Corporal mortification is a religious doctrine that postulates a believer can achieve a spiritual goal by hurting him or herself in some way, the pain ranging from denial of pleasures or fasting to severer forms of self-inflicted pain. What does this have to do with Argentinian soccer you might ask? A crawling man. A man on his hands and knees, with only a flimsy soccer jersey protecting him from the fall chill, crawling miles along one of Buenos Aires’ tree lined boulevards, past cafes shops, silent onlookers and one perplexed Canadian. His destination was a stadium, and his spiritual goal, as indicated by a poster pinned to his shirt, was a win for his club, a desperately needed win. The fanaticism and passion associated with soccer in Argentina is often compared to a religion, (surely a man in some weird facsimile of a religious pilgrimage to support his team bears this out), and to someone not brought up in its culture can appear strange and incomprehensible. Experiencing starnge and incomprehensible things is one of the things that draws me to travel, and in a year of such experiences, Argentinian soccer ranks up there with the best of them.
When we decided on spending time in Buenos Aires, experiencing Argentina’s legendary soccer culture was high on our list., so as soon as we arrived, I started watching games on TV and looking into getting tickets to a game. Colleen was not as enthusiastic as I was (she was more interested in the Tango lessons), but she likes sports and doing the local thing, so she got on board pretty easily. I looked into it and found that there were basically two ways to get tickets: at the stadium, where you can get a ticket just like every other porteno (Buenos Aires resident), or through a tour agency with all the tourists. Of course all the travel websites and guidebooks recommend tour agencies in lieu of the do it yourself option citing safety concerns and expediency, but if this past year has taught me anything, it’s that tour agencies should be avoided at all costs. They serve only to isolate you from the experience you are trying to have, and usually charge you dearly for it. So we decided to get the tickets ourselves.
 |
| La Bombanera |
Our first choice was a Boca Juniors game at their home stadium, La Bombanera. From all accounts, this is one of Argentina’s, indeed the world’s, great soccer experiences. So we took the number 29 bus to La Boca, a rough around the edges, working class neighbourhood south of Buenos Aires’ city centre, looking for tickets. Unfortunately, the relatively small size of the stadium combined with Boca Juniors popularity means that tickets are usually in short supply, and the only game that would be played there while we were in town was sold out. The trip wasn’t a waste though. We got to see La Boca, its famously colourful Caminita street, and La Bombanera. Our second choice was Argentina’s other favourite club, River Plate, and a home game at their stadium. El Monumental. We were luckier this time, and were able to get tickets to River’s last regular season home game, a game that would end up playing an important role in what would turn out to be one of the biggest stories in Argentinian soccer in decades: River Plate’s relegation to the B league
 |
| On the way to El Monumental |
Game day was chilly and overcast, a perfect fall day. The bus we took to the game was full of River supporters wearing their colours: white shirts with a diagonal red band. The bus let us off a ways from the stadium, and we walked past smoky roadside food stalls that lined the streets with the rest of the ever growing crowd to get there, the excitement building with every step. Along the way we bought a red and white River hat for Colleen so that there was no question about our new found loyalties. Getting into the stadium was a little bewildering. First there was the security checkpoint. By the time we realized Colleen was the only girl in our line it was too late to turn back and look for the ladies line. When our turn came to be patted down, the policeman looked at Colleen, muttered something in Spanish and pointed to the ladies line. Colleen then tried to explain that it would be OK if he searched her, but he didn’t understand what she was saying. It was only when Colleen raised her arms and spread her legs to show him she was ready to be searched that he got it. He turned a bright shade of red, dropped his eyes to the ground, and quickly waved us through. He was very young.
 |
| view from our seats |
Next were the lines to get in. Each section at the stadium had its own line, haphazardly winding through the streets, crossing each other and intermingling. Confusing for first timers, especially first timers with questionable spannish language skills. we eventually found our way and entered the stadium itself. Through old battered metal doors, down a dark cave like tunnel, up an open flight of stairs clinging to the exterior of the building, onto the terrace and through a large opening to our seats. I’ve been to many stadia for many sporting events in my time, but this was different. As soon as you entered the stadium, you could hear the muffled sound of the crowd. At first it was just a dull noise, but as you penetrated deeper into the structure, closer to the stands, it became clearer, more rhythmic, infecting you with excitement, until you passed through the last gateway and into the stands and were assaulted by the sounds of 50,000 people chanting in unison to the beat of pounding drums, stomping feet and clapping hands. If you’ve never experienced it before, being surrounded and assaulted by that kind of noise, that kind of directed energy, can stop you in your tracks. These chants, supporting the home team or deriding the visiting team did not stop, did not even let up, for the entire game.
