|If you doubt the power of the Cup to create stories all its own, allow me to tell you the story of a certain insane Mexican.
It was one day, as a man with a grand sombrero of melted cheese trudged through the searing North American wilderness, that a mirage appeared before his eyes. None alive now know if it was merely the heat of the midday desert sun, or the dwindling bottles of tequila hooked to his belt. But as the man was urged on by a buffering vision of a German in a winter hat, he would soon find himself at the foot of a grand stadium.
With his stomach nearly empty and his life fading, he came to in a locker room lined end to end with culinary delights. A sample here of fast food, a sip of perfect coffee, an exquisite braise of pork ribs, and, as luck would have it -- some good old-fashioned 'go 'za. Though the players assembled were clueless as to why a seemingly random immigrant had found their way into the team lunch, it so happened that they were currently in the market for an eleventh player.
They were not prepared for this man to lead them nearly to great victory, nor for him to outscore everyone else. Or for the fans to constantly demand back his food-tipped hat, so they could celebrate to the ciocarlian fanfares that accompanied his goals. Nor did they expect this man to lead them through their highs and lows, to break the most eldritch of curses, or stay as long as he did.
A moment of silence, Cup fans, for Nachos, one of the old greats. Though mysterious circumstances involving Mexican weed took him away from us all too soon, may his memory serve as a reminder that in the Cup, players need not to be born great, if they can be made great.