Argentina just won the World Cup so here’s a story about the first soccer game I saw in Latam, which just so happened to be in Argentina.
I remember two things from my first trip to Argentina. The first is that I ate steak for lunch and dinner for eight days in a row. The second is the story of my first proper Latin American soccer experience. This is that story.
I grew up in North Carolina, the land of college basketball. While fans there are passionate, it feels like afternoon tea with the Queen. I’m fired up about watching soccer and eager to find out if fandoms get as wild as I’ve heard.
Boca Juniors is the name of the best team in the A-league of Buenos Aires. The team is the focal point of the storied tradition of Argentina’s soccer history. But we are not watching the Boca Juniors. We are not even watching a match of the league they play in. We are watching a team called “Los Estudiantes” in the D-league.
Our hotel hired a local to give us the true futbol experience™. We met this gentleman in the lobby of our hotel, where he explained that getting into the stadium was a complicated process.
He spoke to us as if we were spies on a secret mission. “When we arrive outside the stadium, do not leave the group. Do not make eye contact with anyone else—keep your eyes on me the whole time. Follow me and walk with purpose,” he said.
We hopped in the van, and after a cinematic golden hour drive through Buenos Aires, we pulled into a poorly lit parking lot. We pile out of the van like fledglings out of a nest and follow our guide towards a dark, ominous structure in the distance. Imagine if Sauron’s tower was a soccer stadium and you get the idea.
We pass by empty streets and storefronts. Eerily quiet. No one around except for a few Argentines wearing jerseys walking in the same direction. After a few blocks, more and more people have appeared. Ice cream carts hawk sweets on the corners. We are now walking as part of a crowd, bustling with energy.
<missing something about how we lost our sense of place. Maybe a frodo reference>
At this point, I have no idea where Sauron’s dark stadium is. We turn several corners, walk down an alley, and turn a final corner. We cross a magical threshold. Suddenly, vendors scream at us to buy jerseys and food on the left side of the street. On our right, a group of men huddle around flames dancing out of an oil drum. The scene is 50% street celebration, 50% post-war apocalyptic urban hell.
We walk onward.
50 yards later and the stadium comes into view. Our guide distributes the tickets, directs us through metal detectors, and weaves us through the brutalist maze that is the stadium. A few stairwells and winding paths later, we settle into hard, concrete bleachers.
The girls in our group ask for the bathroom. Our host explains the route there with the immediacy and seriousness of a squad commander directing a special ops mission. But it turns out it’s not too complicated. They return minutes later, relieved but annoyed at the lack of toilet paper.
We wait for the game to start. Cheering, fireworks, songs that everybody except us knows by heart. The atmosphere is electric. I am pumped.
Stadium staff on the field have set up a massive inflatable tunnel stretching from the field entrance to the sideline. Our guide explains that this is for the visiting team and the referees. Thanks to the tunnel, they can walk on the field without the crowd pelting them with bottles and cans. Now I am even more pumped.
Start time is minutes away. I scan the stadium: the energy rising, palpable, bubbling. The referee emerges from his tunnel and walks to center field for kick off.
Seconds later, the game begins. After one or two passes, something happens: beautiful white streamers launch from the bleachers onto the field. It’s breathtaking. Radiant, brilliant cloud-colored arcs sail through the sky and pile up on the grounds.
The players play on, the crowd erupting with joy.
It was at this moment that two things occurred to me: I knew why they called it the beautiful game. And I knew what happened to the toilet paper.
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Thanks to early reader: Taylor Foreman