Morning Musings

Mom and Grandma had a particular way of getting the news. Every morning, I woke up at 5 to the voice of Héctor Martínez Serrano, an old-school radio host who assembled what I perceived as a group of friends. His deep, booming voice made me imagine him as a charismatic middle-aged man instead of someone in his seventies.

I got my own radio as a random gift from my Mom. I initially intended to hear the same show as them—I assume, as imitative bonding—but I eventually got bored by the stories shared by the audience. The reassuring warmth in Martínez Serrano’s voice helped him create a unique link with some of their listeners, who confided even some of their deepest secrets when they secured a live on-air call that usually mutated into a live therapy session.

One morning in 1998, I turned the dial and discovered José Gutiérrez Vivó. Opposite to Martínez Serrano, Gutiérrez Vivó had a raspy, dynamic voice, which he didn’t doubt to use to fill the air with energy or indignation, as the occasion needed. Thanks to him, my fourth-grade presentation about “Current Topics” was about OPEC’s efforts to counter the lowest oil prices in decades—talk about explaining complex things to an eleven-year-old.

I would be lying if I said that I wanted to emulate them. I didn’t even think of them fifteen years later when chance conspired to put me behind the mic of my own radio show—and it showed, but that’s a separate story.

At first, I couldn’t tell if you looked annoyed or anxious. From my seat at the restaurant, all I could see was that you didn’t care the snowfall intensified because you were so focused on your mobile.

After some minutes, I thought you were waiting for an Uber, but then I saw you going doubtfully to my building’s entrance. After a brief exchange with the concierge, you returned to the same point outside of the A&W. Was that your reference point? “I’ll see you outside the A&W, by the All Day Breakfast sign.”

While the snow kept failing, there were no signs of an Uber, a companion, or any movement on your side. If you were waiting for someone, I was puzzled you haven’t made a call yet. I even doubted going outside and asking if I could help with anything, but I had just started my lunch.

You returned to my building’s entrance, this time with a vigorous walk. Your steps seemed to suggest you finally had an answer. The concierge joined you at the interphone, which I believed was the final step of your journey, but I was mistaken. You headed back to your place.

At that point I was truly convinced you were looking for someone at Number Fifteen, but you kept insisting at Number Eight. You wouldn’t be the first to make the same mistake—countless delivery people have been in the same situation since the building opened. Just when I decided to warn the waitress I was not escaping without paying, someone approached you. Your face lightened with a broad smile while your hands signaled that universal gesture of perplexity where both palms face upwards, like asking for an explanation the voice hasn’t expressed.

I sipped my beer while I saw how both of you headed to Numer Fifteen—I knew it!—and it didn’t matter that the snowfall intensified again.

A random publication in social media shows some old photos from your hometown. Black and white photos of a Subway station in the 70s, to be precise. The surroundings are familiar to you, who have passed through that station countless times—someone even tried to robbed you there. Some other elements are unmistakable thanks to the stories your dad used to tell you when you were a kid. It’s surprising how a random photo can transform itself into the perfect set for a train of memories.

Those were the times when your dad used to attend several soccer matches. He would usually leave his seat at least ten minutes before the match ended to secure his transport back home. He downsized the crowd, but not the emotion. 40 strangers in a bus hoped for a tying goal, or a final emotion. How many times did Dad hear the narrator describing a winning goal with ecstasy, almost as if he had scored it?

In the 70s, Mexico hosted the World Cup and Dad’s team won almost everything. That’s when the club cemented its reputation as one of the “Greatest” in the league. Do you recall how your club gained your dad’s favor for the simple—even random—reason of having been founded in the same city where his uncle was born. Do you remember how fixated you were with getting a jersey from that era? “With four stars, like in the 70’s”, you told your dad proudly when you finally got it. Now you shifted from one blue to another.

Grab your camera and go on a walk. Call your dad. Ask him to wear that jersey for you. Ask him to tell you again why Quintano was one of the greatest of that time, or how Trelles coached the team until reaching a second championship. Listen carefully; keep the memories; trigger the shutter. You never know what other people will think fifty years later when they see the CN Tower framed by red maple leafs.