November 8, 2009
Barcelona v. Mallorca- Our Love is Here to Stay
Futbol pre-gaming is nothing like American football, baseball, or basketball games where fans sit outside of the stadium, cook hot dogs, drink beer and laugh garrulously over their team's success or drown their sorrows in an aluminum can. No one would dare sit outside of the stadium while a futbol match is going on, much less for libations. Once the game is on, it's on, and people flock like herds of sheep running from the big bad wolf. This particular match, Barcelona v. Mallorca, was not highly anticipated internationally, however all of the matches are taken seriously at the local level.
The whole day had an electric feel throughout the city, especially around the heavily populated and touristy areas. I ran around Sagrada Familia, arguably the hottest tourist spot, earlier on Saturday and could feel the anticipation. Seemingly everyone had on a maroon and navy, orange, neon yellow or multiple other manifestations of the FC Barcelona jersey. I felt left out, and after a long run I needed to acquire this regal garment.
I gave up the need to sway from the hoi polloi a long time ago, and I wanted the same maroon and navy Messi jersey that every American who travels to Barcelona buys. It has an entrancing quality- the gold nike swoosh on the right is juxtaposed with the FCB seal, which contains a red cross and the Spanish flag above the team's maroon and navy colors. Underneath is a solid gold "unicef" endorsement, symmetrically completing the front like a roman cathedral. Rembrandt himself could not have designed a better looking shirt.
I shopped around and haggled with many of the shop-owners, and used each other's word as leverage to drive down a Messi-enscribed shirt to 36 Euros. I was fully equipped to attend my first European futbol match.
The game started at 8 p.m. My friends and I pre-gamed at a flat and took off at around 7:15, thinking we would have plenty of time. Walking into the metro stop was mayhem- layers of people filled the entrance lines while policemen guarded to make sure no one hopped over without paying, a common practice. We started on the densely packed, foul smelling red line and hopped onto the green, where we met a group of British bankers.
They were hammered. The biggest, loudest one of the group was 6'5", ugly, and hilarious. He immediately cracked on my friend from Manchester- they were from London- which I realized for UKers is more often than not a jovial way to greet someone. I commented on this phenomenon, and how generally Americans will greet each other by saying "Hi! Where are you from? What are you doing here? So good to meet you" whereas British people say "Fuck off wanka!" They had a good laugh.
People sprinted off of the metro stop and up the escalators while we strolled. They raced each other tirelessly while we observed and laughed. Granted we lacked the undying loyalty of a local, however you would rarely see an American sprinting up an escalator to see, say, the Yankees v. Devil Rays mid-season.
Futbol is their life.
I knew this the first week I arrived in Barcelona, and met all of my European and international friends. Conversations start and end with futbol. There are no diversions. They enjoy the NBA, however it is a side note that only will come up if the environment is predominantly American. I luckily have followed soccer for close to two years, so I have some background, however their depth of knowledge is out of my reach.
We reached Nou Camp, and the game had just begun. We debated on waiting for another friend, however I was too anxious and ran inside. Me and two other friends climbed the stairway to heaven to get to our seats, which admittedly were in the nosebleed section. Out of breath, I stepped out of the dim gray hallway and peeked out onto the field.
I was speechless, and not just because of the trip up. The field radiated bright green while the distinctly white ball was passed around by the world's best players. Messi, Ibrahimovic, Henry, Silva- even if you have never seen a futbol match, you have definitely heard one of these names in the past. I sat in the freezing wind-chill, content, and ready to see world-class futbol.
At around ten minutes, Barcelona sent a ball about halfway down the field and got it to Ibrahimovic. Four players stood idly, watching what the star would do with the ball, while Pedro made a backdoor cut. Ibrahimovic made a behind the back assist between five players, and snuck it to Pedro who scored the first goal of the match. It was a brilliant play, one that no one saw coming. I screamed like a schoolboy with the crowd of 100,000, and was glad to get my blood flowing.
Ten minutes later, Mallorca had a corner kick. Barcelona left a man open back-post, who promptly headed the ball in the corner to tie the match up. It was a good play, but not half as remarkable as Ibrahimovic's pass. 1-1, now it was a game.
I almost popped a blood vessel on the next goal. Barcelona sent a ball into the box right at Pedro's feet, who nailed the ball directly at the goalie and left room for a rebound. Henry hit it right back, and the goalie flailed to barely keep it out of the net. Ibrahimovic struck it well, but once again right at the goalie. It trickled back to Pedro, who sealed the goal upper-90 after intensely following the ball. It was exhilarating, and put Barcelona back on top 2-1.
Two minutes later, Barcelona had a free kick just outside the 18. It was sent back post to Sergio, who headed it across the box right to Henry, who finished it with another header. 3-1, and Barcelona was at their peak. The first half ended, and I was satisfied with the goals I had seen. All were highly skillful, well-earned plays, and the game was not too much of a run away to be boring.
After braving the cold for thirty minutes into the second half, the crew decided to pack it up and leave the game at 3-1. We were confident that Barcelona would win, and that we would get pneumonia if we stayed any longer. The game ended up 4-2- Mallorca committed a foul in the penalty box against Ibrahimovic after an inspired run by Messi, who score the penalty, and Mallorca scored an uneventful goal in extra time.
We were one of the few people who decided to leave early. Barcelona fans had no problem enduring the elements to see every minute of their team as they won.
As we left, I had a friend snap a picture of me in front of the game. I could not help but think that we were watching a game that Caesar used to train his soldiers, and how they would play on mile long fields.
This is the world's oldest sport, one that directly affected the propagation of Roman civilization and has sustained the physical and mental well-being of nations for centuries. It is synonymous with man's pride of his country, his personal pride, and his identity. There is a deep-seeded internal force behind futbol that causes fans to run out of the metro, to stay seated in below-freezing weather when their team is clearly going to win, and to not miss a minute of a game against a meager opponent.
No other sport in the world puts as much on the line, and is observed with the same intensity, as futbol.
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