Tomas woke me up at a quarter to 7, only an hour and a half after we had gotten in from a travel day from Buenos Aires to Mar del Plata. Never having been to a soccer game in my life, I had agreed to the idea of getting tickets to the Boca vs. River match the night before, but not before all the requisite questions:
“You’re sure it’s going to be great? There’s absolutely no other way to get tickets to this match? No brokers? No street salesmen? No scalpers? No fucking StubHub?! Do you know I need at least two hours of sleep to control bodily functions? Are you aware I cannot be held responsible for sleep-punching?”
His answers, to my dismay, made a lot of sense. There are no brokers, no online sales, no re-distributors. Sleep punches would be returned and soiled underwear would be a problem of my own creation. Rebuffed, I asked around to locals about scalpers. Answer: Tickets are available, and there’s a one in three chance the ticket they sell you is only worth the paper it’s printed on.
We were getting up early. Fuck.
With the sun rising in the background, we made our way to the Estadio José María Minella. I had made concessions to my brain if it would agree to see me through.
“Look, it’ll suck, but we’ll get in, get out, get a bite afterwards, and it’ll be dreamy time again before you can say Chorizo sandwich. Deal? Deal.”
Imagine my dismay when I discovered hundreds upon hundreds of people standing in a staunchly immobile line at the gates of the stadium. The worst part was they weren’t even standing in line FOR anything. It was just kind of...to get in? But there wasn’t a ticket kiosk, or a booth, or anything really. It was a barbed wire gate about twenty feet in height, that led into the stadium. What the hell.
Tomas seemed at peace with this, and I was running on 4% brain power, so in line we stood. A man at the front of the line was handing out pink slips of paper. No idea what for. Finally, I received mine.
“1736”
Okaaaay. 1736. What the hell does that mean? Maybe it guarantees that I waited in line to get into the stadium? Perhaps they need a headcount so they know they’re not overselling? It hurts my head to think, and so I don’t anymore. At least we’re moving forward, to what I’m praying will be a row of ticket windows as wide as a Costco.
Enter stadium. Thousands milling about. Ticket windows absent. No discernible line. Urge to kill...rising.
A man wearing clothing that in no way identifies him as a person of authority or stadium employee barks orders into a megaphone. I will translate what I understood at the time:
“Something something something something something line up on the right.”
No one moves from their claimed spot in the middle of wherever, so I do what any red-blooded traveler with no community standing to destroy would do: I try to cut in line. Moving forward with fleet foot and deft touch, I use years of general admission concert-going and New York sidewalk-maneuvering to make my way to the front. Rather proudly, I stood mere souls from a metal gate that led to a pair of decrepit ticket booths that could easily have doubled as Clint Eastwood's cell in Escape From Alcatraz. I envisioned sleep overtaking me in my soon-to-be revisited hostel bed. The man with the megaphone again lifted the device to his lips, for what I was sure was going to be, “Let’s get ready to rummmmbbbllllle.”
*Squuueeeellllccchhhhhh* “Uno.............. Dos...............”
And people started pulling out their little pink pieces of paper.
I looked at mine again.
"1736"
Somehow, after thousands of matches across dozens of countries, in the world’s most celebrated game, for what is apparently South America’s biggest match of the year, the best way they could think to sell tickets was the deli counter Take-A-Number system. Shoot me. In the face. With all the bullets.
After about an hour, the count had made it to around 300. These are the moments when you question the worth of the game, the value of an experience, the priority of proper rest. I credit Tomas for talking me off the Fuck-It ledge during this time. I complained, he said it would be worth it. I bitched, he played the reverse psychology card. I moaned, he simply ignored me, laid down on the concrete of the stadium concourse - complete with dirt, leaves, cigarette butts not to mention hundreds of people milling about - and promptly passed out. What choice did I have? I was exhausted and out of options. I too laid down fell asleep on the concrete amongst the throngs in the heat of the morning sun, occasionally brushing a Marlboro Light butt out of my hair. I was too tired to be disgusted. After a stretch of fever dream-like rest, I regained full consciousness two and a half hours later with the left half of my face burnt from the horizon-high sun. I couldn’t feel half my body and the other half hurt like the dickens. I rolled over and dirt that had collected in my ears tumbled out. Despite all that, my time spent on the ground felt like an important victory. As I looked up, Megaphone Man called out 1700, and the crowd applauded as they had for every previous round number. By god, It was time to collect our tickets.
