Football South Americano
I have never felt so much a member of this culture as now, cheering for the home soccer team at Riobamba’s Olympic Stadium. Black, brown, and white cease to be a dividing factor. The only colors that matter right now are blue and yellow, but this being my first soccer game in Riobamba, and being that I came alone, I decided to play it safe by arriving in neutral gang colors. I am wearing brown.
My plan was to find the best seat I could in general seating and cheer for whoever the people around me were cheering for. The people to my right are cheering for the away team, represented by the yellow flags that pop up all over the stadium, and the people to my left are cheering for the home team, represented by a lot of maniacal, toothless old men. The people to my left are of the latter category and much fiercer than the people to my right, so I am cheering for the home team.
The stadium is big but not very tall, oval shaped, with one section covered, seats about 20,000, and is undoubtedly used solely for soccer. Around the field is an oval shaped fence with barbed wire on top—and if you are thinking that is a bit unnecessary, you have never been to a national soccer game in Latin America. Around that is a stone walkway that leads to the graduated stone steps that represent the seating. It feels almost as archaic as the Roman coliseum and the fans are just about as bloodthirsty. The national militia is outside with their Humvees and crowd control batons, and vendors line the streets for blocks, which are closed down for the game. General seating is $5. Hats and sunglasses are a must for the hot afternoon sun. And from our view up here in the Buenoaño blimp, it appears the pond fountains in the neighboring Guayaquil Park are functioning beautifully. It looks like a good day for some FÚTBOL!
Before the game, people surround the stadium and the lines are completely unorganized. There are about 6-10 of them weaving in and out of each other, and I’m really only concerned with one of them: the ticket line. I have to go to the source and trace the line backwards from there, performing a figure eight or two before the end is in sight, although the line seems to be growing about as fast as I can walk. I quicken my pace and secure my place in line. However, by the time I get near the ticket booth, the line has apparently changed functions and there is no longer a ticket line. So I jump out of line to pay for my ticket, then osmosis my way through a few more to get around to the side entrance. After observing all the entrance points and counting on my fingers, I still can’t figure out what all those other lines were for.
Ecuador has 14 professional soccer teams. As far as I know, the US has one team, for the Olympics, and I’m not even entirely sure that is still around. So being able to walk seven blocks from my hotel to a professional soccer game is a good deal, not to mention that the best seats are cheaper than parking back home. When I heard we were playing Barcelona today, I was a little surprised, thinking it was a team from Spain rather than the team from Northern Ecuador that it is. And Riobamba’s team is called Olmeda. I don’t know why. Maybe Olmeda is a city in Spain too. The game is sponsored by the Budweiser of Ecuadorian beers, Pilsener. It’s the lonely king of beers, mainly because it’s the only beer anyone drinks here. They don’t even call it Pilsener—they just call it beer.
“Play, faggot!” calls out the man to my left in a voice I am sure is loud enough to hear on the field and I know for a fact is loud enough to impair my hearing. By the way, for a crash course in the potential usage of Spanish cuss words, go to a soccer game. A deluge of whistles cross my ears like those of menacing birds circling overhead. This whistle is the inversion of the whistle used for beautiful woman passing by, sounds similar, but has a vastly different function. The crowd on the other side of the fence nearest the soccer goal is attempting distract the other team’s goalie as he kicks the ball downfield to his teammates. Each sport seems to have this particular type of crowd participation in some form, but none involving so much cursing and gnashing of teeth as Soccer. I have chosen my team wisely. The only repercussion of my decision was that the woman on my right gave me a firm bump with her hips when her team scored. I thought it impolite to thank her.
Most of the people here don’t understand all the hitting and crunching of the Northern sports like Football and Hockey. “For what?” they say. But the medics are carting off more players here than any football or hockey game, and it makes sense when you think about it. These are strong guys, running really fast toward each other without pads, who are trained to kick really hard. And any game where one guy is jumping in the air to hit the ball with his head and the other guy is jumping in the air to roundhouse kick that same ball is bound to have casualties. Still, I think a lot of it is for show ad they’re just looking for some oohs and ahhs between goals. There is almost always some guy lying on the field somewhere, holding some part of his anatomy, and after a while he gets up and shakes it off. I mean, if this was boxing, every hit would be a knockout and the guy would be down for the count two or three times over. And sometimes four medics with obvious red crosses on the backs of their blue jump suits run out with the gurney and make like the guy was shot or something. And once that happens, the player can’t just hop up and wave them off—he has to keep the act going, holding his head at least until he reaches the sidelines—because the friggin’ gurney crew doesn’t come out for nothing.
The most basic custom to follow in the context of the Latin American soccer game is that when your team scores a goal, you stand up, shout “GOOOOAAAAAAAL!” (In Spanish, it is pronounced the same) until your lungs collapse, or just shout anything until your lungs collapse and generally lose your mind. You won’t get the full effect unless you actually lose your mind. It is one of the most exhilarating sensations of mob mentality available short of drinking punch with cyanide, and it is good for the body as well. Then the crowd jumps around, throws confetti or whatever, and taunts the other team, while some people start crawling up the fence and blocking other people’s view, in which case it is customary to throw orange peels and cups of ice water at them until they fall back in rank. If the game gets real intense, you can sometimes witness people crying or pulling out their hair. It’s pretty fun.
But if the game isn’t so intense, and the game is decidedly over, the crowd begins to filter out, stopping at checkpoints along the fence to make sure they don’t miss something, and finally piling up next to the exit until the whistle blows, at which time, if you are at the exit, you will be carried out by the force of the current. Sometimes you won’t even have to walk; just lift your feet up off the ground until outside. At this point the crowd continues to filter into the city like water molecules, taking the shortest path down from the anthill that is the Olympic Stadium. All in all, it is a fun ride, and better for me because I didn’t let the team’s loss ruin a good day.
Tags: Travel
Aaron Baldassare