Soccer Gives Mexican Teens a Path to Hope, but Cartels Threaten the Game

The local soccer tournament brought together teenagers from across Celaya, an industrial hub in central Mexico, providing a sanctuary from the pervasive violence that dominates the region.

While the Ravens awaited their next match, some players used the intermission to stretch and silently refocus; others gathered around a boombox playing narcocorridos, polkas, and waltz-inspired ballads that celebrate Mexican drug lords.

“I don’t like it, but I can’t tell them to turn it off,” said their coach, Sugey Milagros Salinas Grimaldi. “They are very loyal to their way of living, and I must respect that.”

Some of the songs honored friends and family lost to violent drug trafficking, a common escape from poverty in Celaya. Turning the music off would risk insulting the memories of those killed, Ms. Salinas explained.

Ms. Salinas strives to keep Celaya’s children—one of the world’s most dangerous cities—off the streets and away from cartel influence. She has watched with alarm as some pupils slip into criminal activities or addiction.

Now, cartels are pushing to dominate local soccer leagues, using intimidation, gunning spectators and harming players.

They threaten what remains of the city’s rare, honest pathway out of poverty for local youth. Who will first recruit these teenagers—Ms. Salinas or the cartels?

Far from the crowds of World Cup matches, many soccer fields in the city have gone silent. Crosses and memorials now stand where cheers once roared, honoring players, referees, and spectators who fell to gunfire.

After a cartel killed 11 people at a game in January, local authorities suspended all soccer events for nearly a month. When the competitions resumed, many players felt too afraid to return.

Not the Ravens.

The boys displayed a fierce urgency, channeling months of cabin fever onto the pitch, while some taunted rivals to spur competition.

“You must express what you need to on the field!” Ms. Salinas shouted, urging the team to release frustrations through sport, not fistfights.

In moments like these, Ms. Salinas relied on Juan Pablo, 14, her star player and the team’s captain. hailing from a farming family, he embodied the respect, discipline, and academic diligence she hopes all her paddlers will emulate.

He rallied his teammates, encouraging cooperation.

Manuel, 13, on the other hand, was prone to quarrels, often questioning referees’ calls. His temper would earn him yellow cards and jeopardize his future.

Manuel was absent from practice for two months after experimenting with drugs—a desperate brief respite from a troubled life marked by a brother’s cartel death, a father’s suicide, and a mother’s relentless toil.

Ms. Salinas removed him from the squad until he turned his life around. That season was his first participation in months.

Both Manuel and Juan Pablo yearned to showcase their talents, hoping to catch the eye of scouts eager to feed Mexico’s professional ranks.

Time is a crucial factor for the teenagers, as most footballers retire around age 35.

The Ravens operate out of necessity rather than privilege; some players come from modest farming families, others from households with criminal ties. On the field, Ms. Salinas strives to treat them all equally. With no public funding, she finances the team herself.

From the sidelines, a mother of a Ravens player cheered. She bore a pistol tattoo on one ear lobe, dated 1991, and an AK‑47 tattoo across the other.

“I love pistols and I was born in 1991,” she said. “Alexis was my brother.” “He died violently.”

The game concluded with the Ravens’ loss. Manuel collapsed, crying. Juan Pablo watched as the opposing team posed with their trophy, his eyes shining with hunger.

Juan Pablo returned home. An opportunity loomed: a tryout invitation from Chivas, Guadalajara’s professional club, contingent on raising $300 for travel.

It could be a turning point.

Days later, a notice appeared on the soccer fields where the tournament had been held.

“If you play here, you must pay,” it read.

Mexico’s Bermuda Triangle

Celaya and its surrounding region serve as an outpost for Mexico’s oil industry, drawing in the country’s state‑owned refinery. The influx of jobs attracted cartels that siphoned oil for black‑market sales, generating billions in illicit revenue, the U.S. Treasury reports.

Consequently, the area ranks 13th worldwide in homicides, earning it the “Bermuda Triangle” moniker among residents.

Locals say they live under a veil of disappearing commuters—many vanishing without a trace.

