Mexico Has 'Cocodrilos', We Have Sports Journalists Afraid to Sign Their Names

The film 'Cocodrilos' opens in theaters on September 24 with six Ariel nominations — the story of Mexican journalists killed. I read that news on a morning in Shenzhen, holding a transfer report from a second-division league, and I stopped for a long time.

Not because I write about film. But because in 38 years in this profession, I have witnessed colleagues erase their names from articles. Not because they feared public opinion — but because they feared someone would know what they had written. The film by director J. Xavier Velasco tells the story of a photojournalist named Santiago, who makes a living capturing what others want buried. It sounds like a Mexican story. But when I look at sports journalism in Asia — and in Vietnam — I realize the distance between cinema and reality is shorter than many think.

This article is not a film review. It is the notes of a sports reporter on the price our profession has paid in recent years.

When the pitch becomes an information battlefield

In sports, we are used to journalists being criticized. Coaches call us rumor-mongers. Fans call us opportunists. Club leadership calls us destroyers. But very few people talk about how sports journalists — especially in places where football is tightly bound to illicit money — can face death threats just for one investigative piece about a transfer.

I will never forget 2026, when I was still following Shenzhen FC in China League One. A young colleague named Li wrote about an irregular transfer fee for a South American player. Three days later, he received a message from an unknown number: "Write one more word and don't go home." He did not retract the article. He switched to covering school football. Ten years later, he still does not dare to write about that topic again.

Was that Mexico? No. That was Guangdong, less than an hour by car from Shenzhen.

When I read about "Cocodrilos" — where director Velasco says research was the hardest part of production, and that he was personally affected by the stories he heard — I immediately thought of the nights I sat in the dressing room of the old club, listening to a Senegalese player cry because he did not dare to name the person who had fixed a match. Stories like that never make the papers. Not because there are no journalists. But because the journalist who writes them will have to pay a price.

In football, people forget the score, but they never forget the look in someone's eyes after a conceded goal. And in this profession, people forget the article, but they never forget the night they had to take it down.

Context: When sport becomes a shell for power

Mexico is one of the most dangerous countries in the world for journalists. Data from press freedom organizations shows more than 150 journalists have been murdered in Mexico since 2026, most in cases that were never fully investigated. Against that backdrop, a film like "Cocodrilos" is not merely a work of art — it is a political act.

But the story does not stop at Mexico. Global sport is becoming one of the most dangerous environments for investigative journalists. In 2026, the FIFA corruption scandal led to dozens of officials being arrested, and the people most threatened were not officials — they were the journalists reporting on them. In 2026, a Ghanaian journalist who wrote about match-fixing in the women's league was attacked in his own newsroom. In 2026, a Mexican reporter covering sports was killed after publishing evidence of links between a first-division club and drug cartels.

I attended the 2026 World Cup in Russia. I stood in the fan zone at Fisht Stadium, watching thousands of Russians weep after the penalty shootout. The tears in the stands in Russia are never one person's alone. But there is another kind of weeping I did not see on television: the weeping of journalists forced out of newsrooms, stripped of credentials, or pressured to write what the paymaster wanted.

In sports, we often talk about broadcast rights, sponsorship deals, transfer fees. But few talk about another kind of contract: the silence contract. In many Asian leagues, journalists must sign commitments not to report on sensitive topics — from transfers to player wages to relationships between clubs and sponsors. I once read such a commitment. I did not sign it. Three months later, I lost access to the post-match interview zone.

Was that Vietnam? No. But it has happened to many of my colleagues in Vietnam, Thailand, Indonesia, Malaysia. And that is why reading about "Cocodrilos" did not feel distant.

Analysis: The price of truth in sports

There is a paradox I have observed over 38 years in this profession: sport is one of the most transparent fields in terms of data, but one of the murkiest in terms of power. You can know exactly how many kilometers a player ran in a match, but you cannot know who decided to sell him. You can track every pass, but you cannot track the money.

That is why investigative sports journalists are always in danger. They are not just writing about football. They are writing about what lies behind football.

Group 1: Transfer investigation journalists

In Europe, transfer journalists are celebrities. They have sources, credibility, huge followings. But in Southeast Asia, transfer journalists must be more cautious than war correspondents. One small mistake can cost them their career, their sources, or worse.

I know a Vietnamese journalist in his 30s who uncovered an irregular commission in the transfer of a foreign player to V.League. He wrote the article. It was taken down after 12 hours. He was summoned to a meeting he called "a conversation with no minutes." Afterward, he resigned and moved to communications at a company unrelated to football. When I asked why, he only said: "I have a family."

People call it a rough gem, but I call it an unfulfilled promise. The promise of a young writer wanting to change the industry. A promise betrayed by the industry itself.

Group 2: Match-fixing investigation journalists

This is the most dangerous kind of investigation in football. Because it touches money — a lot of money — and those who profit from fixing are not forgiving people.

In 2026, while I was following Shenzhen FC, China League One was shaken by a series of articles about suspicious matches. Two Chinese journalists spent six months gathering data on abnormal goals conceded in the final 15 minutes. They published. They were right. But they never published their real identities in the article. They used pen names. They moved to another city. They changed phone numbers.

I met one of them — I will not name him, not even his pen name — at a cafe in Beijing in 2026. He told me something I still remember: "In China, if you write about match-fixing, you are not fighting a few individuals. You are fighting a system. And the system never forgets."

