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Recently, I attended my first fútbol game, Mexico vs. Argentina, at the LA Coliseum. As a gringo, I thought, “this’ll be like attending my first baseball game!” After all, baseball is the traditional American sport, right? I remembered my Dad taking me to the Atlanta Braves stadium when I was little. It was all hot dogs and big foam fingers and red, white and blue t-shirts. Of course, I’d heard rumors of Latinos’ unbridled fervor and fierce competitiveness at fútbol games. I wanted to blend in as best as possible, so I thought I’d wear something unassuming…something I wouldn’t stand out in. At least as much as one of the very few white boys in attendance could stand out. I chose a light blue sweater and some jeans. Safe bet for sure.
Since the game was held in Los Angeles, most everyone I saw was a fan of the Mexican team. Everywhere I looked, I saw green, white and red. People were wearing colored headbands and face painting, and even wrapping flags about their shoulders. Countless souvenir vendors lined the streets, calling out prices. I smiled at them, my hands in my pockets, so swept up in the excitement…the jovial laughter and Viva Mexico!’s shouted out. But where were the Argentinian fans?
As I started to walk up to the ticket entrance (tiny gates where people were funneled through toe-to-heel), I picked up a conversation behind me: “Oh, man. I’d hate to be that guy here.”. I turned around, still smiling, to see who they were talking about and was met with a row of smirks directed right at me. I was confused until I saw my first small group of Argentinian fans…all wearing light blue. As a series of whistles and catcalls began to ambush me from all sides, I realized I was “passing” for Argentinian. Without any other Argentineans with me.
After finding my seat, I looked around and found myself again surrounded by green, white and red, this time as a vast and turbulent sea surrounding me. Far across the field, on the other side, in one small corner was a group of my “fellow” Argentineans – furiously waving their light blue and white flags.
As the game progressed, I was overwhelmed by the experience. The rivalry was far more passionate than any sporting event I could ever remember attending. Yes, even memories of my old college football tailgate parties seemed lame in comparison. The Mexican team would score a goal and I’d hear an eruption of cheers, temporarily deafening me. I could quite literally feel the sense of pride in the air as goose bumps raised on my arms. Then, the Argentinian team would score. I could see the Argentinian fans waving their flags about madly…but I couldn’t hear them. Not over the cacophony of colorful words assaulting my ears. These people were serious about soccer.
I looked over to see our Argentinian creative director covering the ears of his young daughter. When I asked him what he thought of her experiencing this intensity at such a young age, he replied, “It’s important that she see this part of her culture. Besides, this is nothing compared to what the games are like in Argentina. There you’ll see policemen running about behind glass shields, trying to keep the fans from starting any real trouble.” I recalled my first baseball game again and remembered my Dad grumbling only once or twice when the umpire made what he thought was the “wrong” call. I swallowed a sip of my cerveza, took a bite out of my churro and decided that at my next fútbol game I’d be more careful with my wardrobe selection. While I truly appreciated and felt a part of the experience, I had no intention of finding out what “real” trouble meant exactly.
