BIDEN LOSE

 I took a seat across the booth from Max Maxwell, the dean of the RGV sportswriters, at The Toddle Inn. There was only one couple at a table in a corner at the other side of Brownsville's most popular restaurant for breakfast.

"You look dazed, Max?"

The debate.

"You mean the debacle."

It was awful. I've never witnessed anything so disgusting and depressing in my decades of following politics.

"What did you expect? You put a man in a cage with a rabid lion and a bloody mess is inevitable. Trump loves big crowds and he knew that 100 million Americans would be watching and the huge audience rattling the bars turned him ravenous. Biden tried to comport himself like a ringmaster, but he's lucky he escaped with his life. In fact, if he had been a bullfighter, he would have received two ears and tail for the way he exposed Trump as a wild beast."

When does this madness end? He calls upon the racists to man the polls roaring that he can only lose this election if it's rigged. He calls our soldiers "suckers" and "losers" although if the truth be known we're the "suckers" and "losers" since we're the ones paying our income taxes and he is hardly paying a dime. His father must have been a wacko and his mother must have been crazy because he unleashed a performance that was nothing less than insane. It doesn't take too much intelligence to deduce that he's the reason we've lost more than 200,000 Americans to COVID with another 7 million diagnosed with the virus. He has left our economy in a shambles when he failed to meet the pandemic's challenge and he pours gas on the flames of civil unrest because he is counting on chaos to assure him a second term.

"The man defies gravity. Instead of crashing back to earth, he ascends higher and higher. We keep waiting for him to fly to close to the sun, but it's obvious that his wings weren't attached to his body with wax."

There's no doubt that Trump made a fool out of himself, but did Biden have game?

"You should know this phenomenon better than anyone else since you're the sports guru. Most fans unfamiliar with soccer don't appreciate the significance of a tie. A tie can be both a win and a loss at the same time. If the polls are correct, and that's a big if, Biden is in first and Trump is in second with the season in its closing stages. Based on their places in the standings, Biden doesn't want to lose his advantage while Trump has to close the distance. There seems to be a consensus that Biden triumphed because he wasn't making unforced errors, but for the sake of argument, let's say it was a draw. A draw is really a win for Biden because he doesn't lose any ground and a loss for Trump because he doesn't close the gap."

I always said you were a sportswriter instead of a beat reporter at heart, but you chose the prose of objectivity over the poetry of emotion. There are experts who contend that Biden should skip the next two debates. What would be your advice?

"If Biden succumbed to that option, then you could argue that Trump won the first debate because he bullied Biden into throwing in the towel. Americans hate cowards as much as they hate bullies. Biden weathered the storm. Now he can navigate with more confidence because there is nothing new Trump can rain upon him."

But can we endure another circus?

"Sure. I'm looking forward to the next confrontation. Biden is a veteran at the political game, but he has to be more measured. He can't be drawn into Trump's antics and engage in insults. Trump isn't fooling anyone anymore. Biden needs to ignore Trump. That will drive Trump battier and battier. Let Trump spew his nonsense, but don't respond to his idiocies. Look directly into the camera and address the issue at hand in a calm and collected voice. If Trump truly says something outrageous that requires a response to assert his machismo, say "that simply is not true" and return to the subject. And when Trump is out-of-control, Biden needs to alternate between his winning smile and chuckling as he gazes upon the freak show with an amused countenance."

We've got to win this goddamn race.

"We're committed to victory. We will not be defeated without a fight that is worth sacrificing one's life in this noble crusade. This is WWIII. The repercussions for our country if we fall short in our sacred endeavor could be as devastating for the nation as losing a world war. We are battling for the soul of our people."

I'm still shaking from last night.

"Keep a stiff upper lip, compadre. There's reason to be optimistic. At a minimum, Biden didn't lose ground and Trump didn't gain ground. By the way, who do the Cowboys play this week?"

The Browns. The Cowboys are favored by 4.5 and the over/under is 55.5. Take the points and bet heavy on the over.

"There you go, big guy. Your feet are still on the ground. I'll take your advice. Seattle covered both last week as you predicted. And being the gambler that you are, put a $1000 on Biden. That's my brain talking. Not my heart."

DEBATE

There hasn't been a great trilogy since Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier met in the middle of the ring, the first unforgettable when Frazier sealing the victory in the 15th round knocking "The Greatest" to the canvas with a classic left hook and Ali, after winning the second in a slugfest, traded punches with his arch-enemy for 14 rounds until Frazier couldn't rise from his stool in the 15th in the Thrilla in Manila.

Will Donald Trump and Joe Biden treat us to three fights that will go down in history as the bloodiest confrontation in a civilized setting? Tonight the two will meet for the first time. There are exactly five weeks until the elections with Biden holding slim leads on most cards in the battle ground states.

I see Biden in the role of Ali, but I envision Trump as more of a George Foreman throwing haymaker after haymaker with the hopes of landing a big punch or two. If Biden is going to prevail, he has to combine Ali's quick jabs with rope-a-dope tactics when he allows Trump to run at the mouth until the latter loses his breath and stands before the American people like a punch-drunk fool.

Trump's aggressive strategy--hitting below the belt combined with kidney shots and head butts--is not going to fool anyone. He will keep moving forward and will only be stopped when he discovers that he is whiffing with his rights and lefts while Biden's responses are hitting their marks and the perverted president finds himself dealing with cuts over both eyes, a broken nose and a swollen mouth with blood spurting from everywhere as he once told Fox's Megan Kelly in his debates against Hillary Clinton.

The odds makers are split on the outcome because they have doubts about Biden even though he has been featured in many main events throughout his career and has always emerged victoriously. In his last headliner he faced Paul Ryan. Barack Obama, seeking reelection, was lackluster and listless in his first meeting with Mitt Romney and the pundits agreed that the challenger had gained a unanimous decision.

Seeking to reverse the momentum, the veteran Biden controlled the pace against the rookie Paul Ryan in the sole vice-presidential encounter and the same pundits called Biden the easy victor. Inspired by his stablemate's performance, Obama rediscovered his mojo and controlled the last two matches against Romney to pave the way to defending his crown in the November elections.

Trump has been blustering in the pre-showdown hype and has successfully raised enough questions about Biden with his intimidating rhetoric that there are those who wonder whether or not Biden can talk the talk. He has dismissed many doubters with his televised interviews; and his acceptance speech at the Democratic Convention was a knockout, but there are those who dispute Biden's abilities to be quick on his feet without a teleprompter.

The key for Biden is to pivot, attack methodically and like a martial artist use Trump's force against him. When he questions Biden about his son's dealings in Ukraine, he answers that various investigations determined that his son acted according to the law. He then reverses the rhetoric by speaking at length that Trump was only the third president in American history impeached for being in cahoots with Putin and the Russians against the Ukrainians.

When Trump touts that he is an economic genius and his foe will destroy the American dream, Biden can immediately gain the upper hand in this mano-a-mano by pounding home that the American dream has become the American nightmare under Trump and that during the Obama/Biden eight years the economy emerged from the direst financial disaster since the Great Depression with a strong, growing economy that continued until Trump destroyed it.

No matter the tactic, Biden responds with a short jab and then turns the subject to Trump's incompetence dealing with COVID-19. Like Ali throwing three or four fast jabs, Biden repeats "more than 200,000 deaths and seven million confirmed cases" several times. Biden must establish the distance in the ring and maintain the advantage by constantly pivoting. 

Trump brags about building the mightiest military in the history of mankind and Biden blasts the president for calling soldiers "losers" and "suckers" as well as ridiculing deceased Senator John McCain for not being a hero because he was captured in the Vietnam War. There isn't one thing that Trump can say that Biden can't triple-down, let alone double-down.

"Unlike Trump who doesn't pay his taxes but can cut a $150,000 check for Stormy Daniels to keep her trap shut about their rendezvous, I paid $75,000 last year." "Unlike Trump who refers to Mexican-Americans as drug dealers and rapists, I honor Cesar Chavez and Dolores Huerta for their unique contributions in fighting for social justice." "Unlike Trump who bellows he can grab any woman he wants by her private parts, I believe a woman has the right to make her own decisions regarding her body." 

Trump has dug himself such a deep hole that all Biden has to do is shovel dirt on the democratically elected dictator.

If Biden pivots and counters, lets Trump swing wildly and then retaliates with a barrage of straights to the chin, Trump will be stumbling around in circles because he ain't going anywhere for 90 minutes. He has never been under the bright lights as an incumbent defending his many failures when someone can pound his fleshy face into a ghastly and gruesome mess. 

Unlike a press conference when he can disappear behind the nearest door, he can't hide in this showdown. He won't be able walk away like Roberto Duran when he quit against "Sugar" Ray Leonard and say, "No más!" If Biden sticks to this pivot-and-counter plan, Trump will hear the American people shouting from the rafters on November 3, "Trump! No más!" 

I'M NOT ALL THERE

 "It seems like you're not all there," said my step-daughter Karina. I had picked her at the auto agency where she had left her car for its oil change. When we arrived at the house, I asked her about her car when I remembered I had collected it outside the repair shop.

"I already told you," Claudia tells me time and time again.

Is my mind fraying at the edges? Am I taking too much Xanax and numbing my brain? My body aches. I fight shortness of breath. If I'm breaking down physically, should I assume that I'm breaking down mentally?

Or do I have too much bullshit in my head? 

Listening to Trump and living in fear of COVID are enough for one platter, but I'm constantly in search of my next creative expression and there is the daily work of maintaining the blog. I have people in my life who require energy. Then there are the physical workouts and the intellectual pursuits. 

It's too much.

As they say: Youth is wasted on the young. I feel like I'm just starting, but I'll never get out of the blocks. Like a baby in the womb, I'm returning to the womb. The space is shrinking. There are 36 days until the national, state and local elections. They are inspiring me to write The Coronavirus Chronicles memoir, but I'm tired of the daily grind. Believing that I may have something unique inspires me to keep churning out the copy.

