbed into a holding pen, ready to uphold the honor and glory of his country.

The PA announcer went wild. “In a few seconds,” he told the crowd, “we’ll see our friend Bob bite the dust.”

Which is exactly what happened. But at least NBC did not record Faeber’s fall from grace--luckily, the camera crew had left a few minutes before.