El Classico, part 2

OK, the girls are asleep (for now) so I can continue the adventures of an idiot (me) standing between two groups of fanatics who want to kill each other (Racing and River fans).

So we last left our heros at the Racing game where it was sold out and filling up quickly. The supporters for each side were singing songs back and forth much like the old "WE GOT SPIRIT HOW 'BOUT YOU?" cheers from high school. Only much much louder. And with profanity. And really really derogatory, with references to parts of each other's mother's anatomy. And not about how ugly she is.

The climax of all the singing is pretty much the kick off. Now, what I should mention is the whole week the papers have been talking about every tiny aspect of this game. The recent history between the clubs most important to the match is that Gallardo, River's playmaker and captain, according to some sources was responsible for getting Merlo (then River's coach) fired. Merlo then got a job with Racing, where he is greatly loved. So whenever Gallardo touched the ball, all the Racing supporters start booing and whistling. An entire stadium of people whistling at you when you get the ball is pretty daunting. But I have to give Gallardo credit - he seemed very composed and creative on the ball regardless. In fact, during the second half, el Burrito (Ariel Ortega) went to take a corner and all the Racing supporters started throwing stuff at him - lighters, coins, broken glass - nothing too bad.... So Burrito (every player has a nickname here, he got his because when he was a kid he kicked a ball so badly they said he kicked like a donkey...) walks toward the ref with his hands out like "Dude, what the f? I can't work in these conditions!" Gallardo (or la Muneca - only with a ~ over the n) steps up and takes the corner kick. Now, given how much the fans are yelling at him, I got to give him a lot of credit - again - for showing the cajones to play through the rainstorm of hooligan paraphenalia.

Oh, and whenever Burrito touches the ball, the people around me start calling him Borracho - which means drunk. 'Cuz, you know, it sounds like Burrito, and the fan group is called Los Barrachos del Tablon, and if I have to explain this to you then maybe you should move on....

So late in the first half, Racing goes up 2-1. Bad news for River. But Los Borrachos del Tablon take it in stride and continue singing songs about how much they love River and how big of a whore the Racing fans are. Or their mothers. Or their - well, you get the picture. Only then Racing scores again in the second half to make it 3-1. All four of these goals were amazing. Racing scored all three of them against the run of play, and River's goal was like straight out of a video of the best goals of the last 10 years. At least from my angle, and bias. I bet if I saw the replay I'd be embarassed for saying that. Good thing the stadium doesn't have a big screen. I like my viewpoint more.

So after they go down 3-1, Racing starts defending with 9 players, and all the Racing supporters are really over the top with the singing and jumping and waving the arms and tempting fate by dancing on the precipice of the moat. And Tito and I sit comfortably in our chairs while the guy next to me is basically jumping up and down on my foot. With his 5 year old boy.

Let me tell you about them. I'll call the dad Papi. And let's call the kid Santiago (mostly because I like that name). So Santiago gets to the stadium with his dad, and he's pretty stoked to be there - he's got his Racing hat on and his dad is carrying a couple of his favorite toy cars. Because, well, obviously a 5 year old at a major sporting event needs his cars. Papi is dressed like a typical middle class - or possibly upper class - guy with his sports coat on. But it doesn't take long for it to become completely obvious that Papi is not just a fan. Clearly, he got kicked out of the Barra Brava for being to old, or because his wife threatened to kill him if he took Santiago into the throbbing mass of people standing behind the goal screaming songs about how much River fans run around like chickens. (River fans are called Gallitas - or hens. Boca fans are called Chanchos - pigs. I have no idea why, but there are like 5,000 stories for each.) So Papi, after every goal, jumps up and down basically on my lap while I try to bury my disappointment deeply in my hooded sweatshirt. Fortunately, it's cold, so I don't look conspicuous wearing my hood. But I do look conspicous not jumping up and down screaming my head off at each of the three - yes, three - Racing goals. And when River scored, I had to be content with turning to Tito and practically whispering "That was an amazing goal" while Papi screamed at the ref that he was too drunk to see that clearly he was offsides. Mind you, we are on the opposite end of the field, and have absolutely no ability to see if anyone was offsides, but Papi knows best. And now Santiago has a much bigger vocabulary. And then when River gets a few calls, and Papi starts describing parts of the refs female anatomy while jumping up and down on my foot, I'm thinking how nice it is that Santiago is getting his biology lesson while he is at the game. Of course, the word he used is also the word for a specific type of seashell, so Santiago may have just been curious why the refs mother had a collection of seashells.

But I had it all worked out. If at any point some Racing fan turned to me and determined that I had not shown the appropriate level of gratitude towards the team for scoring a goal, I planned on explaining in perfect English and horrible castellano that I was looking for a wing-back, because obviously I am a scout for a team - but if I were to get more specific than it would create problems because obviously if the team found out we were interested in a specific player they would start jacking the price. Each time Racing did something great, or the ref appeared to do something stupid, or River did anything at all, I rehearsed these lines carefully.

OK - this is getting long. Part 3 to come later, when I tell you about trying to leave a futbol game in Argentina. What? You think you can just get up and walk out? What are you crazy???