As Tomas and I lunched upon a pair of ill-fated sausage sandwiches from a street vendor, I looked over a pair of entirely unremarkable and utterly forge-able tickets. All I could think at the time was that there was no way soccer would be able to make its ticket-buying experience worth it.
Lucky for me we weren't going to see soccer. We were going to see football.
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It was a beautiful day in Mar del Plata. I spent the morning with a dozen Argentinians who were staying at the same hostel, and we went to the beach after having experienced an absolutely insane evening, and early morning, at the clubs the night before.
I laid in the sun most of the day before leaving the beach to buy a Boca team jersey so I could enjoy the atmosphere as a home fan. I returned to the hostel with about three hours to go before game time. I assumed that would be plenty.
Quick background on the game: Boca is the team for an area of Buenos Aires called, not surprisingly, La Boca. It means The Mouth, as in the mouth of the river. As a working class barrio, nothing is more important to the people from the area. It is everyone’s dream to one day play for the team of their heroes. The fans revere the players as gods, and nothing less. Their biggest rival is called River. These teams used to play next to one another years ago, until River moved away a few decades ago, spawning their nicknames as the “gallinas”, or chickens. They play once a year, in Mar del Plata, a supposedly neutral site that skews Boca’s way. They hate each other. As we waited in line the day before, police in riot gear held the divide from the other half of the stadium, where River fans’ tickets were being sold. Yankees - Red Sox? A corporate love fest. Packers - Bears? A family holiday tag football game. This is closer to Huutus - Tutsis.
Mattius, a 22 year-old Argentinian of Italian-Spanish descent, spoke a near-incomprehensible version of Spanish. However I managed to ascertain that he was going to the game with friends, and that it would “be smart for us to join them.” We weren’t really given a choice. Everyone at the hostel agreed Mattius and his friends would look after us. I realized the strength of the rivalry when I was informed that it would be cool to wear my freshly-purchased jersey when I was in the stadium, but I had to keep it stuffed in my pocket on the way to and from it. Mmmmkay.
As we saddled up to leave the hostel, Mattius asked me what I was bringing. “Ummm...my camera...”. He didn’t even let me finish the sentence. Incredulous, he made me put my camera away, and provided the real packing list: Thirty pesos, your ticket and an ID. Believe me when I say I wish I’d had my camera, but knowing what I know now, it was the right call. It was the only call. There’s no way anything important would have made it out of there alive.
We made our way to the stadium in a taxi, jumping out about a mile from the entrance. Police sirens, occasional fireworks (hopefully), and chanting fans greeted our exit from the vehicle. We were entering on the Boca side, and there were no River fans to be seen. It was a good thing too, because they would have been devoured by a screaming blue and yellow throng. These people were not here to fuck around. As we started towards the stadium, the Boca team bus came down the street with a motorcade escort. Traffic stopped as fans flooded the streets to cheer and bang on the bus. The players inside wore a confused look, as if they knew they were gods, but still feared for their lives.
Walking up to the gate, which you’ll remember is a 20 foot barbed wire monstrosity, we passed through a gauntlet of 50 policía in riot gear. Shields, visors, hockey pads, 4 foot clubs. They were not there for friendly chitchat. At the end of the Hallway from Hell, a wall of police waited. We were instructed to go to the rightmost officer, and to spin around with our arms in the air. Full body search. TSA agents have nothing on these guys.
And then we were in. All of a sudden the universal scent of anticipatory pregame was upon me. People were buying hamburgers, people were talking about what might happen, people looked more or less ready for a soccer game. Okay...this feels like normalcy. I wondered aloud what the fuss was all about to get in. Mattius’ one word answer gave me pause: “Patiencia.”
