Futbol Frenzy

After having seen the scene in El Secreto de sus Ojos that takes place in Avellaneda at a Racing Club fútbol game, Erin and I (and the boys) were excited when Hanno called to invite us to join his family at a game between Racing and San Lorenzo. We were a little concerned about bringing the boys, but Hanno had purchased seats in the platea area and not the popular one so we would actually be sitting among the fanatics and not standing in a crush of crazed club partisans. Also, we would be joined by their friend, Damian, and his son. Naturally, we jumped at the invitation.

I had to referee a game beforehand, so Erin, the boys, and Paula and her kids picked me up outside the pool in her mother's car. Soon we were crawling along the highway toward the Avellaneda and the game. About halfway there we heard police sirens behind us and a few seconds later two police motorcycles drove passed us escorting one of the many buses bringing San Lorenzo fans to the game. It reminded me of the buses that used to take co-eds from Westwood to Pasadena on fall Saturdays, but I didn't see any kegs through the window nor any sorority girls and frat guys holding red plastic cups and chanting 8-clap claptrap; nevertheless, it was clear the bus riders were primed for the game, wearing their maroon and navy blue flying San Lorenzo flags in the windows.

Once we had parked the car a few blocks from the stadium and met up with Hanno, Damian, and his son, John Luca, we began to walk quickly through the streets to the game, which was about to start. Almost immediately we were running into obvious signs that the barrio had nothing else on its mind. There were vendors everywhere offering all kinds of Racing stuff laid out on the sidewalk: flags, horns, shirts/jerseys, balls, etc. We managed to turn away the first fifty-seven or so before breaking down and buying one for Jack.

There were also many offers to eat choripanes and wash them down with soda, which we resisted. The air was full of sausage-flavored smoke, music and yelling filled our ears, and all around us people were streaming toward the stadium. Since we were almost running to get there before the beginning of the game, I was holding Quinn's hand (and Erin had slipped Jack's into hers) and at one point I felt him squeeze my palm; I noticed a short line of riot-gear-clad policemen guarding a barricade blocking a short lane that led into the stadium. It was obvious Quinn was thrilled at the sight of bulletproof vests and helmets, and freaked out by what the need to be so protected portended. But that was nothing; the next strange sight he saw was three or four men urinating on the tires of the buses that lined the road leading to the gate everyone was streaming toward. I figured it wasn't the time to tell him about when I held my bladder all the way down to Jack Murphy Stadium because Rob wouldn't stop along I-5 (because The Who doesn't wait for anyone) forcing me to explode against the first tire I saw in the parking lot...

With the stadium looming up in front of us we walked through lines of more riot police, some astride horses and others just staring through us with their black boots planted on the ground. Somehow we found the tunnel we were supposed to enter through - by this time it seemed as if no one knew where to go, so everyone (mostly men) was either running around yelling or sprint-walking after the heels ahead - and we began climbing the dark stairways Isidoro Gómez ran through (sorry if you haven't seen the movie) to escape E(s)posito and Morales. Once we had ascended to the level our seats were on we exited the dark tunnel and caught our first sight of the field and the inside of the stadium.

What you can't see in the picture is what we heard immediately: songs sung by the fans, especially when the teams entered the field and were going through the line shaking hands. With my still meager (but growing) understanding of Castellano, I wasn't fortunate enough to enjoy the beauty and poetry of the lyrics, but I think Sofía's facial expression (she's the one in pink) gives enough of a sense of their power to move hearts...

The game was exciting but San Lorenzo scored the first goal, putting pressure on Racing and sending them into the halftime break down by one; nevertheless, the fans were still singing and screaming at the San Lorenzo section non-stop. The enemy fans were sequestered at one end of the stadium in a section of their own, separated from the rest of us by an empty section on each side, and guarded (or kept captive, depending on your point of view) by a small line of riot police on each side.

Finally, in the second half, Racing scored the equalizer (I learned that phrase from one of those British announcers ESPN hired during the World Cup to make their broadcast sounds really authentic). The crowd went wild.

None of us could believe the energy with which the fans kept up the singing, screaming, pointing and waving. And it wasn't just those in the popular section, filled with the ones who stood all game and became one rabid, raging body of blue and white. Up in the platea area the songs were just as passionate, if not always angry and confrontational.



Generally though, as Paula put it, everyone there was taking out all the anger of the week - at demanding bosses at work, at never-satisfied wives at home, at misbehaving sons and daughters... - and hurling it at San Lorenzo with stinging venom. One twelve-year-old boy to our right filled the air with so many obscenities that I have to believe that life in Argentina for preteens must be like forced twenty-four hour (minutes? seconds?) exposure to Fox News Network programming or some other enhanced interrornation techniques.

I guess I should mention, though, that not everyone watched the game. With the crowd separated from the field by a narrow moat that actually didn't appear filled with much water, and a five-foot-high cement wall, there was an open area left in front of the stands, where some of the kids began to play their own game...

Unfortunately, sometime in what must have been around the seventy-fifth minute or so San Lorenzo scored the final goal of the match and went on to win. Although everyone was disappointed, I was surprised that no one appeared to be making plans to attack the San Lorenzo fans, who were literally shooting fireworks from their section into the air, or to shower them with the flares that people kept igniting in the Racing popular section. Once the game ended, though, we had to remain in our seats for almost thirty minutes, until after the San Lorenzo fans exited not only the stadium but the entire neighborhood. We actually left our seats too soon, following others into the tunnel, only to be met by a lowered gate that prevented us from getting to the ground level (one wonders what the local fire marshal thinks of this practice, though I know the choripan vendor at the top of the tunnel's stairs had no argument).

Once the gate rose we flowed out of the stadium with the subdued fans, and back into the streets of Avellaneda to return to our car. The last highlight of the night was sitting in traffic and once again hearing police sirens, this time coming from patrol cars escorting the San Lorenzo team in their double-decker bus. The players were slouched below the tinted windows, either exhausted from the game or staying below the sight of stone-throwers. And although we had to wait for them to break into our line of cars and drive away, we were still far too ecstatic from our great night to care about a few more minutes of stand-still.