I need one milligram of Xanax right now. I'm edgy. When my nerves begin to torment me, I sense the pressure in my stomach and it radiates to my chest and to my head. I may have drunk more wine that I should have last night watching the evening game. Alcohol doesn't come without a price and it demands immediate payment the following morning.

I have been writing all day. I started at seven in the morning. There were a few breaks for lunch and a chore, but it's after five and I'm still typing. I hadn't planned this piece except I had an hour to kill before I had to embark on another family errand and Karina's remark struck a chord. The creative inspiration rises from a thousand sources. I'm fortunate; I must have several muses responsible for me to keep pumping out the prose.

Though I appear to be in shape, I weighed 150 pounds when I was 30 and as I near 70 I tip the scales at 210. Don't think I'm not laboring on the tennis courts. I'm trying to master a game in which I exert limited movement. In order to achieve that goal, I have to improve my serve and my backhand. There remains the thrill of cleanly stroking the ball, but that ain't gonna happen if I have to chase balls whacked down the line. In fact, I'm no different than a goalie who concedes the penalty if it's struck in either corner of the net.

My hearing is deteriorating. I notice it most when I reprimand someone for not speaking loud enough or mumbling. My eye sight is even more atrocious. It grows cloudier by the day. These one-dollar glasses with the magnified lenses are proving that I'm getting the product for which I'm paying. I live with this reality without seeking medical help. If I suddenly lose my sense of taste and smell, I'll immediately seek out Dr. Polyphemous Pangloss' help and take a COVID test. 

"It seems like you're not all there" echoes in my mind. As I have explained, I am losing it, but it's in small pieces, not chunks. Dropped for the automatic eight-count with cancer or a stroke or a heart attack and then I'll evaluate the quality of my life and consider serious options. If I ain't got game, if I've lost my mojo, it may be time to throw the towel into the ring.

In the meantime, I have more than enough Xanax to sustain me through the presidential election as well as the local contests. Afterwards, I'll need at least another three months to finish The Coronavirus Chronicles. It could be my greatest work ever, so I don't want to fail to give that endeavor 110%.

I like to think that I could have been champ, but that delusion has long since vanished. There isn't even one big fight left in me. I spar for a few minutes and I'm winded. I can't throw a dozen punches without my knuckles aching for a week, but this is the truth of the matter. I am not all there because I am all here. I tune out most everyone these days. I exist within my own shell. I inhabit my own world. I could be pretentious and brag that I was a cockroach, but I am not the size of an ant. I'm waiting to be crushed when I least expect it. 

I learned a long time ago that I was meaningless. At best I have precipitated a chuckle or two and stuck around long enough to push my sons out of the next when it was time to fly and earn their own worms. But I don't take myself seriously. We're all nobodies. We're coagulated dust. But that realization hasn't diminished my love for the beauty of existence.

I'm not all there. But there is this one temporary consolation: I'm still here.

CARP DIEM

 I dreamt last night that I was at a Mexican resort--Acapulco or Cancún--with my two oldest sons Carlos and Joaquin. I remember the water and the palms and walking to our rooms. We left our suitcases and departed for different destinations. I was with a group of men and women when I started wondering about my sons. I went back to the room and the suitcases were gone. I pulled out my cell, but I couldn't get clear reception. It was similar in its frustration to when someone is chasing you in a nightmare and you can't run. I was beginning to wake up when the last fading image was a policeman telling me that there were two fresh bodies at the morgue. Our dreams prepare us as much as possible for when the shit really hits the wall.

Claudia haunts my dreams on a regular basis. A week doesn't pass they she doesn't invade my sub-conscious. And she generally appears in the company of another man. Talk about twisting the knife until it's buried to the hilt. We didn't live together for seven years. Those soporific episodes were painful. Sometimes I would know her companion and sometimes I wouldn't, but it was her complete disregard for me that drove me to the edge. I would awake from those scenes and simmer about her possible reality. Ironically, she still persists in my dreams in similar circumstances and I'm filled with the same anger, but I awake and she is next to me. I have never had this experience with anyone else. No person affected me emotionally as much as she did and I assume these are the collateral effects of an intense relationship.

Dreams are a kaleidoscope of one's reality although they choose to reveal themselves in an amorphous pattern that oftentimes defies logic. In order to comprehend them, it's almost as impossible as picking through digested food and determining the different dishes of your previous meal. Occasionally, I am successful at deducing the source that precipitated the nightmare. In the nightmare involving my two sons, I read yesterday that the medical authorities are predicting that by the end of the years 3000 Americans will die each day from COVID-19. With more than 202,000 dead, we are averaging 1000 a day. The nightmare dissipates once I turn on the lights or the first rays of the sun start poking through the windows. After dealing with Claudia's initial shock, the impact diminishes although in her case there is a lingering haze that hovers in the thin air.

But the nightmares and Claudia eventually fade because they are only the fictitious figments of my creative mind. COVID doesn't because COVID is real. It peaked about six weeks ago in Brownsville. I haven't heard of a death or a sickness that affects me personally with the exception of Estanislao Contreras informing me that his cousin in Monterrey--a four-hour drive from Brownsville-had passed. If that is the extent of the illness' gravity, I can live with its preying presence because the odds are 99 to 1 that it's not going to affect me. But I know it can strike at any moment. Cases are climbing in 21 states, including Texas. I have cautiously expanded by social contacts, which isn't a wise course of action. There is the added complication of the multiplying factor as Claudia and Michael expand their contacts and my stepchildren Karina and Darío have been visiting us more frequently from San Antonio.

It is not uncommon for me to have headaches, coughs and sore throats. Maybe because of the 3000 death scare, I was feeling particularly vulnerable, but I rose at three--Michael was still on his phone with his first distant-learning class scheduled at nine--and took a swing of cough syrup, washed back two Excedrin with a glass of orange juice and sucked on a cough drop. Except for the lassitude that I feel in the morning, which precludes any exercising since I feel stronger and more energetic in the afternoon, I am predicting that I am not going to die today. And we have a special treat awaiting us denizens of South Texas. The first substantial norther of the year rolls through in the early afternoon and temperatures will drop from the highs and lows of 90 and 75 to 80 and 60. It won't be long before the snowbirds arrive since our winters are eternal springs. It will be nice walking in the crisp, dry air again. I can say I suffered this summer as I hibernated in air-conditioning. My days of hot weather have permanently ended although the damage the sun inflicted on my skin is another worry that I have added to my long list of preoccupations. 

But I am off to a good start this Monday morning. I am finishing this first piece and it's not even nine. I'm listening to Debussy and he has filled my mind with Impressionistic scenes from Paris and the French countryside. I'm confident it will be a productive writing day, but before I return to the computer, I'm preparing coffee to accompany my bacon-and-egg breakfast. I'll return to the writing and accompanying music with occasional jaunts outside to greet the norther's arrival. I'm feeling my strength, so I'll hit the weights while I listen to the French language tapes. In the late afternoon, after I have finished another session of writing, I'll play the guitar, read and take a nap. There will be lunch and dinner some time during the day, but I'm not on a strict schedule. There is an excellent Monday night football game that I'll watch with Michael. I'll test Claudia's commitment to our relationship by requesting that she bring me a glass of wine with a plate of salami, cheese and crackers. I don't want to spoil her.

I am into the fourth month of my fourth year of retirement. My economic situation is solid and Coronavirus hasn't ambushed me. Many retirees die after a year or two of leaving work because the boredom and lack of purpose kill them, but I'm booked solid. There are two contests that are personal challenges: How long will I live and how many years will I survive after retirement? In the latter case I hope to collect my money's worth. This is the life I live as a gentleman of leisure. It isn't glamorous--there are still moments and there are always fantasies--but I'm content. Although I'm a Nervous Nellie with all these viruses intent on killing me--and let's not forget cancer, strokes and heart attacks--there are moments when I've never known a greater tranquility. I have no complaints. I have had a good life.    

THE YEAR I BECAME A WRITER

 Why am I such a great writer? (Of course, I'm kidding. I'm sounding like El Brownsville Void's Publisher Booby Witless-Cervezas. The blogger never stops praising himself for his many accomplishments, which, however, don't include writing. He treats the English language like a drunk coming home in the wee hours of the morning and beating the shit out of his wife because the alcohol has filled his besotted mind with thoughts of his own failures. We can hear El Rrun Rrun's Publisher Juan Montoya telling a group of fellow tipplers at The Palm Lounge, "Billy Shakespeare was a friend of mine and Bobby Witless-Cervezas ain't no Billy Shakespeare." At The McHale Report we have contended that Texas disbarred the bullying blogger because he couldn't submit a coherent brief and the judiciary axed him for his inability to string two sentences together.)

Why am I such a good writer? I believe we can agree on that assumption. I can string two sentences together. Sometimes I can even string two paragraphs together. I have confidence that I can turn a phrase and unveil a metaphor that puts into perspective a reality that hadn't been observed from a unique angle. I could list examples of my talents, but the purpose of this essay is not to embellish my many feats. I'm a solitary soul who needs no praise. In fact, it's just the opposite. I'm the one who is generous with the plaudits: "That was a great fuck, honey!" I am here to answer the question: Why am I such a good writer?

From 1950 to 1955 my mother had five children. My youngest brother was born in 1960 and my youngest sisters were born a few years apart after his birth. My parents for many years didn't allow a television in the house except for the month of December so we could enjoy the Christmas shows. They were readers and they wanted us to read. Besides a pile of historical books at his table side, my father hid behind newspapers.

