I couldn't live in Buenos Aires without seeing what all the fuss was about, so two weeks ago my friends and I headed to the barrio of Boedo to see San Lorenzo take on Vélez Sarsfield. (The fact that I am just now writing this, I assure you, is because it took two weeks for the excitement to taper, and is in no way related to my interminable sloth. Not to be confused with this interminable sloth.)
The game went surprisingly un-hyped considering it was played between the top two teams in the league (standings as of September 24). But that's the dynamic of the league in Argentina. Of the seven clubs based in Buenos Aires, two dwarf the rest in popularity: Boca Juniors and River Plate (linguistic side note: other English team names include Racing, All Boys, Old Boys and Arsenal). No city in any American major league has more than two teams. It's like Los Angeles: Boca Juniors are the Lakers, River Plate are also the Lakers and every other team is the Clippers.
Tourists and foreigners are expected to choose one of the two clubs as their adoptive team, as they win a lot, are resoundingly popular and have tourist-friendly stadiums. My friend Ian, who is in his second semester here, inexplicably roots for San Lorenzo, a team whose stadium he is fearful to enter alone. He told me the stadium's the team's hooligans — who stand in the expansive "popular" section of bleachers behind the goal — are notorious for mugging people, starting fights and peeing on the people below them mid-game. Pshaw, I thought. Sounds like an average Thursday night.
So we got a group of four together and took a bus down to the stadium, stopping at a cafe to enjoy a local microbrew before the match. The microbrew happened to not be a microbrew at all, but five liters of Quilmes, the Budweiser of Argentina. Or at least that's what we expected; turns out the only beer available was Budweiser, the Quilmes of the United States. Ah, Budweiser, my old friend, I thought. I haven't seen you since college.
The four of us then headed to the stadium, which was conveniently located in the heart of an area I affectionately referred to as "Shantyland." I'm sure the throngs of people walking to the stadium made the place safer for the day, but that did not stop Anthony and me from getting a bucket of water dumped on us from a second-story window. The culprit escaped unidentified, which is lucky for him, because I was giving some pretty menacing (read: terrified) looks from below.
The game was slated to start at 4:30 p.m., so we were a little puzzled when we arrived at 4:27 and it had the action had already begun. This fact is memorable in that is the first known instance of something in Buenos Aires starting before its scheduled time. We found our way to our section (not the hooligan zone), but our seats were occupied. We squirmed our way through our row and showed the seat-takers our tickets. They apologized and relinquished the seats, and after the game we talked football over a nice microbrew.
But then I woke up, and I was still standing awkwardly in front of a bunch of guys passively showing them my ticket, blocking rows and rows of fans behind them, who judging by their looks of consternation and implementation of an impressive array of vulgarities, were none too pleased with our display of courage. We retreated to the stairs, where we stood for the remainder of the first half.
While standing, I was able to take in the scenery. To my left was the notorious popular section. Thousands were packed in there, all jumping, waving flags, banging on drums, pumping their fists and shouting their team songs. Practically everyone was decked out in a San Lorenzo jersey, which I was considering buying but was dissuaded when I saw their prominently displayed corporte sponsor.
All Walmarts aside, the energy in the stadium was contagious. When the popular section started a chant, the rest of the stadium joined in. When a San Lorenzo player got knocked down, the stadium erupted. I didn't even know the words. I just shouted a sustained "ohhhhhh" and threw in a "San! Lo! Ren! Zo!" every now in then when it seemed appropriate. I got into the fist pumping as well, which is done with the index and middle fingers pointing out, almost as if taunting the opposing team's fans. Because apart from the game being played on the field, the fans are also competing against one another, and are equally competitive as the players. Every San Lorenzo shot that went just wide of the goal was applauded and cheered almost as much as if it had gone in the net.
Not that I would know, of course. The game ended in a 0-0 draw, so I have yet to experience my first goal. I suppose this means I have to go back now.
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| The popular section |
Highlights of the game:
- Getting our seats back. The guys in our spots left at halftime and didn't come back. I jumped on the opportunity and reclaimed what was rightfully ours. I even offered to sit in the seat closest to the aisle, so in case they did come back, I would do all the talking. I spent much of the second half praying that wouldn't happen.
- The near-brawl that occured after the game. Once the final whistle blows, the opposing team's fans, who are allotted a sliver of seats in the corner of the stadium, have 30 minutes to exit the stadium, while the home team's fans must remain. (I imagine the type of environment that produced that rule is brawl-conducive.) While the Vélez fans were exiting, some San Lorenzo fans attempted to break through the barrier separating the two sides with a makeshift battering ram before they were stopped by police. Several fans from both sides began throwing chairs and other objects over the tall metal barrier. Nothing became of the altercation, although apparently the cops resorted to teargas at some point.
- This kid:
I had my camera on him for much of the second half but was unable to catch him during one of his adorable angry fist pumps.
The next day, I told another international student I went to my first game. "Cool!" she said. "Boca or River?"
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