Bill Simmons on his trip to Azteca
My trip to Mexico quickly morphed into one of those “I’m going to remember everything that happened 40 years from now.”
I stood on the field at Azteca, grabbed a few strands of grass and put them in my wallet.
I rode in SUVs with bulletproof windows and security guards.
I asked a hotel concierge if there was a good place to get coffee, followed by him pointing me toward a Starbucks to our left, then saying, “Whatever you do, don’t go right.”
I got trapped in one of Azteca’s oppressively hot elevators and saw my life briefly flash before my eyes.
I watched one of my bosses get nailed by a flying burrito after the game.
I drank enough tequila to kill Salma Hayek.
I got rocked by Montezuma’s revenge on the way home, which was strange because I am absolutely positive I have never done anything to Montezuma.
None of those memories matched the game.
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