While my sisters read novels like Little Women, Anne of Green Gables and Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, I wasn't into any children classics like Call of the Wild, Gulliver's Travels and Huckleberry Finn. I read fictionalized books based on the lives of Willie Mays, Duke Snider and any number of sports heroes. Their exploits excited my fantasies. I was embarking on the same path they had taken and one day I would be slamming a homer to win the game or leaping over the wall to snag a game-winning catch. These stories didn't make me a writer, but they fed my imagination. There wasn't a night that before I tucked myself under the covers that I wasn't Sergeant York leading his platoon over the top in some daring deed in which he would lose his life. Dead, I would fall asleep.

I went to parochial schools from first grade through eight grade when working-class kids attended Catholic schools before they became elite institutions. My parents convinced us that the Catholic schools were significantly superior to the public schools. When most of us entered public schools, it seemed we were more advanced. The teachers immediately recognized us because we would rise to our feet whenever we answered a question. They would laugh and say that there was no reason to stand and we could remain in our seats. I can only assume that I read and wrote. When I look back on my high school days, the sole tangible skill that has stayed with me throughout my life was learning to type. I'm employing the skill at this very moment.

I enrolled at Modesto Junior College. We had to take an entrance exam in math and English to measure our level. I flunked my English test and had to take a remedial class for a semester. From kindergarten to graduating from college, I don't remember that we were ever taught writing. In college we would answer questions in our blue books that in some cases would require two or three pages of discussing the works of Robert Frost or John Steinbeck, but the professors were more interested in comprehension than in expression.

I came to Brownsville in 1975 and taught two years at Hanna. I was a worse teacher than either Jessica Gonzalez or Denise Garza are worse candidates for the BISD Board of Trustees. Yeah! I was that bad. During the second semester of my second year Bob Rivard, who went on to a distinguished journalistic career, had landed a fulltime gig on The Brownsville Herald's sports desk after a year of selling vacuum cleaners. When he had settled in to his new job, he called me and said the paper needed a part-time sports writer. I jumped at the opportunity because I couldn't handle my incompetence in the classroom. There was no writing. I learned to lay out a paper, but the editor was a curmudgeon who insisted that I had no calling for the profession. He fired me near the end of the school year. I went to the publisher and pleaded my case that I had found a job that I truly loved. He sent me 30 miles down the road as a sportswriter for The Harlingen Valley Morning Star.

My writing career commenced. Initially, besides helping with the lay out, I posted PSAs. It would take me an hour to write the following passage because I wanted every word just right: "The Harlingen Little League Association is hosting its first meeting. It is set for 7 p.m. this Monday at the Knights of Columbus Hall. Refreshments will be served." At the conclusion of this paragraph I would think I was on the verge of becoming the next Tolstoy. Unlike his predecessor, my sports editor was a laid-back guy and slowly he gave me more writing assignments: covering games and writing features. The culminating moment came when he allowed me to write a column about a college baseball coach recruiting. The crowning jewel of this milestone was my mug shot at the top of the piece.

Back at The Brownsville Herald a coup was taking place. The managing editor and the sports editor were both fired. It was near the end of August. The managing editor called and ask if I wanted to be the new sports editor. I thought I had found the gold at the end of the rainbow. I rank the next year of my life as one of the happiest of my life. I hired "Delta" David Handelman as my assistant and a go-getter high school student for a part-time position. I was in charge. This was the year that I discovered I could write. I covered games, wrote features and posted three columns a week. The columns, since I had been raised on the merciless columnists of the San Francisco Chronicle and the San Francisco Examiner, made me infamous. I called out coaches like they had never been called out in their lives and Brownsville was blessed with more than its share of terrible teams. It make the pickings easy.

More often than not, I would sit in front of my typewriter with all these jangled thoughts and ideas in my head that I was trying my best to put in order. I never lost my appreciation for the audience and I wanted to entertain them to the best of my abilities; I didn't want to expose myself as a bad comic telling stupid jokes. When I wasn't sure if I could reach the bar I had set for myself, I would tell myself that if it did meet my expectations, I could write anything in the future. It was seldom that I didn't achieve my goal because I put my heart and soul into every article, but I was constantly besieged by those same doubts. Week after week I would face that blank sheet of paper and I would inevitably ask myself the same question: Can I do this?

And I did. It was a slow ascent. Step by step I perfected my skills until I had established myself as a voice in Brownsville. I had become a writer. The ascent never ceases. The peak is shrouded in clouds and I have doubts that I will even reach the clouds, but as it has been said many times: It's all in the journey. I have never ceased writing since 1977. I have written for many small newspapers. The periodicals have come and gone like the May flowers wilting in the summer sun. I printed El Rocinante, my own publication, for more than a decade until I switched to blogging in 2000. Twenty years later I'm blogging this remembrance at this very moment. I have written 17 books of poetry, short stories and novels. I am presently composing The Coronavirus Chronicles of which this will be an entry.

The ascent continues. I am writing my best stuff these days. I pray COVID doesn't get me because I feel I still have ten year's worth of good shit in me. There is satisfaction that only art gives you and like making love it never gets old. I am a writer. It is a source of great pride to me and it was that one year from August of 1977 to August of 1978 that changed my life forever. How? you might ask. It gave my existence meaning.

FRANKIE OLIVO

 This isn't The McHale Report endorsing Frankie Olivo for the BISD school board in his race against young businessman Jaime Diez and clerk Denise Garza. This is Dr. G.F. McHale-Scully, pseudoly entitled in order to teach my many followers not to believe everything they read, endorsing Olivo. For the record, he is my nephew. My wife's brother is his father.

Strictly looking at his vitae curriculum, he is easily the most qualified of the three candidates. He attended BISD schools from pre-K to high school graduation. At Hanna High School he was a standout athlete in football and baseball. He graduated from UTB with a degree in political science and is pursuing his Master's in the same discipline at UTRGV. 

He has clerked for State District Judge Elia Cornejo-Lopez for several years and hosts two separate podcasts that have gained him an enthusiastic following--Brownsville Talk and Sports Talk. He can look directly into the camera and speak coherently and articulately. He is 33, the same age as Jesus Christ when Our Savior was crucified for humanity's sins. Olivo is being crucified for his sins, but I'll broach those transgressions after I have touched on his opponents' backgrounds.

Diez, 24 and a St. Joe graduate, has been back on the border for a year after finishing his university studies. His father is a respected immigration lawyer and his grandfather is an esteemed businessman. Diez's problem, however, is that he is green. He is the first sprout breaking the earth after a long winter. He performed poorly during the AOBE forum and skipped the next public debate. This is not his time.

Garza is bereft of a higher education. There is no record of her having even taken remedial classes at TSC. During her appearance at the BEST/AFT forum, she displayed her lack of education that exposed her dearth of communication skills. Embarrassed by her own babble, she had to ask the host to pause the show so she could collect her thoughts. Nobody will mistake her for Lincoln at Gettysburg. 

She once worked for the BISD where her colleagues accused her of spending more time in her boss's office than at her own desk. When he took a job in the San Benito school district, she followed him to his new post and took a position as one of his underlings. She is divorced and doesn't mention on her Facebook page if she is in a relationship or not.

Unlike Diez and Garza, Olivo can't hide his skeletons in the closet. Two years ago he was accused of "stalking and sexual harrassment" of a female county employee whose lubricious details appeared in a blockbuster article in Juan Montoya's El Rrun Rrun. According to the blogger, the two counts were resolved via a pre-trial diversion. 

Olivo knew that he was going to pay a heavy price for this unacceptable behavior, but he apologized for his misdeeds, stated that he had learned a valuable lesson and chose to crusade as a BISD trustee candidate even though he knew that he was going to be in a blinding limelight that would expose him to scurrilous criticism.

"He fucked up," says Maclovio O'Malley, La Voz de los Vatos. "Everybody knows he fucked up big time, but when you get knocked down, you can stay a coward and not rise or you can show your cojones--just like you can break a Ten Commandment and kill during a war, there are times when showing one's cojones displays courage--and move forward. Frankie's not a pusillanimous snake who is going to remain on his belly tearfully repeating, 'I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.' He is a better person for taking his punishment rather than slinking off into the high grass and surviving in the shadows for the rest of his life."

When the talk turns to sex, there isn't anyone who doesn't want to know all the libidinous details. Nothing delighted my BISD colleagues and me more than discovering that two of our peers were having an affair. And the places on campus they would choose to screw!!! I sometimes think our animated gossip reflected our jealousies rather than our disapproval of their illicit couplings. 

Should Olivo's infamous "dick pic" disqualify him as a candidate? Just like a person will never vote for a politico if the latter supports abortion even though he backs him on 99% of the issues, there are those who insist Olivo crossed the line with his actions and would never in a million years consider him. Those are called personal principles and I understand and sympathize with an allegiance to values.

But there are many of us who live in the gray area. We recognize that we commit errors that shouldn't result in eternal damnation. If the culprit expresses sufficient regret and exhibits that he or she is capable of avoiding the same mistake, we believe that a second chance is in order. And compared to our national leaders, Olivo's venial sin hardly compares to the mortal ones committed by those who are the most powerful persons in the nation if not in the world.

Everybody knows that Donald Trump cheated on a pregnant Melania with Stormy Daniels and then paid her $150,000 to keep her mouth shut. According to the latest statistics, there are 26 other women who are charging this pervert who just grabs them by the pussy with sexual misconduct. There are news reports from credible sources that he raped a 13-year-old. And he is president of the United States.

Our next president, if the polls don't fail us a second time, will be Joe Biden. He has had more than his share of accusers, the latest one claiming that he physically fondled her. And what's Brownsville's response? Who could give a shit!!!

Brett Kavanaugh, the latest Supreme Court justice, liked showing everyone his penis when he got drunk in his younger days. Apparently, he tried to stick it in an uncooperating female who later charged him with sexual assault. And his fate? He is one of Trump's puppets who wants to take away a woman's right to choose as well as eliminating Obamacare that will leave 20 million Americans without insurance during these terrible times of COVID-19.

The stories about our Washington D.C. characters who have never led by their actions are endless. "I didn't fuck that bitch!" President Bill Clinton told the nation. "I just shot a wad all over her blouse when she was giving me a blow job. That's not having sex in Arkansas." 