Group 3: Medical and doping investigation journalists

This is the kind of investigation the public cares least about, yet it is a constant threat to journalists. Because behind doping there are not only players — there are doctors, pharmacists, and trafficking networks for banned substances.

I once received a call from a sports doctor in Southeast Asia who said he wanted to disclose information about young players being given unapproved performance enhancers. He was scared. He called me because he believed I was "outside the game." Three days later, he called back and said: "Never mind, I don't want to get involved." I never found out what happened in those three days. But I know someone called him.

Group 4: Women in sports journalism

And this is the group most vulnerable but least discussed.

Women writing about sports — especially football — face two layers of pressure: professional pressure like their male colleagues, and gender pressure from within the industry itself. I have seen female colleagues threatened sexually via messages, called unspeakable names, excluded from press conferences for being "unsuitable." In some countries, they are followed, secretly photographed, their families threatened.

Why? Because sport is one of the last fields where people can openly display brutality without consequence.

Counter-intuitive angle: Sport is not safe — it is just louder

There is a common misconception: sports journalists are lucky people. They travel the world, watch football for free, interview stars. It is a dream job.

That misconception is wrong. And it is wrong in a dangerous way.

Sport is a field where power and money meet in a space the public believes is "just a game." Because of that belief, what happens in sport is less scrutinized, less questioned, and easier to cover up. When a government official is investigated, there is political press. When a football club is investigated, usually only a few sports journalists dare to touch it — and they are often alone.

I used to think I was lucky to do this job. I have been to five World Cups, lived with teams, heard stories few get to hear. But I have also had to weigh whether to write something I knew would cost someone their job, their money, or their face. And in those moments, I understood why many colleagues choose silence.

Silence is not cowardice. Silence is knowing the price.

And here is the most counter-intuitive thing: that price is not always a life. Sometimes it is a career. Sometimes it is access. Sometimes it is your child not getting into a good school because you wrote the wrong thing about an influential person. In sport, the price is often paid quietly — no gunshots, no breaking news, just a rejection email, a blocked call, a canceled contract.

Every contract is a goodbye and a rebirth. And for sports journalists, every investigation is a goodbye to safety, and a rebirth in fear.

That is why reading about "Cocodrilos" felt close. Velasco's film is about a character who takes photographs — capturing moments others want erased. Investigative sports journalists do the same, except we record in words. And in Mexico, as in many places around the world, recording in words can be an act of life and death.

Six Ariel nominations and the truth about awards

Back to "Cocodrilos." The film received six Ariel nominations — Mexico's most prestigious film award, presented by the Mexican Academy of Cinematographic Arts and Sciences. Six nominations is an impressive number. But there is one detail I noticed when reading: the film opens in theaters on September 24, yet received nominations before its release.

This is not necessarily a contradiction. Many films have limited festival runs before wide release, and nominations can be based on those screenings. But it reminded me of something about sport: awards are never just awards. They are signals. They are how an industry tells the public "this is what we value."

In football, we have the Ballon d'Or, FIFA The Best, player of the month awards. Those awards are also signals — but often signals of the market, not of value. A player is nominated not only because he plays well, but because he sells shirts, because he has endorsement deals, because he represents a market the league wants to conquer.

With "Cocodrilos," six Ariel nominations may be the signal of a film industry saying: "We have not forgotten the journalists who died." That is a signal worth respecting. But it is also a signal worth pondering: how many deaths does it take for an industry to decide to make a film?

What I learned from a dressing room in Shenzhen

In 2026, I lived with Shenzhen FC for an entire season. I sat in the dressing room, listening to players talk. I heard a Senegalese player speak of homesickness. I heard a Chinese player say he did not know how long he would keep playing. I heard a coach say he did not dare tell the board the truth about the club's finances.

Those stories never made the papers. Not because they were unimportant. But because writing them would get the teller in trouble. And I — as a journalist — chose to write about football, about tactics, about goals, instead of what I actually heard.

I am not proud of that. But I understand why I did it. And I understand why many other sports journalists do the same.

The pitch may fall silent, but the city's heartbeat still drums to the rhythm of the ball. And in those cities, there are journalists sitting and writing — or sitting in silence — because they know one article can change everything, or destroy everything.

Signals to watch

I am not writing this to conclude. I am writing to raise the questions I think sport needs to ask itself.

First, when a film like "Cocodrilos" receives six Ariel nominations, that is a sign that Mexican cinema is seriously confronting reality. Can sport do the same? Will there be a film, a book, a series of investigations about attacked sports journalists that we will remember?

Second, when a sports journalist in Southeast Asia has to change careers for writing about a transfer, that is a sign the system is working as designed — a system that protects power, not the writer. Is anyone tracking such cases? Is any organization standing up for them?

Third, when a female journalist is threatened for writing about football, that is a sign the issue is not just press freedom — it is the power structure of sport. Are we talking about that enough?

And finally, when I — a 54-year-old reporter living in Shenzhen, writing about football for Chinese readers — read about "Cocodrilos" and see myself in it, that is a sign that sport is never just sport. It is a mirror reflecting society. And sometimes, that mirror shows what we do not want to see.

I will keep watching. Not because I think I can change everything. But because I believe recording — even one line — is still better than forgetting.

Stars are not born on the pitch; they are raised from forgotten lands. And sports journalists — those who write about them — also come from forgotten lands. The land of silence.