The community now feels its identity slipping. Children stay indoors at night; parties end early, if they even occur. Several church festivals were canceled this year after cartel extortion threats.

Soccer’s decline to the next target was inevitable.

“This hurts us all,” said Celaya’s mayor, Juan Miguel Ramírez Sánchez. “Sports is one of the last bastions saving children from violence.”

The first incident was in 2018, when a referee and a player were killed on the field. Last year, 13 players were killed across the Celaya metropolitan area; this year, 14 players and spectators have died.

The worst attack was the January massacre: 11 people were gunned down after a game in Salamanca, a suburb on Celaya’s outskirts.

In recent years, cartels have formed soccer teams to compete in minor leagues, laundering money and asserting influence over the communities in which they operate, authorities say.

“They also profit from betting,” said Salamanca’s police chief, Juan Pablo Ramírez Talavera, in an interview.

“This should be a healthy game that brings people together,” he added. “But these amateur leagues have become money‑making ventures.”

Mr. Ramírez Talavera estimated that criminal groups spend tens of thousands of U.S. dollars a month on Salamanca’s games alone, in a city of about 250 000 inhabitants. He said up to 20 cartels and smaller gangs operate throughout Guanajuato state.

On a recent day, parents watched their elementary‑school children kick soccer balls around cones, sprint, and shoot at goals.

Behind them, police trucks flashed lights, signaling presence. Officers on four‑wheelers crossed the field, checking sideline men for weapons, drugs, or alcohol.

‘Maybe I could have done more.’

The decay of Celaya’s community has cut deeply into Ms. Salinas’ heart.

In her first year of teaching, 2021, a student of 12, grappling with drug addiction and unable to pay a dealer, was gunned down. Pedro’s mother had died when he was younger, and his father had disappeared to the United States.

Pedro was “near‑feral,” stealing food and barely showering, Ms. Salinas recalled.

“I have always carried that with me,” she said, tears in her voice. “Maybe I could have done more for him.”

Soon after Pedro’s death, Ms. Salinas was called to a crime scene—a stark reminder of the city’s relentless violence.

After weeks of sleepless nights, she was haunted by the question of how she could have helped.

She founded a soccer team to give her students a purpose. To join, players must attend class regularly and exhibit good conduct on and off the field.

When asked why she named the team the Ravens, she replied plainly: “Because they are intelligent birds; they achieve what they want by observing keenly.” She said it reflects the children’s relentless search for opportunity.

Pedro’s story fuels Ms. Salinas’ dedication to Manuel, the team member battling anger. Violence and poverty still separate Manuel from the training he needs to reach his dreams.

After Manuel overcame his addiction and returned to school, all soccer games and practice were halted for nearly a month. He has also turned down offers from more professional teams due to lack of transportation and gear.

Sitting in his mother’s bedroom after school, Manuel burst into tears.

“Football clears my mind of the problems at home,” he choked on each word. “I hunger to win, to play well. But I lack opportunities.”

Manuel’s mother, María, watched in concerned silence. She knows soccer can shield children from cartel recruitment.

Having spent a year digging in Celaya for her eldest son’s remains, found in a mass grave beside a grain mill, she says: “I always tell him there are no friends. Go to school, play soccer, stay out of trouble.”

Manuel’s bedroom echoed the narco‑culture that relatives fear is permeating their community.

His walls were draped with neon lights and a poster of Al Pacino as Scarface flanked by two of Mexico’s most notorious drug kingpins. Bullet‑proof vests and Kevlar helmets lined the walls—decorative, he insisted.

On his dresser, neatly arranged bullet casings—some spent—signaled a darker reality.

Across town, Juan Pablo received sad news from Ms. Salinas. His coaches could not raise the $300 needed for the Chivas soccer camp. His parents tried to appear serene, but they were devastated.

Juan Pablo could be his family’s ticket out of poverty and cramped living conditions on a small backyard farm.

“I cannot imagine not being a professional player,” he said. “But I guess I could be a car mechanic.”

Source link