Can we ever forget the shenanigans about the much-loved Kennedy family? A drunk and married Teddy drives off a bridge into the water and leaves his mistress to drown in the car. Brother JFK fucked every chick that walked. 

And FDR died in the arms of his lover while the saintly Eleanor Roosevelt was more than content in her lesbian relationship.

Frankie wasn't using good sense. But he never physically came in contact with his victim. And his actions in no way compare to the outrages of Trump, Biden, Kavanaugh, Clinton, the Kennedys and the Roosevelts. And these fine individuals are only the tip of the iceberg.

I don't condone his actions. I forgive him although who am I to dispense mercy when I have resided in glass houses my entire life. But I am voting for him because his experience combined with his education are significantly superior to the accomplishments of his two foes.

      

IT IS WHAT IT IS...OR IS IT...

You don't miss what you don't have. There are couples who choose to go childless. Their families and friends tell they are missing so much without children. They laugh to themselves when they are lying in bed at night. They don't miss the worry. They don't miss kids getting sick to getting in trouble. They don't miss that call or knock in the middle of the night with the tragic news. They sleep well.

There are couples who want children because their offspring consummate their love. They feel their devotion for each other should have a concrete expression in the form of a baby. They want to become one and an infant eliminates their separate egos. They cannot know fulfillment as a couple if they aren't part of a family of their own.

I had children because I felt the urge. The first time I saw my second wife, I told myself that she was going to be the mother of my children. The first I saw my third wife I experienced the same epiphany. They were both pregnant shortly after our marriages. I do feel a certain envy for childless couples because it's a simpler life. If you have your wealth and your health, you can spend all your time composing the Great American Novel or becoming a famous painter or pursue any type of artistry that your particular muse has selected for you.

I had children because their mothers filled me with the urge. My little one celebrated his 16th birthday yesterday and we had a small gathering that in its warmth and affection was comparable to Trump grading his response to COVID-19 as an A+!!! or a Ten!!! My older boys are 32 and 30. They grew up in a flash. My mother, 90, shakes her head when I tell her, her oldest child, that I will be 70 in a few months. I'm left numb by the passage of time.

My sons have brought me bliss. They also allow me to escape my own ego. I find it satisfying and relieving that I'm thinking about someone other than myself. I have a positive self-image naturally. I don't need anyone to tell me I'm the greatest writer or I'm the greatest lover. I just write and fuck. The mere acts bring gratification. My self-esteem is not based on the opinions of others. I recognize my own desires and chse them. I've known success and failure, but I keep moving forward because life is an endless series of challenges until we run out of breath.

Childless couples are spared suffering. When our children fail or far short of an expectation, we, the parents, suffer more than our children. Nothing breaks my heart more than when Michael's heart is broken. The other night I had to swallow a double dose of Xanax because I had fallen into a deep depression thinking about a disappointment that may befall him in the near future.

I love sports. I was so passionate about my sympathies that my parents thought I had a psychological problem. From the time I started kindergarten until junior high, I would cry inconsolably every time the Dodgers lost. There were games in which I would break out in tears four or five times during the nine innings. Sandy Koufax could be sitting on a 10-0 lead in the ninth with two outs and a pair of singles by Willie Mays and Willie McCovey would have me choking up. To say that these outbursts frustrated by parents would be an understatement.

"Why the hell are you crying?" my dad would yell as he almost lost control of the car and my mother would sternly stare at me. "The goddamn gave is over!" And sure enough, the next batter would ground out and my growing grief would immediately metamorphose into exultation. Nothing compared to the emotion of a Dodger victory. And I experienced the ultimate ecstasy when the Dodgers swept the Yankees in four straight in 1963.

Michael has inherited that same passion for football. He absolutely adores the game. He trembles when he talks about the upcoming season. He has every expectation of starting as a receiver as a sophomore for the varsity team. He believes that he has the talents to play in the NFL one day. He will recover from that disappointment like a child slowly starts putting clues together that there might not be a Santa Claus.

But I'm in the here and now. COVID-19 threatened to eliminate this season, but as a nation we have decided that Coronavirus is no longer the threat it once was--202,000 deaths and 7,000,000 cases as of today--and that we're going to return to normal. His mother and I have bought in on his playing football although we have elected that he stay at home and complete his courses on-line. 

The district has done its best to assure the parents that all the precautions have been taken to significantly reduce infection. Sounds good, but when Notre Dame is cancelling this weekend's game against Wake Forest because of a spike in cases, you can't help but shake your head because the Irish have all the state-of-the-art protocols to deal with the pandemic.

A full-fledged teenager, he often ignores me and grunts answers with a look on his face that communicates that he finds talking to me an unenjoyable experience, but when the conversation turns to football, he becomes animated and describes the patterns that he's going to run and his eyes tell me that he is visibly fantasizing those instances. He says that nothing will compare to stepping onto the field in his blue-and-red uniform with a shiny helmet atop his head and a pair of $200 cleats on his feet that will allow him to perform feats on the field that would fill Hercules with jealousy.

I don't want this excitement taken from him. He starts practice next week, his first scrimmage is in three weeks, his first game in four and his conference in five. You would think he was standing in freezing weather he shivers with such anticipation of this season. I don't want this excitement taken from him. How many times do I have to repeat myself? Coronavirus hangs over us like a dark cloud and at any moment it could rain terror and horror upon us. It's bad enough that the Russians helped elect Trump in 2016 and are doing their best to repeat their dastardly deed in 2020, but as a people we, at Trump's urging, are playing Russian roulette with this pandemic.

There are any number of factors that could deprive him of his fantasy. If his mother or I were to fall victims to the virus, he would have to quarantine for 14 days. He falls victim and he is done for the year. His teammates or the other teams test positive and those games are postponed at best, cancelled at worst. 

I can imagine a dozen other scenarios, but I don't want to pop another Xanax. I'm digesting lunch and a nap beckons me. When I rise, I will prepare green tea and then hit the weights. After the workout and shower, I may take a Xanax. Fuck it! It's a Friday night, but I won't be going out. I drank last night, so I'll leave my last full bottle of wine unopened. 

Maybe I'll watch a movie or read, but in general I plan to vegetate. I don't want to think. I don't want to be depressed. I don't want to imagine a broken heart. I don't want to be suffering thinking about a future when the moment is the classical version of pleasure being the absence of immediate pain. Dammit! I just don't want my baby boy deprived of his happiness.  

MY BABY BOY

 My baby boy. He's so full of dreams and ambitions. I hope his future is as good as my past has been to me. I don't envy the challenges our children and grandchildren (I'm old enough to be his "abuelito", but I was blessed with a fighting spirit) will face. I'm a product of that mythical America (It wasn't great for a lot of people) that is a part of history and will never return. I think the younger generations should keep their faith in hope and I definitely think America can be better than it is today with our strength in diversity, but if we don't correct the present direction that is a result of Trump's arrogant ignorance, our children and grandchildren could be in for a rude awakening. But I digress. Happy birthday my darling son. You have filled me with much joy. You are always in my heart.

DIEGO

 

First of all, Diego, the following rebuttal is your finest display of writing in our humble opinions. We at The McHale Report have found from years of experience that we have produced our best prose in emotionally charged states. In response to negative criticism you received in a previous provocative article, you poured your ire into this commentary and in the process you took a step forward as a better writer. The harder somebody hits you, the harder you have to counter. Through years of trading punches, you become better and better at your craft and you emerge as a champion. That doesn't mean that every day there won't be a challenger who attempts to knock you off your pedestal, but with your improved skills and hardened chin, you more often than knock this pretender back into anonymity.

There isn't a day that our founder Dr. G.F. McHale-Scully isn't utilized as a convenient punching bag. And his wife and children don't escape the cheap shots either. His writing has blessed him with a formidable reputation, but it hasn't come without the loss of several teeth, a broken nose, scar tissue over both eyes and cauliflowered ears. As a result of his undaunting dedication to his art, the BISD tried to fire him once, TEA tried to strip him on his credential twice and in the end, after 39 years of outstanding teaching and coaching through which he had gained the respect of his colleagues and the love of his students and athletes, Superintendent Dr. Esperanza Zendejas issued him an ultimatum: "Either you quit writing your stories or you will face termination." He chose to retire, devote his energies to writing fulltime and narrated, with a few pushes of his own, Zendejas' fall from grace in the BISD.

As this is only the tip of the iceberg of the many attacks and conspiracies launched against him in order to silence him. And what is the end result of this daily mano-a-mano with a faceless public. He is more respected than at any time in his life for his uncompromising commitment to his writing. He turns negatives into positives by sitting at his keyboard and imagining that the words appearing on his screen are the improvisational notes that he is blowing from his saxophone. The crowd can be booing, but as long as he is tooting his horn, he couldn't be happier. And he feels that he is making the best music of his career.

Regardless of the number of years that you have been in the ring, a punch is a punch and it still stings, but you develop a resilience that explodes in lyrical prose and poetry. They may knock you down, but that is their mistake. You are going to rise to your feet and unleash a fury that your cowardly foes have never known in their lives. And when you're pugilistic days are over and your record stands at 103-5-2 with 90 knockouts, you graciously bid adieu and retire to a little Portuguese town with a balcony that overlooks the main square. You scribble down on a piece of paper the thoughts that enter your head and determine if you have written a poem or a story or a novel. Or if you have penned a pile of nonsense and you hit a three-pointer with a swisher into a wastepaper basket 25 years away.

You are a good writer, Diego. You think about each sentence. Unlike Doc Scully who can turn nasty if he's hungover, the wife has been bitching at him and some detractor hiding in the shadows has infuriated him, he can be downright mean. He has been known to exceed the bounds of propriety. It works for him because that is his nature. On the other hand, Diego, you are a gentle soul. You want to record your observations and let them speak for themselves. You have a clear eye, a keen wit and an objective perspective. Since you don't insult people, you are more sensitive to the brickbats that some nobody is hurling from the peanut gallery. Brownsville needs your contributions, but never forget the moment that you raise your head, there is going to be somebody who is going to try to chop it off. Use the meaningless bullshit to energize you. You have talent and your following response illustrates your skills. Un abrazo.

