PRO SERIES: Flying To México For Donuts: Mexican Hope (Spot)

I was seated comfortably on an airplane destined for Mexico City and enjoying a good book while I waited for take off. I wouldn’t have much time to relax before the show, but, at least, I could relax on the flight.

A chapter went by. Then another, and another.

It began to dawn on me that, while I was blowing through the book, a while had blown by.

I look around at the other passengers, who are looking around at other passengers.

Shortly thereafter, the pilot informed us, “We’re experiencing an…issue. It may be a little while.”

A collective groan rang out through the cabin. I didn’t make a noise, but I did start to do a little math in my head; my chances of making it to the event before bell time, was getting slimmer than a stick bug’s d__k.

“It’s out of your control; so, let it go.” I reminded myself.

About forty five minutes after the pilot’s announcement, there was a ruckus at the front of the plane. I craned my neck to see what it was about and saw a man being arrested.

Later someone informed me that that is how they “honey d__k” dangerous fugitives: by having them go through the rigorous airport security and then trapping them on a plane, as they attempt to flee the country.

“Well, at least that’s over with.” I thought.

“It will be just a little while longer before we get clearance, ladies and gentlemen.” The pilot announced.

An angry groan, this time, and words like “This is bullsh__!” and “What the f__k!” started to fly about the grounded aircraft.

More mental math; now, I would be lucky to make the first half of the show.

“You can’t do a damn thing about it, so why worry?” I asked myself.

I couldn’t come up with a good answer, so I went back to my book.

The chapters were flying by, but the plane was not. I finished the book and started another one.

Another ruckus. Another arrest.

Must be a lot of Pooh-Bear-esque, honey-lovin’ pricks trying to escape from the city that Will Smith made sound so utopian to me in the ‘90’s.

“We have been cleared for take off!” The pilot announced with the enthusiastic cadence of a recently crowned Super Bowl MVP.

The passengers literally applauded.

I didn’t make a noise, but I admittedly felt a nice surge of relief.

Mexico City is an hour behind Miami, and, from past experience, I knew that few events in Mexico, and independent professional wrestling, in general, start when they are scheduled to; there was still hope.

I touched down in Mexico City around bell time. Still hope.

The semi-long lines at customs moved semi-fast. Still hope.

The Mexican customs agent asked me, “How long are you going to be in May-he-co City?”

“Two days.” I answered.

“What brings you here?” He asked.

“I’m a luchador. I’m headed to Arena Coacalco to wrestle, right now.” I answered.

He looked me over, then, with a nod of yeah-that-makes-sense, he handed me back my passport and said, “Cool. Kick ass.”

That was easy. Still hope.

In an earlier email exchange, the promoter told me he was sending over “a tall guy in a lucha shirt” to pick me up.

I scanned the waiting crowd as I stepped outside of the customs area.

I didn’t see a tall guy in a lucha shirt.

I checked my phone; no service.

I tried to connect to the airport wifi; no connection.

Hope fading like a dead Jedi.

“Just accept the situation: there’s nothing you can do but wait.” I tried to inform myself.

Myself had had enough of my chill-the-f__k-out training in the past couple days, and started to cut a promo: “What the f__k are we gonna do? We’re in a foreign-”

“Yay-son?” A tall Mexican gentleman in a blue shirt signifying his adoration for lucha libre interrupted. Hope faded back in, like people in a picture when you get the Space-Time Continuum back on track.

“Yes!” I answered.

“Me…uh…no good…English.” He informed me, as he waved for me to follow him.

“No problemo. Mi Espanol es mierda!” I informed him, as I hurried behind.

He laughed.

After a short power walk to his car, he rushed me to throw my bag in his trunk. I did so without thinking, but as we pulled out into crazy Mexico City traffic and I checked the clock, I suddenly regretted it. There was still hope, but it was starting to look like the kind of hope you get as fan of a local hero who’s going for the “World Title” against Ric Flair.

A trick of the trade is: when you’re running late as a fiber deficient diet sh__, you get dressed in the car. That way you can jump right out and go straight to the damn ring, if you need to.

I checked the dusty storage unit of my Spanish vocabulary; nada. I couldn’t come up with the words for: “I need to stop really quickly to grab my bag so I can get naked in front of you, guy I just met.”

“Nothing you can do about it. Relax and enjoy the adventure..” I reasoned with myself.

That was easier said than done, as I was about to take the most death-defying car ride of my young life.

Let’s hope these donuts are worth it.