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A family mourns cancellation of 'Sábado Gigante'

 
Mario Kreutzberger, aka Don Francisco, center, is the creator and host of  S?bado Gigante, TV’s longest-running variety show. It began in Chile in 1962. It ends Sept. 19.
Mario Kreutzberger, aka Don Francisco, center, is the creator and host of S?bado Gigante, TV’s longest-running variety show. It began in Chile in 1962. It ends Sept. 19.
Published Sept. 3, 2015

The news jumped out at me from Twitter. I stared for several seconds in disbelief.

This wasn't the kind of thing I could shout across a newsroom cubicle and expect anyone to understand. It required a call home, to the one person who would know exactly how I felt.

Word had traveled fast.

"Did you hear?" asked my 92-year-old Cuban grandmother in that hushed voice she reserves for announcing the death of a distant relative.

"Sábado Gigante is ending in September."

It wasn't a death, but that didn't mean its cancellation wasn't worth mourning.

The show, watched religiously at my family's Miami house for decades, has been on TV for more than half a century. It has aired in the United States on Univision since 1986. No matter what has changed in my life, I could expect that one constant every Saturday night. It holds the Guinness record as the longest-running variety show in the world. I thought it would air forever.

It is, as its title describes, gigantic: three hours of celebrity interviews, singing and dancing contests, and comedy skits that end every night with a car giveaway, all in Spanish, all happening on a colorful stage flanked by voluptuous models and directed by Don Francisco, always impeccable in a suit and tie, his dark hair never fading despite the years.

Growing up, Don Francisco entertained my family every Saturday. We'd get groceries early, have dinner and settle in front of the TV just in time for the opening credits.

I laughed along with my parents and grandmother at vulgar jokes I was too young to understand and dreamed of one day singing a Spanish ballad on the show, something that thankfully never has happened.

We always looked forward to the segment "El Chacal," in which a man dressed in black and wearing a ghoulish mask prances around nervous singers. If they forget the lyrics or get out of tune, El Chacal blows his trumpet and whisks them offstage.

The show lives in my memory along with the other elements that made our household a home: the morning gurgling of the espresso maker, the Spanglish gossip with visitors, the jasmine tree in the yard that envelops you in its perfume.

Sábado Gigante was as much a staple of my childhood as my grandmother's harina de maíz, a cornmeal cereal she made on weekends. I was a picky kid, so she'd sit across the table to make certain I ate every bite.

At night, we all watched soap operas on Telemundo and Univision. Unlike the never-ending stories of American soaps, telenovelas come and go. The Mexican ranch romance gives way to the exotic love triangle pitting a man against his clone.

Sábado Gigante is more like Mass, exactly as you remember it, no matter how long it has been since you've seen it or how far you've strayed.

When I decided to leave for college in Boston and later settle down for a job in St. Petersburg, it felt like I was betraying my family. No one before me had left South Florida. Why would I want to leave that magical place, where saying hello requires a kiss on the cheek?

I still remember the uncomfortable silence after telling my mother. It lasted all the way to the airport.

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All I wanted was to experience something beyond the familiar. My grandmother never questioned me. "Go," she said. "Follow your star."

On my return visits, relatives point out how "American" I have become. I need help remembering Spanish words. My Miami accent has faded.

But when Sábado Gigante is on, it's as if time has not passed. I laugh at the jokes I now understand, mouth the lyrics to the songs I grew up with and glance at my grandmother to see her soft, smiling face illuminated by the TV's glow.

During nostalgic stay-in Saturday nights in St. Pete, the show comforts me like canned Goya beans and Selena songs.

I turn it on and let Don Francisco's voice fill my living room.

It's just like home, if I close my eyes.

Contact Laura C. Morel at lmorel@ tampabay.com. Follow@lauracmorel.