JESSICA

 Is there a community that has been afflicted with more terrible and treacherous politicians? Is it the lack of brain power that has doomed this exiled people teetering on the edge of civilization? The names of these infamous individuals are reportedly etched on the Jefferson Davis Stone: Roman Perez, Robert Uresti, Jessica Puente-Bradshaw, Robert Sanchez and William Garza. There are others, but their names are chipped from the Confederate rock and are too small to read, which might stand as a metaphor as these failures being too insignificant to be remembered.

"These poor, pathetic creatures inevitably crawl out of their holes during the political season only to return to their holes at the end of the political season," said Don Pedro, the venerable voice of The Brownsville Herald who was enjoying a noon bucket of beers at the reopened Palm Lounge with Maclovio O'Malley, La Voz de los Vatos, and "Dapper" David Betancourt, Texas' most respected county treasurer.

"As they say about bad judges, they have no gravitas. They are shallow thinkers. They are hollow people. They have empty minds. The voters see right through them or, more accurately, they don't see them at all. These lost souls are doomed to defeat because in their desperation to be somebodies they only expose themselves to being nobodies."

"Can it get any worse than these fools?" posed O'Malley.

"It only gets worse and worse," huffed Don Pedro. "Let's start with this fellow John Chambers running for sheriff as a Trump Republican. If my math is correct, he has faced a total of 28 felony and misdemeanor counts and is presently spending more time in the courts than on the campaign trail. His detractors call him the lawless lawman. He makes Conrado Cantu seem like a FBI director."

"What about the Flamingo Boys running for the BISD Board of Trustees?" suggested Betancourt.

"Let's begin with the ringleaders," answered Don Pedro. "Erasmo Castro had run for office more than Perez, Uresti, Puente-Bradshaw, Sanchez and Garza combined. In a perfect storm, he won a seat on the BISD board, but he went on such a bender celebrating his miraculous feat that he had to resign after only a year because the D.A. deemed him a drunk.

"Then there is Carlos Elizondo. This is a man without a moral compass. He secretly tapes his enemies in his constant state of paranoia, but it doesn't do him any good. He was fired as Brownsville Fire Chief and could give the Republican sheriff candidate a run for his money when it comes to felony charges. When he ran for reelection to the BISD board, he finished last. But Castro and Elizondo no tienen madres. You can't reason with sinverguenzas. They are not in touch with reality. They never realize that when they are stabbing others in the back, they are stabbing themselves through the heart."

"What is it about the BISD board races that lures the cockroaches out of the dark?" asked O'Malley. "Viro 'El Virus' Cardenas is back after finishing sixth in a five-person mayoral race several years ago. As a Flamingo Boy himself in his pink jumpsuit, he has joined Castro and Elizondo and they are competing as a slate baptized Los Buitres. They're using Coronavirus to pick our bones."

"And what about Denise Garza?" wondered a puzzled Betancourt. "What does she bring to the table?"

"Nada," replied O'Malley. "Es una naca. If she wore a bikini, the authorities would outlaw the bathing suit on public beaches. She is vying against two college-educated males while she is a lowly clerk in benighted San Benito running on the platform that higher education is not important. 

"Is it too much that the community have educated and experienced individuals sitting on the board? Do we want a naca like Garza--who is depending on the blind woman vote yet has the audacity to call BISD educators corrupt--overseeing a $550 million budget and 7,000 employees? She can't even make a grocery list without stressing out. Can it get any worse than Cardenas and Garza?"

"It sure can," nodded Don Pedro. "It sure can."

"How?"

"You've heard of Jessica Gonzalez, haven't you?" continued Don Pedro. "She is the GED valedictorian whose platform according to one of Brownsville's most respected bloggers was 'To n two r for" until she recently upgraded it to 'won n won r tree" to add some pizzazz to her jazz."

"Is she the candidate whose major qualification is that she is a mother?" inquired O'Malley.

"Exactly. Next, we'll have some jerk announcing his candidacy for the BISD because he's a father even though he hasn't paid child support in a decade. Jessica is the epitome of stupidity. She is the countenance of ignorance. Wherever her children have attended school, she has made life hell for teachers and administrators. Like Castro and Elizondo, her specialty is throwing gas on a fire, but there is enough spittle spewing from her claptrap that she could extinguish all the conflagrations in California.

"I don't think she can write her own name. I believe she signs all her papers with an "X" although it's  with a capital letter because she does have her pretensions. She is absolutely the worst of the worse. Can you imagine this ignoramus telling an intellectual like the superintendent the way the district is going to be run? What teacher in his or her right mind would want this flabby chunk of recycled flesh representing the BISD at a state conference? Nincompoops like this half-wit only cement Brownsville's reputation as the Third World Capital of the United States."

Betancourt ordered another bucket. Only a buzz could make any sense out of this nonsense. 

DENISE

 Two homeless fellows were leaning against an abandoned downtown building. They have been living in Brownsville for more than a year. They like the weather and the police don't harass them. They have never bothered to learn each other's names. What for? To make life easier, they call each other Trump and Pence. They are both supporting Frankie "El Aguila"  Olivo for BISD Board Trustee. He is running against businessman Jaime "The Whiz Kid" Diez and bureaucrat Denise "La Gata" Garza.

They are supporting Olivo because he is well-educated and has vast experience in the Cameron County court system. They also appreciate his political and sports knowledge. If Olivo were to drop dead from a bullet intended for Dr. G.F. McHale-Scully, his uncle, Trump and Pence would switch their allegiance to Diez. They call him a "fine young man" and lament that he didn't select another position in which to compete.

Trump: What does "La Gata" bring to the table?

Pence: A female body.

Trump: That's not saying much. I'd take your body over hers.

Pence: She isn't that repulsive.

Trump: You're real, big guy. Everything about "La Gata" is fake. Nobody likes a fake. The president would probably call her a "hoax" among other things, but she is nothing more than a puppet. Somebody told her, maybe Minerva Peña for all I know, that the people of Brownsville are stupid and they will vote for anyone.

Pence: Juan Montoya invited me for a beer at The Library the other night because he is doing an article about Ben Neece and the kindness he shows people like ourselves. I overheard that she was run out of the BISD and had to take a lowly job as a clerk in San Benito because of her lack of education. Apparently, she is saying that it isn't important to have an education to be a BISD trustee, but I suppose she is learning the hard way that it is important to have an education in order to attain a well-paying job. Her critics say she is a hair brain, but at least she has a brain. They say that her comadre Jessica Gonzalez doesn't have a brain. Can you imagine those two sitting on the board together? Between the two of them I don't think their IQs reach three digits.

Trump: If she were a man, who would she be?

Pence: She is the spitting image of Erasmo Castro.

Trump: Do you really think so? She looks more like a Carlos Elizondo wearing a wig to me.

Pence: I've heard Viro Cardenas finds her attractive. Neither of them is married. They could gain distinction as Brownsville's Ugliest Couple.

Trump: Brownsville is a really sad town. It's filled with losers. I guess that's the reason we feel right at home. We may be down, but like our fellow adopted citizens--we ain't out.

AUTUMN MEANS FOOTBALL

 Autumn has only meant one thing for me besides a dip in the temperature--football. We played tackle football on the grassy schoolyards when we were kids and occasionally we would have the excitement of a neighborhood against a neighborhood fracas.

My father taught me to love sports. He went to little St. Francis High School in Riverside, California where he started as a receiver on the football team, a guard on the basketball team and a catcher on the baseball team. In 1943 he entered the Navy upon graduation and saw extensive action in the Pacific.

I was born in 1950 and my first sounds were my dad listening to a game on the radio. He taught me the fundamentals in the three major sports, but we were Huckleberry Finns and Tom Sawyers in my youth and at seven and eight years old we were wandering the streets and exploring the forests around the Sacramento River, but usually we gathered for sandlot games. Competing with out peers and their older brothers refined our skills. There was never any quarter given. And for all the football we played from noon until dusk, I never remember one kid suffering an injury.

I was 5'4" and weighed 105 pounds when I entered Modesto High as a freshman. By Texas standards, Modesto High was a 6A school. It was also the school that 90% of the city's blacks attended. I played as a back-up corner and running back through my first three years until the summer before my senior I shot skyward to six feet and tipped the scales at 175. Since I had done push-ups from the time I was seven because I had a complex about being skinny, I had matured into the body of a middleweight champ.

I blossomed my senior year. I moved from halfback to end and went both ways at corner. The Panthers went 5-5, but I had an outstanding season as I caught 12 touchdown passes and ran back a kickoff and a punt for scores. I was the only athlete in the district selected first string on both the offensive and defensive sides of the ball.

Several of my friends received full-rides to Pac Eight schools, but the USCs and UCLAs overlooked me because they didn't feel I had the size to compete at the level even though my 40-times were as fast as anyone. I notched a 4.46 at a recruitment camp. After my performance in agility drills, the Sacramento State Hornets offered me a partial scholarship. I was content with the deal because I had family in Sacramento and Modesto was only 75 miles away.

I started at corner my first two seasons and I returned a punt for a TD my sophomore year, but I felt that the coaches weren't realizing my full potential. Though some of the receivers were taller than me, I was faster and had better hands than any of them. I wanted to score touchdowns and that wasn't going to happen too often as a defensive and special teams player.

At the end of my sophomore season the wide-receiver corps was depleted by graduations. I went to Head Coach Ray Clemons and pleaded my case. He had been the Hornets head coach for more than a decade and he spoke the final word. He was a gruff individual who never showed much emotion even when we scored, but he treated everyone the same and based his decisions on our performances. He never showed any favoritism.

