This was a game for history.

We're all enthusiastic, crazy to reach that moment when we will step out on the field in Puerto Rico and show off our quality.

Os guaraos, que habitam os subúrbios do Paraíso terrestre, chamam o arco-íris de serpente de colares e de mar de cima o céu. O raio é o resplendor da chuva. O amigo, meu outro coração. A alma, o sol do peito. a coruja, o amo da noite escura. Para dizer "bengala", dizem neto contínuo; e para dizer "perdoo", dizem esqueço.

History never really says goodbye. History says, 'See you later.'

I'm a writer obsessed with remembering: with remembering the past of America above all - and above all, that of Latin America, intimate land condemned to forgetfulness.

I go about the world, hand outstretched, and in the stadiums I plead, 'A pretty move, for the love of God.' And when good football happens, I give thanks for the miracle, and I don't give a damn which team or country performs it.