Day 5 was eagerly anticipated by the British contingent, because it offered us, massive lads that we were, the opportunity to play football. Or ‘soccer,’ as you’ll be stunned to learn they call it here. This was our chance to show the Americans how it was done. Teach them a lesson. Make up for years of special relationship humiliation. David Beckham’s right foot. David Beckham’s left foot, come to that. It was coming home.
We were off to attend the inaugural Las Vegas Bernie Sanders Soccer Tournament, held in a Latinx neighbourhood to encourage young latinx to come out and learn about Bernie and get to the polls.
It took place at the most beautiful set of football pitches, underneath a mountain.
The event began with an introduction from our passionate socialist Mexican friend Jose, who introduced in spanish the Mayor of New York, Bill de Blasio, fresh off his Bernie endorsement. De Blasio was extremely tall, as you can see in the picture. That was, as far as I could tell, the only interesting thing about him.
We Brits weren’t actually intending to participate in the tournament when we arrived: just to help run it, and if we could have a kickabout before it got going all the better. I was therefore wearing trousers. But they were slightly light for numbers, and so a fourth team had to be formed from assorted stragglers and staffers to compete with the three dedicated teams who showed up in matching kit and football boots.
The team we were assigned to play first was made up of I would say 12/13 year-olds. Right, we said. Let’s have ’em.
But almost from the first whistle, it was clear that we would not, in fact, be having them. They ran rings around us. Some really nice pass and move football actually, if you’re reading this kids. Keep it up.
I did my usual trick of producing a really nice piece of individual play the first time I received the ball, dribbling past a man (or boy), and feeling extremely good about myself, only to find that when I try and track back after the move breaks down, I have a stitch and can barely reach jogging pace, and must play the rest of the game intermittently bent over gasping for breath.
I did provide a couple of assists. Just call me Trent. But I also ended up in goal and threw the ball into my own net from an inswinging corner.
I suppose there must come a time in every person’s life when they get outplayed by people a lot younger than them. It is a a ritual. I had been hoping to defer it a bit but we none of us choose our fate.
It is certainly tempting to respond by becoming a grumpy old man with an all-consuming hatred of young people. But I gotta take inspiration from Bernie. He is a grumpy old man, but all he wants is for young people to thrive, and he is certainly helping me live my best life.
It was another terrific event, so vibrant and so welcoming, I made lots of friends and got to chat to lots of young people. They served this delicious cinnamon drink, all thick and icy and delicious, as well as Elote – corn on the cob.
But I am afraid I must report that once again, it is not coming home.
Then we got driven to the East Las Vegas office, where Luiz was running the Latinx operation.
Chuck Rocha (national Bernie adviser and sick guy) arrives and basically sits next to me for an hour.
‘We’ve been organising this community for 8 months,’ he tells press over the phone.
Luiz shows him a picture of a packed polling station.
‘Do you have any pictures we can send to Bernie?,’ Chuck asks excitedly. ‘He’d love to see those.’
Then who should turn up but Cori and Amy from the night before. I got to tell Cori about the Democrats Abroad work I’d been doing in England, how I’d been canvassing for Bernie on the streets of London. She seemed genuinely touched.
‘This thing is big, huh?’
It’s big.
Amy and Cori gave speeches again to rouse canvassers before they were sent out. I had assumed Cori would just give the same speech as the night before, but she didn’t, she gave an entirely new one, on the same themes of course. This isn’t scripted. This is coming from the heart, each and every time.
They were joined by Dr Victoria Dooley, who after training as a doctor took up work in Flint, Michigan, where she delivered babies who would grow up without clean water. She’s now a national Bernie surrogate, and just killing it every time she speaks.
Inspired and raring to go, we set out on a canvassing shift. We were driven to our location by Jake, who’d come down from Oregon. He was driving a classic Bernie camper van, that we nicknamed the Not Me Bus.
There were actually several parked outside the offices, so I’ve decided to collect photos of these from the whole trip and put them into a photo series which’ll be up at some point.
One of the jobs of these drivers was to pick up a 96 year old and take them to the polling station and look after them. He was black, had fought in World War 2, and had seen almost every part of the world. He said he didn’t hate anybody. He only loved.
It was a fantastic canvassing session, I really enjoyed it. The evening light was just beautiful and the weather balmy. We got a really good reception on the doorstep – people just like Bernie, as a rule.
My favourite chat by far was with this young Latinx guy who was out front fixing his family’s car with what looked like his father and uncle, while what looked like his mother and sister sat in deck chairs in the front garden. They couldn’t speak English, but they pointed me to the youngest in the family.
‘Hi,’ he smiled at me.
I asked him if he was planning on voting.
He said no… he was more of an Independent. He shuffled a bit.
I told him, you know Bernie was an Independent for 40 years. Stuck to the same issues before it was politically fashionable. Was never a Party Man. And you don’t have to be a Democrat for ever. Just register on the day, vote, and then you can quit the party the same day.
He seemed to relax. We talked about free healthcare, how we had that in the UK. Cancelling student debt as well. Green New Deal. I think Bernie’s platform really spoke to him.
I asked him if he’d be willing to early vote tomorrow. He said maybe. I made sure he knew it was the last day to early vote, and that would be much easier than caucusing. This seemed to resonate. I provided him with his nearest polling station, and he agreed to think about it. I asked him to promise to talk about it with his family, and handed out two spanish leaflets that he could give to them. He liked that idea. He liked that we had them. That his family could be included. He was so friendly and smiley in the evening sun.
I will obviously never know for sure, but I think that guy might have voted. And if he did, there’s a good chance his four family members, who I couldn’t even converse with, did as well. And there’s not a doubt in my mind that if they voted, they voted for Bernie Sanders.
The amount of work that has gone into the Latinx community by the Bernie campaign is staggering. It is an almost textbook lesson in how to do the kind of deep organising in left-behind communities that it’s clear we need to do in the UK after the election. If Bernie does as well with this demographic as we think he might, then the Democratic nomination could be de facto over by the end of Super Tuesday, after Bernie sweeps California and Texas in landslides. But remember: we have to work like we’re 10 points down in the polls.
/////////////
In the evening, we went to watch a podcast recorded in the back of this ‘Hawaiian’ pirate-themed bar called ‘Golden Tiki.’ I am not convinced that any Hawaiian was involved at any stage in the process.
Amy and Victoria were the guests on the podcast, so we got to hang out with them some more. Amy, like my cocktail, was on fire.
In the toilets, the sound of inmates’ chatter comes over a speaker. Then, a raspy voice –
‘Are you ever gonna get that wart removed? Oh shit, that’s your dick.’
This is the hospitality we deserve.
This town increasingly feels like it is being taken over by socialists. One bar to the next. We’re about to get buses of volunteers in from California. It won’t be football, but something might just be coming home.
mini moralia 