He agreed to give me an opportunity. By the end of the spring practice drills, I had established myself as the prime receiver. I didn't grow in height, but I added 15 pounds as I hit the weights every day. I didn't lose any speed either.

In 1972 we opened the season against Pacific. I caught two TD passes and returned the season-opening kickoff for a touchdown. I had also convinced Coach Clemons that I didn't want to go both ways and he agreed. I wanted to be in peak form whenever the offense took the field. 

After so-so games against Nevada and Cal Poly at Pomona, I exploded against a weak St. Marys eleven. I snagged three TD passes and took another kickoff back for the distance. On the last TD catch I sprained my ankle. Coach Clemons kept me out of the Cal State Fullerton game because he wanted me fresh for the Far Western Conference opener against Humboldt State. 

In our next three league contests against Humboldt State, UC Davis and San Francisco State, I went on a spree and chalked up six more touchdown catches as well as returning a punt for six. In the fourth quarter of the SF State game, unfortunately, I pulled a hamstring and didn't suit up for our final two games against Cal State Hayward and Chico State.

My last year Sacramento recruited Babe Boxer from some hick town in Idaho. He was a freshman sensation and he would have been a NFL quarterback, but he committed suicide his senior year after he was accused of raping a co-ed. Regardless of his weaknesses, he could throw a football. He had pinpoint accuracy, he fired a bullet and he could loft a ball 60 yards. And I was usually on the receiving end of his brilliance.

It was reflected in my stats that benefitted from an injury free season. I caught 18 touchdowns; I returned two punts and one kickoff for touchdowns. Babe was the hand and I was the glove as we gained fame in the press as one of the top passing-and-receiving combinations in the state. As for my old high school buddies, most of them spent their college careers sitting on the bench.

I loved football and I wasn't ready to stop playing. Nothing gave me greater pleasure and I was a gym rat who could out work anyone and enjoyed every second of pain as I pushed myself to my physical limits. I was still six feet, but I was now displayed 200 pounds of solid muscle and I ran a 4.4. If the NFL had implemented slot receivers into their offenses like Julian Edelman and Wes Welker in modern times, I might have lined-up at the highest levels, but there wasn't an opportunity for this type of player during that era. Quarterbacks wanted to throw 40-yard passes to fast, tall ends.

I wasn't about to surrender. I investigated the Canadian Football League. I contacted the league headquarters in Toronto and I received a call the next day from the Saskatchewan Roughriders. The management gave me an address in Regina, Saskatchewan. "I hear you're headed to Vagina, Canada," potato-couch pals would ride me, but I went. 

Those were two of the greatest years of my life. The people were wonderful and it's a wilder style of football that requires more passing since there are only three downs. I started, led the league in receiving yards my second year, but I suffered both ACL and MCL tears on a simple cut during spring drills my third season. Unlike today with all the medical advances, a player can recover, but a double tear like that in those days was the death knell.

I had unexpectedly reached a fork in the road. I returned to Sacramento and finished my degree before completing my Master's. I chose to continue my education and completed my doctorate at Stanford in Spanish literature. My two oldest boys were basketball players, but Michael has followed in the old man's footsteps. He bleeds football. He has a Marine mentality. He loves the feeling of getting smacked after he has snagged a pass between two defenders. He shone as a receiver last year as a freshman at Veterans Memorial and he is a projected starter as a sophomore on the varsity team. When I watch him on the sward giving a 100%, I'm filled with the same ecstasy that took me to a transcendent place.

ABORTION

 With the death of Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg, there are several pundits who are saying that the nomination of her replacement becomes a bigger campaign issue that the Coronavirus pandemic. (I can't help but think of the quote attributed to Stalin: "One death is a tragedy; one million is a statistic."

With Ginsburg's passing, the conservatives hold a firm 4-3 advantage over the liberals with Chief Justice John Roberts, originally designated a conservative, exhibiting an independent streak on several key votes. When a vacancy became available at the end of Obama's last term, the Republicans wouldn't grant him a hearing for his nomination because they contended it was too close to the election and the electorate should decide by the president they chose. Trump prevailed and he has placed two conservative judges on the court. 

Even though Democrats are making the same argument with early voting actually taking place, Trump is ignoring the Republican hypocrisy. He believes the confrontation over a third nominee will indubitably distract from COVID-19 and may provide him with an issue that will motivate his base with renewed enthusiasm, particularly the Religious Right. Democrats, on the other hand, are counting on independent women moving to their side based on pro-choice beliefs. Regardless, with less than 45 days until the election, this will be a showdown over the justice selection like few others. 

The Religious Right will never discover heaven on earth until abortion is outlawed. I am a Catholic who believes there is no consciousness after death, but I hold beliefs and perspectives that reflect a Catholic upbringing. I went from first through eighth grades in parochial schools and studying religion was part of our daily curriculum. We never studied the Bible. It was more like a literature class in which the Bible's major events were presented to us in a short-story format.

But we did learn about sin. They were separated in two groups--venial and mortal. If you died with only venial sins on your soul, you were sentenced to purgatory. If you died with one mortal sin on your soul, it was a straight ticket to hell, and hell, as we learned in first grade was not a pleasant destination: You would burn eternally. When that impression is etched into your six-year-old mind, it's no wonder I still fear hell to this day even though my logic tells me it is another myth that can be traced to ancient stories that preceded Judaism and Christianity.

I have read the Bible. In all honesty--I don't want to commit a venial sin--I haven't cut my way through all the prophets, but I'm currently reading Revelations in Spanish. Seven seems to be the magic number. As to the Ten Commandments, the first three I ignore because I don't see God any differently from Zeus or Jupiter so his existence is a non-starter for me. I keep the Sabbath holy by never missing a Dallas Cowboy game. Fifth and sixth are easy because I love my parents and I would never kill unless Trump recruited me to kill Taliban fanatics. Number seven takes all the fun out of life because everyone wants to commit adultery. Eight and ninth are no-brainers because I'm against stealing and lying. And as to not coveting my buddy's wife as commanded by number ten, that's not a difficult decision. Women are a dime a dozen, but a good friend is rare.

With the exception of killing, I'm not sure which ones are venial sins and which ones are mortal sins, but in general it's a solid moral code because it makes common sense except for the first three which are nonsense unless you have drunk the Kool-Aid. The three that confused me for many years contained in their mandates "bear false witness" "adultery" and "covet." I am sure the nuns must have explained to us that bearing false witness was lying, but I don't think they were as forthright with the latter two. And imagine if we did read the Bible in those days and we stumbled across "fornication" in our readings. The poor sisters would have lost the little hair they had.

I could write a novel about my Catholic upbringing. It would be humorous. I have said that once we discovered the crock of shit Catholicism was, it has made us less susceptible to other Christian beliefs. Percentage wise, I would estimate that the largest number of atheists come from the Jewish and Christian ranks and the largest number of Zen converts rise from the same sources.

But I'm here to talk about abortion. I had a daughter--Gabriela Cristina--born prematurely at seven months. She weighed three pounds and appeared perfectly normal, but since an infant's lungs are the last organ to fully develop, she was hooked to oxygen. Every few days the doctors and nurses would disconnect her, but she could never learn to breath on her own. Then infections assailed her and for the next three months she slowly deteriorated until she passed. With the exception of the immediate grief, her death did not haunt me just like my father's passing hasn't plagued me. I have no problem accepting that babies and octogenarians die. You can't bet against the odds.

Gabby, as we called her the few months she blessed us, taught me an important lesson. At a certain time during the gestation--I would say in the middle of the second trimester when the embryo has evolved into significant development in the the fetal stage--the dye has been cast. The fetus is now human. I'm not a doctor, so I'm not prepared to say if the fifth month is the cut-off date. Nevertheless, an abortion this late in the second trimester borders on murder. I can accept an abortion at this stage if the mother is the victim of incest, rape, a life-threatening disease or if the baby is diagnosed as abnormal with an affliction that undermines its quality of life.

(I would lie awake at night cursing God that he hadn't ended my life at birth. I could have been saved the mental torture of hell. Since we were free of sin although there were some Catholic fundamentalists who would argue that we were all born with original sin as a result of Adam and Eve disobeying God and eating the forbidden fruit, it was generally accepted that innocent infants went to limbo. And what was limbo? It was exactly the same as heaven only its inhabitants would never see the face of God. Transfixed by the choice between hell and limbo, I found limbo worth the loss of never seeing God's face. A few decades ago, the Catholic Church, in spite of defending its existence for centuries, ruled there was no longer a limbo. I have never received an answer from the good fathers, the ones that don't sodomized you, about the destination of babies and even fetuses for that matter: Are they branded with original sin and sentenced to purgatory--I would assume it would be a very short stay--or do they ascend directly to heaven like the Virgin Mother?)

Since neither pro-choice nor pro-life proponents seem able to find common ground because they fear they would be victims of the slippery slope argument, what is the compromise? For some pro-choice sympathizers, there is no compromise. They fervently believe that life begins at conception. No amount of reasoning can convince them otherwise. Are they the vast majority and it's all or nothing with them or is there a substantial group that perceives the first trimester as a gray area?

I don't believe when the seed coat ruptures and the radicle emerges and becomes the first root that we have a plant, whether it is a spear of grass or a giant redwood. To have the potential to become something does not mean that you have become that something. The same mentality works for me when a sperm cell fertilizes the egg. This is not a human being nor does it become a human being for a period of time. Therefore, I do not believe an abortion is a process that murders a human being. In my estimation this mass of matter is meaningless.

At the end of the first trimester, all bets are off. I can imagine supporting an abortion into the fourth and fifth months, but I'm opened to negotiation of this subject. Since I'm placing my pro-abortion sympathies on the first trimester, women of all ages should have easily accessible and affordable birth control remedies widely available at their beck-and-call. Teenagers should be able to purchase day-after or week-after or month-after pills without their parents' permission. If during the first three months a woman determines that she is pregnant and decides that she doesn't want to have a child, then a girl or a woman should have a wide assortment of options within easy reach to terminate her pregnancy. And if for any reason she can't cover the costs, the government should provide the means to assist her with her dilemma.

