A Fútbol game in Buenos Aires

I’m immersed in a hotbed of sweat, testosterone and cigarette smoke, carried by the rhythmic waves of the crowd around me, and fully aware of the fact that tonight is going to be one of the most memorable moments of my Argentina experience.

It’s Thursday evening and I arrived in Buenos Aires last night.  I threw my bags down in the hostel and asked Juan at the reception desk for entertainment ideas.  He suggested that I check out a soccer (fútbol) game, and then casually asked if I’d like to join him.   Sure, why not?  It’s not like I’ve got anything better planned…

We meet at five for a 7 p.m. game. (The two-hour lead time in a culture that eschews the importance of punctuality should hint at how passionate Argentines are about their fútbol.)  I come out dressed in jeans, heels and a tight tank top with a tote thrown over my shoulder.  Juan takes one look at me and says “No.”   Not knowing what I’m in for, I take his fashion advice and come back out wearing a more loose-fitting t-shirt, jeans, sneakers and a backpack.   “Mejor,” Juan says, “vamos.”

We take the subway (Súbter) to Belgrano, a northern Barrio of Buenos Aires and walk through the neighborhood to the stadium.   Juan offers to carry my backpack and I struggle for a moment.  My cautious voice reminds me that I’m a single woman, traveling alone with a stranger in a dodgy neighborhood on the outskirts of a foreign city, and that this guy could run with all my things in a second.  But the traveler in me knows that refusing to accept his chivalrous offer will put a shield between me and my host and cloud the evening with a strange awkwardness.  The traveler wins and I give him my backpack, but only with a half-hearted level of trust that holds him in my peripheral gaze along with the questionable-looking locals we pass on the sidewalk.

In ten minutes I can tell we’re close to the stadium by the increasing number of red-and-white River-Plate jerseys, many with the name of Diego Maradona on the back.  River Plate is our team.  It’s named after the Río de la Plata, the river that flows through Buenos Aires.  Maradona, if you don’t know, is a former Argentine soccer player unanimously regarded as the best player of all time by the Argentines and just as unanimously rejected as such by the Brazilians.  Just go to a bar with a Brazilian and an Argentine and you’ll see what I mean.   It’s an ongoing, beautiful, passionate battle fought with friendly bitterness between the two cultures, and it will probably continue for at least another decade.

The crowd seems fun and the atmosphere is light, but there’s a subtle undertone of caution, a vestige of the violence that has ensued at games prior.  Juan warns me several times to beware of the crowd as he clutches my backpack.  We pass through several security checks, getting frisked at each one.  Luckily, they have a line for women, staffed by women, so I can let my guard down.  But, as I pass through the third one I feel two hands suddenly grab my breasts. Ah!  I look up and see a woman in a security uniform.  “Discuple,” she says.  Juan explains to me that she was checking for a gun in my holster-bra.  Ah. Right.

Juan and I climb to the upper terrace to wait for his cousin, and I soak up the view of the sun setting over the Buenos Aires skyline.  Juan finds someone with a cigarette and lights one for both of us.   (Already-lit cigarettes are like currency in this place, given that all matches and lighters are confiscated at the door.) I smoke and watch the fans entering the stadium, increasing in number and in pace as we get closer to game time. To the right I see a mass of people – some carrying huge drums — that looks like a parade.  “What’s that?” I ask Juan and he replies, “La Mafia.”  Hm. Mafia? I tell him I’d like to sit as far away from them as possible.  Little do I know…

When Juan’s cousin arrives we walk toward our section and I notice they’re bringing me closer to the mafia.  The mafia, in itself a huge mass of people, is now surrounded by a hoard of red-and-white t-shirts and hats.   Someone hits a drum once and the crowd explodes into song.  I can’t make out what they’re saying, but does it matter?  Hats waving in the air, fans moshing to the beat, men taking off their shirts, and the energy level beginning to soar, this is the beginning of a sing-along that won’t end until about an hour after the game.

After a few songs I follow my two Porteños into the stadium and we squeeze ourselves into the River Plate section.  Three-quarters of the stadium are adorned in red and white, for River Plate.  The other one-fourth is blue and red for the competing team, San Lorenzo,   The game has already started.  The fans are jumping, singing, smoking, sweating.  Some are in the bleachers and others are standing on a 6-inch wide ledge, maintaining their balance by holding the end of a long banner, the other end of which is several stories up, held by another crazy fan.  In other words, if someone lets go…

I can barely see through the crowd but I try to watch the game, regardless.  I watch for a while, and I’m waiting for someone to score, but nothing happens. All around me the fans are still jumping and singing.  Oh, look, a player is down.  The fans keep jumping and singing.  Did anyone notice that?  Hm. Nobody cares.  They’re still jumping and singing.  The player’s back up, the game continues, and the fans continue to jump and sing.  Both goals continue to elude the ball and the players keep running and kicking.  The fans are jumping higher and faster and I’m getting bounced around like a soccer ball, but still no goal.  They’re singing louder and they’re sounding worse! “Te amo, te amo River Plate.” I’ve heard this song five times already but nobody cares!   Still jumping and singing, they’ve now added gesticulations to the mix, and those who aren’t gesticulating are smoking.  Twenty minutes pass, then another fifteen and another ten, and I’m wondering if anything is ever going to happen.  The energy is soaring, nobody’s scoring, we’re all on edge knowing that any second something is going to happen when finally River Plate hits the ball into the goal and…

BRRAAAHLLLAAHHHHAAA!

The crowd has an orgasm.

One and a half hours of built-up energy explodes into shirt-throwing, sweat-spraying cheers, grunts, high-fives and body slams.  I’m sandwiched between two bare-chested men I don’t know and find myself throwing my fists in the air and screaming from my gut at a level that will leave me voiceless tomorrow.  The energy in the stadium shifts from passionate tension to passionate pride and I’m instantly friends – no, family – with everyone on the River Plate side of the Estadio Monumental Antonio Vespucio Liberti.

The orgasm ends, more cigarettes are lit, the singing resumes and the game continues for another fifteen minutes. When the game ends with a score of 1-0, the River Plate fans are held inside the stadium until the San Lorenzo fans have fully left the stadium.  We wait and sing.  We wait some more and sing.  We walk out, singing, and as we leave the stadium the singing gradually gives way to conversation.

We end the night with a celebratory bottle of Quilmes at the rooftop bar of Hostel Giramondo, overlooking the streets of Palermo Soho, and I lean back into my chair and smile at Juan.  This is going to be a great trip.

Written By:  Sheryl S.