We took up our spot directly behind the goal in the Boca end of the stadium. At the other end, River fans had filled out their section with White and Red. The halves of the stadium were again divided by police presence. The best was yet to come.
As we filed into our standing area, for there were no seats of any kind, I awaited the scene. Across the way, River fans were chanting to the beat of distant drums. You could see their crowd pulsing and moving. I asked Mattius’ friend why Boca didn’t have drums. He turned to his buddies and relayed my question. Belly laughs all around. Silly American, just you wait.
As I stood in my spot, the Boca fans all around me began singing. At first, I couldn’t make out the words, just the notes. I’m telling you, these things were catchy. I would say 50 percent of the crowd was singing in unison at this point and the energy began to build and take hold. And they were doing this other thing. This totally unique thing I’ve never seen before. I don’t even know what to call it.
Take your right hand. Lift your arm and curl your hand towards your face as if making a talking sock puppet. Now, in one loose, fluid motion, flick your arm outward and your wrist backward. Kind of like the old “chin flick eff you” you might find an Italian doing angrily in his car, but farther out from your body. Now do this over and over and over again. This is what the fans do throughout the entire game. The entire game. It’s kind of a cheer, kind of an Arsenio Hall woo-woo, kind of something all its own. Every person’s version of it is entirely unique, like a fingerprint. Some go more upward, some outward. Some have a really loose-wristed flick, while some go for a more Bill Clinton-y extended thumb-over-fist maneuver. No matter how anyone’s version looked, it unfailingly went in rhythm with those around it. I hastily began working on my own sock puppet flick.
Now, the River fans were ready to rumble. Keep in mind, it was still half an hour from the game starting. This was entirely sumo wrestler intimidation technique. Two crowds talking to one another from across the stadium. I watched from afar as bands of white and red cloth were unfurled from the top of the bleachers to the bottom. Hundreds of feet long and about 6 feet across, they looked like giant streamers. We all looked on as a massive flag unfurled from the top of the stadium. It covered hundreds of fans. They cheered through it. After shaking the flag for a minute, a divide appeared in their ranks. From the middle of the crowd to the upper right of the bleachers, a pathway appeared. All of their fans began furiously jumping and sock-puppeting as a parade procession of red and white umbrellas and flag clad soldiers danced their way to the middle. These were their heavy hitters. Their best. The Ultras. Behind them, their drummers marched in, bass hits getting louder with every step. It felt like a prelude to war. Also, I cannot overstate how organic this all looked from afar. It was as if a bee hive was showing its gang colors.
The anticipation in me grew as I knew the home team’s turn to show its tail feathers was coming. You could sense the urgency in my half of the crowd. They were just waiting for River to finish up.
Suddenly, I am shoved to my right as someone shoots past me with a massive length of blue and yellow fabric trailing behind him. To my left and right, the same thing is happening. People are sprinting through the crowd at alarming speed and tying this fabric to guard rails that abut every five rows or so. Again and again we are shoved closer together as the fabric dividers multiply. They smell like musty dog pee, and I can only imagine the colorful history they have witnessed over the years.
I realize the folly of my earlier comment as a drum procession I can only describe as "howitzer-y" begins a grand entrance to the middle of the crowd. The word in Spanish for drums is “tombores”. They call these las bombas, as in “the bombs”. As they enter, our entire half of the stadium pulsates with waves as every fan jumps up and down and does the puppet wrist flick. And like they’ve been schooled since birth, the real singing begins in earnest. Every word, every syllable, is shouted with crystalline clarity, and I catch myself leaning back from the sheer intensity of the moment with watering eyes. Where does all of this come from? Who is in charge of all of this? How does everyone know what to do? It is beyond imagination.
The moment is abruptly cut short, as all I can think is blue-yellow-stink-blue-yellow-stink as a massive flag cascades down upon us from above. My Argentinian friends instruct me to pinwheel my arms forward so as to send the material downward. As it becomes taut, I find myself smack in the middle of the largest, most-populated, foulest tent I ever hope to be a part of. We are awash in blue and yellow light. I look at Tom, and he to me, and we are laughing children. Everyone reaches up to grab a handful of the flag, and with thousands of fans, we swing it left and right in unison to the chorus of the song I wish I knew how to sing. It is a singular moment in my personal library of sporting experiences.
