madness grows around me
A large white van pulls up by the roadside. Tires bald. Windows tinted. Anonymous.
People go missing every day in Argentina. They have their bank balances cleared and are never seen again. The doors open and a balding man with a broken nose jumps out. He twitches. Sucks the life out of a cigarette. We are told to get in. No one would even know we were gone.
The balding man at the front of the van is a caricature. A badly sketched version of a South American con artist, or worse. His voice is scratchy and all over the place. His eyes look like a road map with streets and highways snaking out from his pupils in red. He apologises for his appearance. Groans about his head. He opens a bottle of coke. Says it’s time for breakfast. My watch tells me it is 3pm.
A portly Canadian sits at the back of the van. His words twang at the end when spoken. He wants to know why we must leave so early for the match. Kick-off isn’t until 6:00.
The balding man throws his cigarette out of the window and turns around in his chair. He says it’s complicated: You can’t just turn up to the match ten minutes before it starts. There are rules that must be followed.
The Canadian doesn’t know when to give up. “What’s the worst that could happen?” he asks.
The balding man’s lips curl up at the sides. A hint of sadistic glee lights up his face. He says three words, “You could die.”
The Canadian looks like he is trying to suppress a painful fart. The balding man turns back in his seat and smiles loosely, enjoying the words that have stumbled out of his mouth. He wasn’t lying. Since football turned professional in 1931, roughly 250 people have died as a direct result of football related violence. Two hundred and fifty people in the wrong place. At the wrong time. In the wrong team colours.
We drive towards La Boca. Our van passes through streets marked with potholes and framed with crumbling buildings. Graffiti is everywhere. A group of young boys kick a football down a side-street, laughing carelessly. The skinny man tells us to never come here on our own.
From the wrong side of town, Boca Juniors are the working man’s club, where the poor come from off the street to get rich off 90 minutes of athletic theatre. Don’t let their humble surrounds fool you, Boca Juniors don’t beg, steal or hijack matches. They have some 50 titles to their name, they have the history and they have the players. They have a home ground that I’ve been told is a cauldron of madness and the backdrop to sporting fine art.
We near the stadium and our van is consumed by a heaving mass of slow moving people. The road moves like we are stuck behind a conga-line of geriatrics. The masses wear blue and yellow. Trumpets go off in the street. Our vehicle inches forward and then not at all. The doors open and the trumpets become louder. Piercing. We are told to get out. Stay together.
We walk to a police check, where we are all patted down. Thoroughly. It’s pleasant enough, but I leave feeling cheap. Used. I wonder if I should leave a tip.
We enter the stadium. Concrete seats spill down in front of us to the edge of the football pitch. The best seats look taken, but there are five rows at the very front that are free. They stand clear in the sunshine, unobstructed from the extra tier of seats above us. We move down towards the prize seats. The skinny man laughs. He shakes his head. He asks us why we think the seats are free. He explains that those seats aren’t covered by the tier of seating above us. Above us is the opposition seating.
“What will the opposition fans do?” we ask. Throw food at us? Spit on us?
“No,” the balding man says. “You will get urinated on.”
Both teams come out on the ground to warm up and the stand shakes with noise and violent anticipation. The whistle for kick-off has to come soon or I fear the local standing next to me may spontaneously combust. He screams for Boca, he holds his hands in prayer. He is anything but at peace. A loud-speaker spits feedback. It crackles and screeches before coming to life. Each player is announced to a primal roar from the adoring masses.
At the opposite end of the stadium stand Boca Junior's hardcore fan base. They are a crazed throng of convulsing bodies. They thrash the air. Scream. Bang drums. A huge banner is unfurled. The sound of a full brass band starts up from nowhere. A chant echoes across the stands. The madness grows around me.
A group of tourists arrive late and see the seats at the front of the stadium and scramble to take them. The locals laugh. The skinny man raises his eyebrows.
The match kicks off. The hardcore fans surge towards a wire fence at the edge of the pitch. They riot against the chain-link. Bodies slam into each other as they empty their lungs screaming for a Boca victory. In front of me a young boy climbs the wire fence. He holds up a Boca flag. He shouts insults at the opposition fans above us.
The game builds up slowly. With the patience of Zen Masters, Boca’s famed midfielders take their time in choosing their passes, dictating the play. The ball moves from end to end and when a goal is finally scored by Boca, the stadium erupts in nuclear celebration.
I see a steady stream of liquid pass from above us to the prime seats up front. The tourists look up in horror. Their faces look pained. Violated. Scarred by the foul liquid sprayed from above.
Half-time sees my bladder questioning the pre-match beers. I want to go to the toilet, but remember what a friend told me prior to coming. They had recently been to a game, and attempted to use the toilet. They walked into the lavatory with a full bladder and left minus a wallet. On the plus side, the red mark left by the knife held to their throat didn’t take long to fade. I cross my legs and hope for no extra time.
The second half is a frenetic blur. First the opposition from Tigre tear up the script. They score twice, outplaying Boca and silencing the fans. Then, like a wounded beast who realizes the spear in their side is actually a toothpick, Boca comes snarling back to life. The fans eject a thunderous roar when the yellow and blue slam the ball into the back of the net twice to take the lead.
The closing minutes of the match are dulled by a late equaliser from Tigre. The final whistle goes. A three all draw. I feel flat. The Tigre fans have taken the draw like a victory, and they slam their feet into the stadium stairs, yelling like wild men.
Drunk off adrenaline and the raw emotion of the contest, I turn to slowly make my way to the exit. I’m surprised to see the stairs down from the stadium are completely blocked off. We are stuck. No way to get out. The balding man tells us to come back and get comfortable. We’re not going anywhere.
The Tigre fans chant as they leave the stadium. They throw insults over their shoulders. A growing number of Boca fans smash their fists against the gate holding us in. We will have to wait an hour in the stadium for the Tigre fans to leave the area.
I ask the skinny man, “Why can’t we leave? Why do we have to wait around for so long?”
“It’s only fair,” he replies.
“What’s fair?” I ask.
The balding man’s lips curl up at the sides. I’ve seen this look before. He winks and says, “It’s only fair we give them a head-start.”
