Hundreds of flags were waving. Thousands of onlookers, in devout unison, stood singing and chanting verses that have been passed on for generations. Then, suddenly, the brisk night air was set ablaze with fiery blasts. Yet in a nation stricken by a violent past of military coups and state-incurred brutality no one flinched. In fact, the cheering just grew louder.
It is no coincidence that Argentine soccer matches start a few hours after Sunday mass as a time conflict between the two would be disastrous -- more so for church. "Ftbol" in South America has as much influence on daily life as politics and religion combined. (Undoubtedly, as the World Cup approaches, Jesus will be more inundated with pleas for Argentine success on the field than anything else.) It is more than a sport; it is a way of life that fully epitomizes this colorful culture.
The description in the opening paragraph could just as well have been of the fervent crowd at an important political rally and not an account of the soccer match I attended last Sunday during my Foreign Study Program in Buenos Aires between Boca Juniors, a cultural staple of the city, and Olimpo.
Boca had just captured its 22nd professional title to once again solidify its place at the top of Argentine soccer, and the capacity crowd of 57,000 was celebrating the only way it knew how -- by climbing barbwire-laden fences surrounding the playing surface, throwing toilet paper and confetti onto the field and setting off handheld firecrackers.
To fully appreciate the significance of the Boca Juniors Athletic Club, however, it is necessary to delve into the history of Buenos Aires' most infamous "barrio."
La Boca, as it is called, is the neighborhood all guidebooks advise foreigners to avoid at night. Known by tourists for its "Caminata," a conspicuous row of brightly painted houses and stores, Boca's real history lies in its resilient, working-class tradition. The neighborhood cemented its hardnosed reputation as early as 1882 when, after a general strike, La Boca attempted to secede from Argentina. Could you imagine South Central trying to secede from the United States?
Nevertheless, when a local refers to "Boca" it is a given he is speaking of the soccer club and not the neighborhood, just as when a foreigner ignorantly mentions River Plate, Boca's villainous adversary, he is asking to be killed.
It is said that the storied rivalry between Buenos Aires' two most competitive clubs began in the first decade of the 20th century when the teams, representing adjacent districts, played to see which community held true title to the area. Boca won. River Plate stadium is currently found on the opposite end of town.
There is a certain irony when it comes to Boca in a contemporary sense. Boca Juniors is, in reality, one of the most successful business ventures in Argentina but continues to represent one of the poorest areas of greater Buenos Aires. Yet no matter how fat the players' salaries get or how fast they come and go, they will always be Boca. Soccer is the foundation of this community, and will remain so as long as the people can afford a ball and a goal.
Boca Juniors, like its homely "Bombonera" (its stadium is nicknamed "the chocolate box"), is a symbol more than it is a team. The hopes and dreams of a struggling people lie in every corner-kick, every header and every goal. For three hours on Sunday, the troubles and strife of unemployment, crime and an indecisive government that many times seems to have forgotten the backbone of its country are replaced by pure ftbol ecstasy. And man, is it glorious!
The primary warning for foreigners attending a soccer game, especially at Boca, is to buy seats in the plateas, or seated section, rather than the populares standing section. The populares at La Bombonera are home to the notoriously frenzied "barra bravas" (translated as "hoodlums") who give a new meaning to "Sunday widows," as the members of the almost entirely-male section of Boca-freaks marry themselves to their heroes running below for 19 weeks of the year.
Needless to say, after being sold counterfeit tickets two weeks earlier at Boca, my posse of Americans was not about to take another chance. We rolled to La Bombonera this time with Luis, one member of the crew's 30-year-old homestay brother and, incidentally, Boca's most crazed fan.
Throwing caution to the wind, we scalped tickets for the populares section in order to stand with Luis and his son, Vinicius. After grabbing a traditional "choripan," or as Americans would call it, "debatably dead pig in a hotdog bun," we triumphantly marched up the steps of the stadium, real tickets in hand, toward our section. (Unfortunately for the only female member of our group, the affects of the choripan would continue through the night and into the following morning.)
Within two minutes of our arrival, Luis, who is someone I would be terrified of if I didn't already know him, was shirtless holding an unmarked beer in his right hand and a joint in his left hand, gallivanting through the aisles while singing one of the 15 Boca fight songs he has memorized.
While I failed on all accounts to match Luis' intensity, simply watching the festivities of the populares was certainly enough to get the blood flowing. Those in the front rows had the responsibility of handing out human-sized flags with Boca colors as well as pulling a monstrous banner over the thousands of fans in the populares so the entire section would read "BOCA" in gigantic letters.
The flags and banner impeded any chance I had of actually viewing the game below -- but it didn't matter. As long as after 90 minutes Boca has more goals than its opponent, those in the populares would go home happy -- and that's the way it was.
One leaves a Boca game feeling exuberantly alive and, most importantly perhaps, unmistakably Argentine. The real cultural immersion of my FSP can be summed up in those few hours spent at La Bombonera. Soccer is Argentina, and for one dazzling afternoon in Boca, so was I.