As quickly as it came, the flag disappears back above us. I am shocked to discover that the game is in fact already on. It was like pulling the curtain on a theater production. Where our vertical ribbons of blue and white pass over the metal stadium dividers, section “cheerleaders” stand on the dividers and use the material as a hand hold. They stand, and do the puppet flick, and sing louder than anyone else. And whenever “their” section loses even a bit of vocal momentum, they begin saying “Ayyy...ayyyyy....ayyyy!” in the exact same manner as a New York pedestrian would do to precede “I’m walkin’ here!” And without fail, the crowd grows louder at their demand.
Only halfway through the first half, my shoulder is tired, my throat, shot. Managing to watch only a fraction of the game because of distraction and blocked sightline, I see that River is streaking inward towards goal. A crossing volley. A cracking header. And it’s 1 - 0 bad guys. I slump. I thought that’s what you’re supposed to do when your team goes down a goal. Wrong again. In the ultimate show of machismo, the Boca fans cheer louder. As in, we’re not worried, you can have that one, just you wait. And so we cheer louder. For giving up a goal. I think it’s the weirdest thing ever, but I love it even more for the perfect audaciousness.
Five minutes before the first half ends, Boca gets free for a run down the right wing. A few deft moves. A powerful shot on goal is blocked. The redirect falls right to the foot of a rushing Boca midfielder, and he buries it in the back of the net. Explosion. The scene around me turns into the mosh pit of P.C.P. giveaway night at a heavy metal festival. Every person pushes and shoves their neighbors while screaming “Goal!!!” at the top of their lungs. No one gets angry. You get pushed, you hug the person you land on. You shove someone, they come back smiling. There is no offense. Only love for the team, for the moment, for the insanity of it all. The songs begin again in earnest, this time at a deafening pitch. The concrete stadium shakes. I didn’t know that was possible.
Seconds before the halftime whistle, I feel a wicked smack on my left shin. I look down to see that its source is the back of a young girl’s head. She has passed out and has fallen in a manner that makes her look like a soggy bag of laundry. Before I can even consider what to do, the hive collective seems to have assessed the situation. In the States, the game itself might stop as paramedics are rushed in and bystanders peer over to take a look. Not here. Everyone in the immediate vicinity springs into action. Two guys cradle the girl’s head and prop her up. One girl tears her backpack off and retrieves a bottle of perfume, spraying it repeatedly on the girl’s arm and waving it in front of her face. Just off to my right, a boy unwraps some hard candy and puts it into the awakening girl’s mouth. As she gets to her feet, the crowd, somehow entirely aware of what has happened, opens a vein of space for her to be carried to the top. As soon as she makes her way through, the seam closes and the songs resume. Like nothing had ever happened. It was a totally self-contained, self-governing, self-policing beehive. I’m surprised we didn’t make honey at halftime.
As the game continued, the songs did too, and I came to know some of them well. Some spoke to Boca’s history of winning, and how they would no doubt triumph again. Some spoke to the River “chickens” and how they would no doubt run away again when they witnessed the might of Boca. And finally, when Boca won on a late penalty kick, they sang the song that sympathized with the River fans for their broken balls and sore asses. Swear to god that happened.
As we left, dehydrated, starving and exhausted, the aforementioned ill-fated sausage sandwich caught up with Tom all at once. I’ve never seen someone look so awful. In the absolute chaos that was the streets after the game (we were reminded to remove our jerseys) Tom ended up with his hands on his knees in the middle of the busiest intersection in town, vomiting with every ounce of his remaining strength, blocking the River team bus as it tried to make its way out of town. My penance would come the next day, 24 hours spent no more than 50 feet from a toilet.
Two days later, I’m not even sure how to recommend this to someone in good conscience. The price was heavy, getting in and getting out. To say it’s like riding a roller coaster is to undersell it more than a little. We have no idea what we’re doing in America when it comes to this sport.
Soccer is dead to me now. Long live football.