 |
| Visitors section |
The stadium was a no frills affair. A dimly lit concrete structure unencumbered by any aesthetic trappings. There weren’t even food or alcohol concessions. Our section was near the top of the stadium, near the section reserved for the visiting side. The visitors are assigned to one section, heavily guarded by police, and separated by empty sections on either side in order to avoid violence. As a matter of fact, when the game is over, the rest of the stadium is prevented from leaving by the police until the visitors section is cleared. It was fun watching the home and visiting fans exchange taunts and hand gestures, but I was thankful for the two high metal fences and hundreds of police separating them.
Although our section was equipped with basic wood benches, seating was not assigned. We managed to get there early enough to get seats, but, being the least expensive, the upper sections were oversold. Our section was particularly crowded, with people crammed into every square inch of available space including the stairs and exits. There was a fair amount of jostling, but no hard feelings. You got the sense that people were used to it. People even helped each other out. We did our part by lifting a young girl out of the crowd and making room for her between us. Her father gave us a thankful nod, but with his daughter’s imminent suffocation averted, he quickly returned his attention to the game. I won’t comment on the merits of handing your daughter over to strangers in order to better focus on a sporting event, but I will say that the act demonstrates a level of intensity and devotion to sports that I had never seen before. This intensity was mirrored in every face that surrounded us. It manifest itself in the attention people paid to the game (no idle conversation or chit chat here), the chanting, the taunting of the away team and their fans, and ultimately in the actions surrounding River’s relegation (more on that later).
 |
| Los Milionarios |
As for the game itself, River ended up losing 2 to 1. No surprise really, their opponent, another Buenos Aires team called Lanus, was a top team, while River was struggling at the bottom of the league. This was a very important game though, and winning was crucial in order to avoid relegation. I won’t go into all the details, but for those who don’t follow soccer and are unfamiliar with relegation, you only have to understand that in soccer, it is as important not to finish at the bottom of the league as it is to finish at the top. The teams at the bottom are sent down to the lower league while the winners of the lower league are sent up to the higher one. Relegation can have dire consequences for a club such as loss of television revenue, lower attendance, and of course the shame of being kicked out of the top flight. In River’s case, it was this shame that would be the worst. River Plate is Argentina’s most successful club, they have won 33 titles have never been relegated in their 110 year history, and they have a huge national and international following. They would be the equivalent of the New York Yankees. River being relegated would be like sending the Yankees to Scranton to play in the triple A league.
 |
| Los Borrachos del Tablon |
Anyway, River's loss forced them into a home and away playoff versus a top team from the B League, Belgrano of Cordoba, which they proceeded to loose on aggregate. This is when the passion and intensity of Argentinian soccer showed its ugly side. Both games were marred by ugly incidents, and riots broke out at the end of the second game. Luckily we were far enough away from the violence that we didn’t witness it firsthand. We were glued to our television though. We watched as River fans charged the pitch to attack their own players during a game, as police fired water cannons into the crowd while fans hurled projectiles at police and players, as the violence spilled into the streets surrounding the stadium (the same streets we had walked only days earlier). We watched hooded youths attack policemen, loot stores and set fires, as armoured cars and mounted police tried to regain order with batons and tear gas. Watched as an entire neighbouhood, not 5 miles from our apartment turned into a war zone. The day after the final game, the home of a club manager was fire bombed.
The violence subsided, but the furor did not. Newspapers and websites were full of stories of the club’s management colluding with hooligan gangs (known as barra bravas in Argentina) to loot the club coffers and bring about the fall of the club. This collusion went so far that the club’s head of security was implicated in leading members of the gang, known by the colourful name of Los Borrachos del Tablon – the drunks of the stands, past security checkpoints in order to threaten the lives of the referees at halftime of the final game. The city, indeed the country seemed to be talking about nothing else. The mayor was accused of not providing enough police because he was loyal to Boca Juniors, River’s fierce rivals, Diego Maradona filed a lawsuit against River’s president as well as the president of the Argentinian Football Association alleging misconduct, and the club’s manager requested an audience with Cristina de Kirchner, Argentina’s president citing national interest! For an outsider, it was all very rivetting, but extremely bizarre.
So there you have it. another amazing experience in a year full of amazing experiences. You would think that there could be too much of a good thing, but I'm not sure I will ever tire of the strange and incomprehensible.
Michael
Buenos Aires,
Argentina
Argentina
