A human-rights lawyer told us we probably wouldn’t get within a mile of the wall. Even if we did, she said, it would likely be double or triple-fenced with razor wire, not to mention patrolled by trigger-happy Neanderthals.
The carload full of players we’d recruited to share this historic moment got a late start and, after discussing the likelihood of being tagged in the head by a rubber bullet and/or arrested, bailed. We’d heard that sending anything across international borders without clearing customs could result in a felony charge, which meant that after three hits of the ball we’d all be subject to mandatory life imprisonment under California’s three-strikes law.
At the border we held up our volleyball and called out the Tijuanans we could see through the slats in the unfinished wall: “Pelota?” Before we could remember the world for “play,” a kid on the other side said, “Yeah yeah, we speak perfect English. Just serve.” And so, as six half-curious members of the border patrol watched through binoculars from the hill above, we did.
–Brent Hoff
