After about two hours of discussion, I finally convinced my Dad to postpone the breakout until my arraigo order time was up. There was a slight chance that I’d get a acquittal and I wanted to cross that bridge first before becoming a Mexican Fugitive.
In Mexico, tensions were heating up with the upcoming election and word on the street was that if Obrador was elected president, being an American in prison wouldn’t fall to my benefit.
Corruption can be a good and a bad thing in Mexico, depending on what side of the fence you were sitting.
Obrador was anti corruption and anti-American, and at the time was holding a pretty popular stance.
Before my dad left, he told me that he was going to visit the American Consulate and do a little digging on what Lawyers were the best, and find out if there was someone that we could buy my freedom from.
My Dad, who had one year of college, was easily the smartest man that I knew and if anyone was going to pull something off, it was him.
As we ended the conversation, my dad asked me to put my shoe up on his knee.
A little side story...
As a wrestler, my dad and I always had a tradition before I wrestled for any championship match, from age five all the way up through college. My dad would have me put my foot up on his knee, he’d untie my wrestling shoes, straighten the tongue of the shoe, and slowly tighten each loop of the laces. To top it off he’d wrap and crisscross the loose laces around the back of my shoe and then back to the front to tie with a bow tie double knot. He would always start with my left foot and end with the right. Before making the final cinch on the right foot, he’d give one last pep talk hit my foot with an open palm and say”The mud, the Blood, and the Beer” and then send me off to kick some ass.
It wasn’t until I was older that I realized the significance of this ritual when a buddy of his explained to me that it was a ritual that their team had during the war and before any major assault. They would help each other lace their boots right, hit the right boot for luck and say: “The Mud, the Blood and the Beer”. Basically a saying that you had to get through the mud and then the blood to get to the Beer.
I know it’s something simple kids, but there was power that came with it. Mental power, and this day, as my old man was making the last cinch on my shoe lace, he slipped his yellow handled case stockman three blade pocket knife into the inside of my right shoe, smacked it hard and looked me in the eyes and said:”The Mud, The Blood, and the Beer”. He stood up, gave me a hug, told me he loved me and that he’d see me soon and walked away.
I stood up, and walked back to the yard once again a grown ass man trying to swallow a lump in his throat walking with a slight limp from a knife digging into the side of my foot and a strong desire to just beat the holy shit out of someone.
To be continued.
All my love