El Super Clasico
Trip Start
Aug 31, 2007
1
73
90
Trip End
Apr 19, 2008
Mar del Plata, Argentina
Sunday, January 27, 2008
This weekend, the two teams met in a "super clasico" match that had futbol fans I knew waxing lyrical over how there was no greater rivalry in the world, only equal ones, and how this match would be the biggest in South America. Sounded like something I should see, but the match was being held in Mar del Plata, the porteno summer retreat five hours outside of Buenos Aires. Additionally, matches are known to get rowdy and violent, not the kind of event I wanted to show up to alone. Fortunately, there are companies who, for a slightly exorbitant fee, will take gringos to a game. I signed up for one such tour with Johnnie, an avid Irish footballer from my Spanish class.
The tour leaves Buenos Aires at 6 am Saturday morning on an Argentine bus. Greyhound could learn a thing or two from the bus operators of this country, which stretches 3,500 km. The seats are wide and luxuriously comfortable. When reclined, you lie at about 135 degrees and somehow, the seat in front of you isn't right up in your face. I easily sleep all th way to Mar del Plata.
Just another beach resort for the masses, Mar del Plata avoids ubiquitous high rises, but its beaches remain packed. My group carves out a space in the sand (we don't have to report for the game until six) and proceeds to tan. How boring! I'm not really a beach person to start with, but if I'm going to the ocean, by golly (yes, I know it's an odd expression) I'm going swimming. Unfortunately, the water is excessively sandy and after fifteen minutes, it's not much fun playing in the waves alone. The hour until six pass quickly enough, though, and soon we are back at the bus and headed for the stadium.
Last September, I had thought the walk to the Brest Fortress long and grandiose. Well, it turns out that Stalin's got nothing on modern stadium architecture. We walk down a wide avenue, lined with touts selling Boca paraphernalia, hot dogs, and drinks. I hadn't realized this, but for important matches, it is necessary to separate the fans. We will be cheering for Boca tonight. The other half of the stadium and its entrance is reserved for River. I have two tank tops and make sure to wear the blue over the white. Becca's colors are blue and gold, River's, red, black, and white. Wearing the wrong colours on the wrong side of the stadium has been known to be a fatal error.
Evenutally, we reach security, past a wide squadron of riot police. I have brought a small bag with me from the bus to have a more secure place for my camera and money. The pocket's on girl's pants just aren't big enough. Unfortunately, I have left assorted items from the beach in my bag, as well. My water bottle is the first thing to be denied entry. I am told to drink it or chuck it. Even an empty bottle isn't allowed in. Next up is my deodorant and finally, my sunscreen. The girl behind me relinquishes her Vaseline and foundation. It would have been nice if our tour guides had warned us of these security measures. They don't even make sense to me. I assumed that the goal was to prevent us from having anything hard we could throw in the crowd, but my hair brush makes it through, and if an empty bottle is denied entrance, they can't be worried about liquid explosives.
Rather bitter about the loss of my toiletries (sunscreens expensive down here!) I file into the stadium and sit on Boca's cement bleachers with the rest of the tour. It's seven-o-clock and the game won't even start until ten, but already, multitudes of fans are appearing and the next three hours turn into the pep rally the administrators had always wanted at my less than spirited high school.
For starters, several boys futbol teams play each other for half an hour each, to keep us distracted, while vendors wander the crowd selling drinks, hamburgers, sweets, and all manner of Boca merchandise. The best distraction, of course, are the fans themselves, who swing us into all manner of songs dedicated to the glory and prowess of the Boca team. The cheers range from five syllable chants to what I can only assume is the team's theme song, complete with verses and chorus, and sung to a tune rather like John Denver's "You Fill Up My Senses." There must be a CD out there entitled "How to be a Good Boca Fan" with at least twenty tracks, because the new tunes never stop coming. Or maybe they just play them on the radio. My personal favorites are: a seven syllable chant begun in a whisper and raised to a yell, a song going something like, "Gal-le-o, Gal-le-o, Gal-le-Boca, Gal-le-o," and a song listing the singer's priorities, starting with "Argentina" and ending several bars later with "Boca es mi vida." (Boca is my life). A little obsessive, perhaps, but catchy.
Of course, we were not content with our own cheers, and some of River's chants had convenient pauses into which our side would insert a group insult. And it wasn't just singing. There was much bouncing and arm trusting into the air going on, too, rather like a Great Big Sea concert. Watching 8,000 jump in unison might just be better than the wave. For those of you who are curious, 31,279 people attended the event.
As 10-o-clock approached, it became apparent a big to-do was about to happen. As the chanting reached fever pitch, huge blue and gold flags were passed down to the front of the stands and our drum core entered. That's right, our drum core. It's much easier to get 8,000 people singing in unison if you give them a beat.
Finally, the teams entered amid fireworks and the game was started. I did my best to draw parallels between futbol and hockey, the sport I understand the best. More players in futbol, but the end goal is the same. Johnnie asked me, condescendingly, if I could follow the ball on the field. I replied, equally condescendingly, that if I could follow a little black puck whizzing across white ice, I could certainly follow a large white ball being merely kicked around a bright green field. Touche.
I was surprised, though, by how often the players fell over. In hockey, you expect it. They're on ice and wearing ungainly pads, but in futbol? Of course, there were more than a few dives (falls on purpose in an attempt to get the other team a penalty).
The biggest difference had to be in the ball going out of bounds. The puck rarely makes it over the boards, but futbol balls go out all the time. I never did quite figure out how getting the back in bounds works. Seemed rather wishy-washy to me.
Early in the first half, Boca scored a goal and I experienced my first surge. On the cement, you stand for the whole game (makes the bouncing easier, and we wouldn't have all fit sitting down) and when a goal is scored, there is a great move forward, which has the potential to squash and kill the people at the front. Fortunately, I wasn't at the front and it was a minor surge, but it's still an intimidating feeling having a mass of thousands propel you forward.
The goal was followed, of course, by some minutes of particularly fervent cheering, though, the cheering and songs were constant throughout the game, and easily my favorite part as I had quickly decided that hockey was far superior to futbol, and as I prefer singing to both.
In the second half, Boca scored another goal and a mass of River fans left, amid taunts from our side of the field. The game concluded 2-0, a great victory, meriting much celebration on our side, particularly as the riot police wouldn't let us out of the stadium until all the River fans had departed. Somehow, I feel this only delayed the fights, but I'm sure it also let otherwise innocent by-standers get home safely.
Everyone who had something to compare it to agreed that it was a fantastic game, and we made our way back to the bus, falling asleep instantly, and waking up in Buenos Aires again around 7:30.