I'm a good ol' Catholic boy who received communion and confirmation, who had wonderful memories of the Church which often involved my family, who had to mumble when he admitted in the confessional that he had been masturbating with accompanying erotic thoughts, who served on the altar for many years and could respond in Latin with the best of them and who still stops at the Immaculate Conception Cathedral downtown and lights a candle before the statue of St. Jude Thaddeus, my family's patron saint. Just like I was lucky to be raised in California, I give thanks that I was raised a Catholic.

I KEEP FORGETTING THOUSANDS ARE DYING

 After killing 900 in the Brownsville vicinity, 15,000 in Texas, 200,000 in the nation and close to a million in the world, the Grim Reaper may be pausing to catch his breath. How many corpses can we stack before they fall on us like the Twin Towers? But have no doubts. He will be back. He has unfinished business with Donald Trump. Trump has been laughing in the Grim Reaper.

"You can kill a million world-wide, but you can't touch me because I am the most powerful person in the universe," taunts Trump. "I spit in your face. I am the Chosen One. I defy all the rules in going mano-a-mano with you. I don't wear a mask. I don't social distance. I encourage mass crowds with me in the middle of the coughing and sneezing throngs. You will disappear and I will still be here."

All of us are suffering from cabin fever. Since Trump doesn't want to lead by example, we are left to our devices. Of course, we are all responsible for our decisions, but armed with masks, maintaining social distancing and avoiding large crowds, we have begun to crawl out of our holes and are venturing into the unknown, which, until the arrival of COVID-19, had been known to us.

Everything looks so normal, but it isn't. But it is so easy to fool ourselves. A month ago friends and acquaintances were dropping right and left, some for the final count, others stumbling back to their corners to catch their collective breaths. At this moment I not only know anyone who has died recently, I don't even know anyone who is sick. There is such a patina of normality that we have football back at all levels even though those in charge haven't followed Trump's example and filled the stadiums.

Am I setting myself up for an ambush? On the plus side, I had my flu and pneumonia shots. I never venture into the public without my mask. I keep my distance and you won't find me surrounded by anyone other than Claudia and Michael, but...

Today is Sunday. Two Thursdays ago Michael and I went to eat wings to watch the NFL opener. We sat in an outdoor patio safely distanced from other customers. Two nights later we went to Brownsville's best steak house. Claudia joined us. We sat in a breezeway by ourselves. On Wednesday Carlos called me to meet him at the same wings joint. I can't resist his company. We took the normal precautions. Friday night Claudia and I ate dinner at a small restaurant. There was only one couple at a distant table. For those who are hunkering down at all costs because they are not fooled by this momentary lull, we are no better than Trump.

This Thursday is Michael's birthday party. We have made reservations at an Italian restaurant. There will be eight of us. all family. I haven't forgotten that not too long ago a family held a gathering. When the dust had settled, three brothers, one sister and one nephew died within a ten-day period. I don't plan on throwing caution to the wind. I'm filled with guilt that I have taken non-necessary chances. Besides the birthday party, there are no future plans. 

But that doesn't mean--I'm a stupid human being--that I won't succumb to Claudia suggesting a quiet dinner over a bottle of wine at a "safe" eatery, to Carlos inviting me for a cold ones or Michael, whom I have difficulty refusing, insisting that we can't miss a NFL showdown over our favorite plate of wings.

No tests with quick results. No vaccines. No future with certainty. It's one day at a time in this struggle for survival that depends on strict discipline. And I am lacking in the "strict" department.

IT'S NITTY GRITTY TIME

 Mort Heinman, Brownsville's only circumcised Jew, stopped at The Palm Lounge for a beer. The historical hangout has reopened. It was raining, hurricanes, tropical storms and depressions keeping the September skies gray and the summer sun sentenced to autumn. Jack O'Connell, the great unpublished novelist and The Brownsville Herald's managing editor, was sitting at the bar nursing a beer and watching a Super Bowl rerun from 20 or 30 years ago.

"In your opinion what is Trump's goal?" asked Mort.

"Now that he's hit 200,000 Coronavirus dead?"

"Yeah. You don't think he's trying to match Hitler, do you?"

"Do you think that Joe Dimaggio's 56-straight-game hitting streak will be broken?"

"No."

"There are some records that aren't meant to be broken. Thank God."

"But you know that everything about Trump is numbers. What do you think is his objective?''

"He wants to hit a million."

"A million!" gasped Mort. "Is that possible?"

"Why do you think he so desperately wants to win reelection? If he has achieved 200,000 in six months, one million over four years will be a slam-dunk for him. He wants to go down in the books as a superstar president a la Michael Jordan or Lebron James."

"I have pulled out my hair trying to find the answer to the fact that he can break every rule in the book, but his followers believe that he is playing fair-and-square and that he's not cheating. He protects himself with one lie after another. I have never been more frustrated in my life explaining this absurdity."

"It's beyond my comprehension, too. I can't comprehend the Trump phenomenon either. Is there that much hate for others in our country? Is there that much fear that Trump can exploit it and blame all our problems on Biden even though it's happening under Trump's watch? It's surrealistic."

"I can't find the words anymore to solve this absurdity. I imagine that I'm at home with my family and a gang of Neo-Nazis breaks down my door. They tie me up and then march my wife and children in front of me. They are going to kill them to teach me a lesson for being a liberal thinker. I can't believe my own eyes and there's no convincing them with words when they start putting a bullet in the heads of my wife and children one-by-one and I'm witnessing this horrible scene in front of me. With my family lying dead in front of me, they march out of my home knowing that they are operating with complete impunity because only power counts and there are no laws."

"I understand your pain, but I haven't succumbed to your paranoia, yet. The system prevails in the end and if we have survived for years of Trump, we can survive four more.

"You're wrong, bro," said Mort. "Maybe you can, but I can't. He is so evil. I feel like my existence is a living nightmare. And he has more than 60 million followers and hundreds of politicians more than happy to do his bidding. It's horrible. It's a living nightmare. Is Biden going to pull this out or not? Or will we all be dead from COVID and it won't make any difference?"

"I did a column on the electoral college numbers by coincidence today. I'm like Trump in that I like numbers, but I like numbers because I was raised in this business via the sports desk. I have Biden up on Trump about 240 to 200 and you need 270 to win. The most important toss-up states are Florida, Arizona, North Carolina, Pennsylvania and Wisconsin. Biden has small leads in most of them. If the election were held today, we would probably win, but inevitably there are unexpected factors that can change the outcome."

"Like the death of Supreme Court Ruth Bader Ginsburg?"

"You got it, mi amigo."

"Who does her death help and hurt?"

"It will solidified behind Trump any wayward Religious Right faithful who would vote for the devil if he promised to outlaw abortion and it will sway moderate women to Biden who don't want the government dictating decisions regarding their bodies. Ultimately, it may be six to one-half dozen of the other in terms of a game-changer."

"What do you believe in your heart, Scott?"

"Never prognosticate with your heart. It undermines your objectivity. Looking into my brain, I feel that the majority of Americans have had it with this piece of shit because decency counts for something. And 200,000 dead Americans, millions of jobs lost and civil unrest speak to his gross incompetence. My brain tells me to bet on Biden. I have this feeling that there is such an odium for this dastardly bastard that the dying will crawl to the polls to vote him out."

"And the Cowboys?"

"They epitomize the consistency of inconsistency. Until they prove differently they cannot escape their mediocrity. Just like we need new leadership on the country, the Cowboys need new leadership in the front office. Jerry Jones should sell the team to Elon Musk. Dallas is too predictable. The team requires somebody who thinks outside the box."

"Ready for another one?"

"I'm ready for a bucket. I ain't gonna be doing any fucking tonight, so I might as well get drunk."

"Sounds like a plan to me. The wife lets me fuck her once a month and we did it last week."

"We can take some solace in knowing you're getting more pussy from your old lady than Trump is getting from Melania."

"I'll drink to that!"

THE PEN...

 I am writing longhand. It's the closest sensation to painting that I'll experience. I have this image of painters in the midst of a deep concentration ecstatically splashing colors on their canvases. To add to this mythic moment, rendered in their own works, they have a half bottle of wine and with a half-filled glass at a nearby table.

My computer surprised me with a different screen yesterday. I couldn't access my blog or my Facebook. I tried a variety of passwords that I have utilized over the years and that I have written in a little brown book that I have possessed so long that several of the numbers belong to departed friends and acquaintances. I couldn't gain access to either the blog or Facebook.

I am as addicted to my computer and my son is to his telephone. With as much writing as I have been doing lately, I'm spending as much as ten hours a day on the contraption. Besides providing me with news, sports and music as well as all other sorts of entertainment including porn (I especially like creampies when the man is extracting his cock from a dripping cunt just as he is ejaculating and leaving the gal's gaping vagina in a milk mess), I'm dependent on the internet for my Portuguese and guitar lessons. I could go on and on with the services my computer provides, but I sure this list suffices.

I took the computer to the repair shop. The attendant, a friendly fellow with the build of a bear, a bushy beard and long hair, was perplexed with my dilemma. When we turned on the computer on his counter, I had my accustomed screens. He had no rationale for its present normalcy. Since it had been several years when last cleaned and the security updated, the computer I left in his hands.

I have a thick notebook at my work table and several pens. My memoir--The Coronavirus Chronicles--requires, as a result of my A-retentive discipline, that I write every day. With seven weeks until the national and local elections, I have written more than 500 pieces. I don't know when it's all said and done if I'll use half or two-thirds of the articles, but since the chronology is basic to the structure as I deliver a play-by-play rendition of the political action, I have to persevere on a daily basis.

