(With apologies to Andy Griffith)
One afternoon, we walk from our apartment over to the nearby Estadio Monumental, home of Club Atlético River Plate, one of the two most famous fútbol clubs in Argentina. It's about a twenty-minute walk through quietly middle-class neighborhoods and parks. The other main Argentine club, and River Plate's historic rival, is Boca Juniors; the Boca home stadium is called La Bombonera (the Chocolate Box) due to its shape. Boca is on the other side of the city, by the old docks along the Riachuela – a decidedly working-class district. This is our third attempt to get tickets for a game.
Our first attempt was for the "Superclásico," the main game of the year, held at La Bombonera, between Boca and River. In Argentina, this game is a really big deal. We found out the Fall (Clausura 2010) Superclásico would be played about a week after our arrival, and it's one of those events not to miss – at least, until you hear the price. Seats in the "Populares" section are probably not all that much, but that's where the rowdies sit. And unless you're up for some serious head-banging, it's probably a good place for older Gringos to avoid. In fact, the whole area around La Bombonera is a bit dicey and tourists are advised to buy tickets through a tour agency that can get you to your seat, and safely out of there after the game. We called the Tangol agency and found that the cheapest seats would nail us for US$200 each. Yikes! Their other seats were US$400 each! And the seats were not even in the best areas because those are reserved for the Members who buy season tickets. We decided to think it over.
That's a lot of money for seats at a game – especially seats in a poor location. But the Superclasico is one of those 'world events' you should experience while you're still among the living. The Observer, from Britain, ranks it as the number one sporting event in the world (out of fifty) that you should attend before you die. We're here now, we reasoned (actually, I reasoned; Carolyn didn't care much one way or the other), and it would cost thousands to come back for a game. I called them back the next day and said we'd take two of the US$200 seats. Then they told me all those were now sold, and all they had left were the US$400 seats. Eight hundred bucks for two seats! I thanked them for their time, and we decided to watch it on TV instead.
We made some sandwiches, opened a can of salted almonds and a liter of Quilmes beer, and settled in to watch the pre-game craziness. It was raining, and the fans (with painted faces and team shirts) were arriving in foul weather gear. The stadium was really starting to rock. Soon the field was blanketed with team-colored streamers, paper flyers and other garbage tossed from the stands, and there was a squad of guys trying to clean up the soggy mess so the game could start. Players and coaches grabbed handfuls of debris and tossed it to the side. By now the rain had intensified, and the garbage was soaking wet. It was pouring buckets onto the field. There were standing puddles in the grass. Officials were gathered in conversation, wiping off the rivulets of water streaming from their brows, and trying to decide if starting made any sense at all. In the stands, thousands of fans – their shirts off and their bodies painted – were screaming for the battle to begin.
Whistles were blown and the game began. The players left wakes as they charged through the puddles, wiping rain from their faces so they could see the ball. When they slipped on the wet grass and slid across the ground, they sent rooster-tails into the air. A player would nudge the ball to a team-mate and watch it stop cold in the standing water. Both players would run past the dead ball, and look up in exasperation. So much for finesse, and years of training! After 11 minutes of this foolishness, the game was called and postponed to the following Thursday. At that point, not getting a ticket seemed like a good thing.
The next Thursday was a beautiful sunny day – just right for a game. We kicked back in front of the tube and watched the clean-up crews – now using leaf-blowers – try to remove more mountains of flying paper and debris from the field. But there was a breeze flowing through the area and the stuff just swirled around and back onto the field. It was another ridiculous spectacle, and we wondered why they didn't have shop-vacs instead. Finally they gave up and started the game – debris and all.
Throughout the game, there was the usual din of competing team songs being sung by the crowds of fans – Boca at one end of the stadium and River at the other. And in the end, Boca defeated River. It was a good game, with only a few minor scuffles, but it still wasn't like actually being there to experience the passion of Argentine fútbol. I couldn't imagine being in Argentina – one of the most fútbol-crazy countries in the world – and not going to a game at one of the more famous stadiums in the world.