I wrote two stories yesterday, one political which focused on the sheriff's race and the second on Michael's 16th birthday. I'm hoping to have my computer at a decent time today--the attendant had told me he might have it for me by the late afternoon; he didn't--and I will post the pair when I'm back on-line. Both easily qualify for Facebook also. I have seldom missed a day on The McHale Report in recent weeks, but like typos, I never fret over an occasional absence.

It dawned on me that I wouldn't have my computer to start today. I wrote the two pieces yesterday with a thin-pointed pen. I felt like I was scratching letters on the paper. It wasn't an aesthetic exercise. I need a pen with a thick point so I feel like my hand and fingers are akin to a sailboat cutting through placid waters. 

I found the school supply aisle at the supermarket and encountered a plethora of pens from which to choose. I immediately dismissed the cheap BICs. Just like the painter Rubens, I was looking for pens with full bodies. As I peered closer, I noticed for the first time that the points of the pens had measurements. I found a possibility that measured .07. It seemed thick to me, but in the same manner a woman doesn't feel the true size of it until it is in action, I wouldn't know until I scribbled something on a piece of paper.

Upon further perusal, I encountered a pen that measured .10. I decided I would buy both, the two packages each containing a pair. This morning I experimented with the two. The .07 was a marked improvement over yesterday's toil, but the .10 had me gliding across the sheet of paper as if I were on a pair of skis flying down a slope of freshly fallen snow.

I have sped through this story with such effortlessness that I'm finished. This production may not be a masterpiece hanging from the wall of a prestigious museum, but it will have its admirers who will pause for a few minutes marveling that the pen isn't only an instrument that facilitates creation, but it is creation itself.

I CAN'T HANDLE

I can't handle 

your promiscuity.

I can't handle 

your retelling in gory detail each seduction.

I can't handle 

your erotic fantasy of being sandwiched by two different men.

I can't handle 

you complaining that I bore you.

I can't handle 

the lies and the lies and the still more lies.

And I can't handle 

I surrendered my children for you.

HAPPY 16TH BIRTHDAY!

 "Is it my fault that you don't want to hit the weights?"

No.

"Is it my fault that you don't want to jog?"

No.

"Is it my fault that you don't want to shoot baskets?"

No.

"Is it my fault that you don't want to hit golf balls?"

No.

"Is it my fault you don't want to pick the guitar?"

No.

"Is it my fault you don't want to learn Spanish?"

No.

"Is it my fault you don't want to read?"

No.

"Besides teaching you how to ride a bike and how to drive a car, I have taught you everything you know. From popping a jumper to chipping on the green, from placing your fingers in the correct chord positions to helping you memorize Spanish conjugations, I have provided you with the foundation, but I can't erect the building. You are 16 years old today. The days of being my baby boy have long passed. The days of me being your hero are a melancholy memory. In two more years you will be 18 and that qualifies you by age to be officially designated a man. You could be off in some foreign country fighting a war and sacrificing your life for a worthless cause. You could be a father raising a kid with an uneducated and unemployed wife for the child's mother. I hope that I have started you on a more fulfilling and productive path. You are too talented and you have too much potential to sit in this dark room all day surfing your phone and playing video games, but you are on your own. I will always be around with a few bucks and I will do my best to keep you on the straight and narrow, but I don't have the will or the energy to crack the whip. I'm having enough challenges cracking the whip getting out of bed in the morning. And I don't have the same time for you--not that you seem to desire it--because with the little time I have remaining in my life I'm hoping that there are a few good poems or stories or maybe even a novel left in me before I'm swept helplessly away. You were a beautiful child and you brought me many hours of joy, but those days are gone forever. But that's life. Come and give your old man a hug. Happy 16th birthday. Here's a $100. Take the girlfriend out for a good dinner. We'll go to Dillard's tomorrow and see if we can't find a couple of nice shirts on the discount racks. I love you, son."

I love you, Pops. 

DEMOCRATS UNITE

 When Kamala Harris was running against Joe Biden, she attacked him viciously. In the early stages of the Democratic Primary, her aggressive treatment of Biden had her supporters thinking that she might win the nomination. She faded quickly and was one of the first candidates to withdraw. Now she is running with Biden as his vice president partner. After tough criticisms of each other, the Democrats have united and are moving forward as a whole.

Nobody ridiculed Donald Trump in 2016 more than his fellow Republicans. As they saw him gaining more and more momentum, they warned out of desperation that he would be dangerous as president. (They were right on that count.) When he won, the Republicans joined the Trump cult, drank the Kool-Aid and rolled to victory.

Their primary was so ferocious that Trump accused Texas U.S. Senator Ted Cruz's father of participating in a conspiracy that culminated in the assassination of John Kennedy. Now Trump is suggesting that if he wins a second term, he could nominate Cruz to the U.S. Supreme Court.

In the Cameron County Democratic Party Sheriff's race we at The McHale Report endorsed the incumbent Omar Lucio against former Cameron County District Clerk Eric Garza. We did everything within our literary and journalistic skills to promote Lucio and to denigrate Garza. 

That's Politics 101, but when the dust had settled, Garza had decimated his foe by a whopping winning percentage of 57% to 43%. With the family fight concluded, we Democrats (most of us) have become one in 2020 as no Republican deserves our support in these terrible times of Trump.

We have joined Garza and our fellow Democrats in our struggle to rescue America from the traitorous Trump, the rabid Republicans, the racists, the rednecks, the religious right bigots and the ring-wing bigwigs like our own Boozin'" Bill Hudson.

As candidates, Garza is easily the clearer choice. Throw out the partisan sympathies. He is better educated, has county-wide experiences and has overseen a large administrative staff. And it is always nice to know that as an average citizen he has a clean record.

Chambers can't make the same claim. The Brownsville Herald in today's edition published that the Trump Republican could be spending a year in jail in the near future as well as paying thousands in fines for 14 different misdemeanors. He hasn't been in law enforcement since 2016 and then it was as the police chief of the hick town Indian Lake where he encountered one personnel problem after another. It has been well-documented that he has no leadership abilities.

Though we have disagreed with Garza in the past, which is normal in any primary, we are not sour-grape Democrats. We are sad that Sheriff Omar Lucio has decided to abandon the Democratic Party that put and kept him in office. He shouldn't have permitted his bitterness over a loss in a fair-and-square election to cloud his vision.

We support Garza without reservation. He has the potential to be an excellent sheriff. Chambers is a disgrace. His conduct is an insult to all officers who wear the badge. And as to potential, he ain't got no game cause he ain't got his mojo.

CHAMBERS RIPS GARZA

 JOHN CHAMBERS: "This election is not about political parties. Being safe is not a matter who are your 'compadres" and how many special interests groups are behind you. The next Sheriff of Cameron County has nothing to do whatsoever with who is running for president either. I believe my opponents banks that if you are a Democrat, you will be voting blind for him. I guess he thinks he has already won. He might insult you not even bothering to lay down his platform for your consideration. Many years ago Cameron County elected a sheriff with no law enforcement experience. Conrado Cantu was a man who was found guilty of conspiring with drug cartels. We cannot afford to make the same mistake."

(EDITOR'S NOTE: John "El Chorizo" Chambers is having a difficult time dealing with his failing campaign. We don't need law officers who can't deal with reality. We have had enough incidents of white cops shooting black victims because they mistook reality for a TV show and started firing bullets and killing innocent victims because they thought they were actors on a television production. If this election isn't about political parties, why is he running as a Trump Republican and berating Democrats for being "blind" lemmings? Chambers doesn't seem to comprehend that when you choose to be a Republican or a Democrat, you are making a statement. For starters, Chambers, by his affiliation, is siding with Trump who has done everything within is vast powers to separate this country as he has played the racist card time and time again. Biden has done his best to heal the racial divide because he recognizes that we will never be a country if Trump is going to use hate as his key strategy to triumph. If parties don't matter, why hasn't Chambers denounced Trump and why didn't he compete as an independent? And there is the question of race which Chambers rejects but launches into Garza's "compadre" politics. Chambers, who has survived professionally practicing cronyism, must be suffering from an inferiority complex if he thinks Garza is taking a victory lap. Garza knows that there are approximately 35% Republicans in the county and with Sheriff Omar Lucio betraying the Democratic Party and endorsing Chambers after suffering a serious case of sour grapes when Garza crushed Lucio in the runoff, the Democratic nominee never takes a foe lightly and he realizes that there is a path for victory in a perfect storm. Chambers displayed his lack of class when he accused Garza of "insulting" the public by failing to provide a "platform" for the electorate. It was Chambers who ran unopposed and didn't have to utter a word on the hustings. Garza, on the other hand, was in a grueling confrontation with a respected opponent and had to promote a convincing argument to prevail. A longtime Cameron district clerk and originally an underling in the department for many years, Garza knows the intricacies of a bureaucratic administration and the complexities of a large budget. From the outset, he has argued via his platform that there was wasteful spending in the sheriff's office, that the Lucio administration was consistently overbudgeted because of inept management, inmates were being housed at outside facilities at a tremendous cost to the taxpayers and there was a lack of DWI enforcement with a significant loss of lives and property a terrible consequence. It was Garza's tough platform that paved the way to his victory. And buried at his own end of the field and down to a Hail Mary pass, Chambers in a last-ditch measure launches a bomb and accuses the straighter-than-arrow Garza of being the next Conrado Cantu. What a disgusting ploy! Garza's colleagues have known him for years. They know that he doesn't abuse alcohol. They know he doesn't abuse cocaine and other drugs. They know he doesn't disrespect women. And they know that he isn't a member of the cartels transporting drug loads a la Conrado Cantu in a county patrol car through South Texas. If Chambers believes he is going to defeat Garza via propaganda mail-outs promoting lies that don't pass the smell taste and are outlandish attempts at grasping for straws, he would leave his mentor Donald Trump with no other alternative but to say, "You're fired!")