My sister Elyse came to visit and we decided to put a game on her schedule so she'd get the full Argentina experience – this time at nearby El Monumental, home of Club Atlético River Plate (CARP). The game was to begin at 9:00 p.m. So we walked over to the stadium, which seemed strangely dark, only to find that it's an Away game. The next Home game is after Elyse departs. So much for that plan.
The following Wednesday afternoon Carolyn and I walk back over to the stadium to buy tickets for the seven o'clock game that night. While walking through the peaceful Nuñez neighborhood we notice there's already a strong police presence. We figure they're probably setting up barriers to keep traffic out of the residential area. As we draw closer to the stadium, it's clear that this is only part of the early preparation for the night's game. There are cops and security everywhere erecting temporary barriers and maintaining an armed vigil around the stadium. We knew that Argentines were passionate about their fütbol, but it's different when you see all the precautions right there on the ground in front of you.
We find the ticket window and get two seats in the more expensive Belgrano area. They tell us we will enter the stadium through Gate 5. For some reason, this seems important to them. River will be playing Newell's Old Boys, a team from Rosario originally founded by British expats and now one of the better teams in the country. It should be a good game. And this time the tickets cost 160 pesos each, or about 40 bucks apiece. That's more like it.
We have a few other questions for the ticket seller. Carolyn asks about food. Yes, they sell hamburgers in the stadium, and sodas. I ask if we can get a beer during the game. He looks surprised, laughs, and simply answers "No, Señor." But his laugh and his expression says so much more: "Beer? In a soccer stadium? In Argentina? Are you crazy?" A simple, naive question gives us another glimpse into the national psyche. No wonder there are so many cops around the stadium.
That evening we head to the stadium early to be there for the kickoff. As we pass through the usually-quiet Nuñez neighborhood again, we notice the cops seem to be allowing some traffic through the area. A busload of Newell's fans passes us. They're singing loudly and one is leaning out the window and banging on the outside of the bus. We come to a roadblock that's heavily manned by police and they ask us if we have tickets to sit on the Newell's side. When we say no and show them our River tickets, they look concerned and tell us we'll have to go about 6 blocks over to enter the stadium in the area that's cordoned off for River fans. We start to get the picture. This is the Newell's entry area. We are potentially in some danger just being in this area. The cops are working hard to keep the fans separated – widely separated (they even enter on opposite sides of the stadium) – and keep the violence to a minimum.
The cops let us through a roadblock so we can walk over to the River area and join a huge throng of people headed for the stadium. Shortly, we come to a police barrier where everyone is searched for weapons(!). It's a lot like trying to get on a plane these days, except we each get an actual pat-down on the way through. There's a special line for the women, and I wait for Carolyn while she gets frisked.
Finally, we get to Gate 5 and head inside to find our seats. We're hungry, so Carolyn goes off to get a couple of hamburgers and cokes. I look around and study the layout. The Newell's fans are at one end of the stadium in a fenced-off area, protected by high partitions. They have a band with lots of blaring horns and a very large drum section that is playing (or whatever) very loudly. They will continue to play all through the first half. The Newell's fans are loudly singing their fight song.
The River rowdies are a much larger group, and they're also in a fenced-off area with high partitions (to keep them in the cheap seats, I'd guess) at the other end of the stadium. They have a bigger band, and the din from their end is even louder than the Newell's fans. All of this noise will continue until the halftime break. I had heard this phenomenon as some kind of background noise whenever I watched a soccer match on television, but it's an entirely different experience when you're right there in the stadium. In a US football game, the referees would call time until the crowd quieted down so the quarterbacks could call their plays. That doesn't happen at a fútbol match. They just play through the noise.
Each new group of fans (called hinchas) arrives carrying a large banner proclaiming their neighborhood, or other affiliation, which they hang from the railings, like laundry. As we look around the stadium there appear to be no more than a couple dozen women in the entire place. Fútbol is really a guys' sport.
The game begins and the noise, remarkably, increases. We're sitting with a mostly older group of guys who are long-time fans. But they're still a very vocal bunch. One of them is yelling his dissatisfaction at one of the young players: "¡Tiene hielo en su cuerpo! ¡Que corra la sangre! ¡Tiene veinte años y no puede correr!"("He has ice in his body! Let the blood run! He's twenty years old and he can't run!"). At any age, the fans in Argentina are still very serious about the game. We've noticed in our wanderings through the city that, after many games, busloads of fans of the victorious team ride through city streets with a police escort, screaming, singing, and waving flags from the windows. Maybe that's where all these guys will be, after the game. At halftime, the singing, drum-banging, and horn-blaring ceases while each team regroups. It's a welcome respite.
After the break, play resumes, and so does the incredible din. But despite it all, River goes down to defeat. Again. They will lose another game or two in the next few weeks and the team will go looking for a new coach. It's not a good era for the fabled River Plate team, one of the oldest in Argentina and past winner of numerous national championships. Boca, their arch-rival and home to the famous Diego Maradona, isn't doing too well these days either. In fact, Lionel Messi, who's currently the top Argentine player in the world, and now playing for Barcelona, came from neither River nor Boca. He came from Newell's.
After the game, we notice that nobody around us seems to be making any effort to leave the stadium. We speculate that maybe they're still just enjoying the rosy glow of being in the stadium, or maybe they're still licking their wounds after the defeat. But then I notice that the Newell's fans have left their end of the field. All the seats at their end of the stadium are empty. After a bit, Carolyn and I decide we should go, and we head for the exit door, only to find it blocked by a squad of large Policias. We finally realize that's why the fans weren't heading for the exits. None of the River fans is being allowed to leave the stadium until the Newell's fans have at least a half-hour head start for home. It becomes clearer why they don't sell any kind of booze at these events.
They finally open the doors and we join a flood of humanity headed away from the area, past vendors still hawking hats, shirts, flags, choripanes, soda pop, and ice cream. For many, the night is still young and the party has just begun. For us, it's time to head back to the apartment and rest up for another day of exploring the remarkable city of Buenos Aires.
But the night has been quite an experience, and now we have a much better understanding of the kind of pasión that surrounds the game of fútbol in Latin America. Especially as Argentina and most of the rest of the civilized world gears up for the 'Mundial' – the World Cup – beginning June 11, 2010.
The Argentine squad is always one to watch in the World Cup. A recent internet post put it this way: "The Argentinean squad is filled with star players like Messi, Aguero, Mascherano, Tevez, Higuain…the list goes on."
Team Coach Diego Maradona has said that, "…to beat this team our rivals will have to put all their beef on the grill.”
I'm not too sure how many of us want to watch Maradona put his "beef on the grill." But, if you have any interest in the World Cup, Argentina usually makes it an exciting experience (although I have to confess I'll be rooting for México).
Speaking of which, this important late-breaking news item just in:
The Argentine World Cup Team Doctor, Donato Vallani, recently announced that players can have sex with their regular partners during the World Cup Tournament in South Africa.
In a radio interview in Buenos Aires, he said that, "The players can have sex with their wives and girlfriends during the World Cup. Players are not Martians."
"But," he added, "it should not be at 2 a.m. with champagne and Havana cigars."
He also said the players could still enjoy Argentina's specialty — barbecued beef — with a glass of wine. Excess drinking remained prohibited.
In separate news, Team Coach Diego Maradona made a promise during a different radio interview that he'll run through the center of Buenos Aires naked if the team wins the World Cup.
"If we win the World Cup, I'll get naked and run around the Obelisk," he said, referring to the tall monument that stands at the center of the city.
And we won't even be there to watch it (sigh). Still, with their country facing so many insurmountable problems, it's good to see that Argentines are focused on something that really matters: fútbol.
More info:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Club_Atlético_River_Plate
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Boca_Juniors
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Newell's_Old_Boys