This took place on a family vacation in February of 2012.
My parents and I were back again. We’d made it a point to drop by Spain annually ever since our first visit in 2010. Usually, we’d shake it up every year and go somewhere new, but we could never get the idea of returning to Spain, Barcelona in particular, out of our heads. We had just left Barcelona, having watched Messi and co annihilate Valencia 5-1, and now we were in Madrid.
It was my job to organize the travel itinerary, and I’d have been lying if I said the fact that we ended up in Madrid on the exact dates that Barca were due to play against Atletico Madrid at the Vincente Calderon was purely coincidental.
We had arrived in Madrid thinking that our quest to purchase tickets would be smooth and easy. We followed the metro instructions in our guide book and arrived at the station that was supposedly near the stadium. We looked around though, and there was nothing in sight, so we asked a girl and her father if they had the directions. They simply looked at us in horror and announced that the stadium was ages away, and that we’d be better off taking a cab.
We were left a little confused as they walked off, but we decided to continue in the general direction they had indicated. After about 10 minutes, we arrived at our destination, slightly annoyed, but pleased that we had found the place. However, once there, the gift shop cashier told us that we wouldn’t be able to purchase tickets until 11am the next morning, the day before the game.
The next day, I dragged my reluctant parents down to the stadium again, only to find the ticketing booths still shut. I asked a guard and he told me that the only way I would be able to purchase tickets was through the internet.
Basically, after a whole lot of confusion which involved us searching for a cyber cafe, getting on the wrong bus and trying to converse with a local using my very limited Spanish vocabulary, we got our hands on 3 tickets for Atletico Madrid vs FC Barcelona on Sunday night.
I’d been to a couple of games at the Camp Nou before: against Villareal in 2010, and against Valencia in 2012, so it wasn’t my first time seeing my heroes in the flesh. It was though, my first time seeing them play an away game, and seeing so much animosity towards the club that I hold so near and dear to my heart.
I know it shouldn’t have come as any surprise – the only thing Barcelona and Atleti fans had in common was that we both hated Real Madrid, with a passion. But that was about it. It was still a derby, and we were still the unwelcome enemy.
It didn’t seem that way before kickoff, mind. The tickets that we had, with them being purchased at the very last moment, meant that while all three of us were in the same section, we were scattered all over the place. It was only down to the helpfulness of an elderly Spanish man that my mother and I ended up being able to eventually sit next to each other for the game. He directed everyone around like a pro, giving instructions to people to switch places with the sweet little girl who wasn’t able to sit with her parents.
Once we were sorted out, the man who my mother and I referred to as ‘uncle’ for the rest of the match introduced us to his 2 nieces occupying the seats behind him (next to us), who were all decked out in Atleti gear, just like he was. He even insisted that they take a picture with ‘una chica del Barca’ (yours truly). Things went on like that during warm-ups until suddenly, the players came out and took their positions, and everything changed.
Immediately, the atmosphere morphed into something completely different, the camaraderie melting away: the two girls who had shared their sunflower seeds with me seemed to build this glass wall between me and them, and good old uncle began yelling such vicious abuse towards the Barca players, using vocabulary that I wouldn’t have imagined he would approve of. The sea of ultras behind the southern goalpost began chanting in an almost frightening fashion, and the legions of Atleti fans rose around me to join them.
Quietly and cautiously, I tugged off the Barca flag that I had obnoxiously tied around myself. I left my FCB scarf on, though, my logic being that the scarf merely showed who I supported while the flag was just asking for trouble.
Almost immediately after kickoff, Messi and Sanchez combined for a move that ended with the former putting the ball in the back of the net. I jumped up instinctively, hands in the air, before being yanked back down by my mother. Just as well, as it turned out that there was a handball during the build up, and Messi was given a yellow card which meant that he would miss the next league game.
Things were intense during that first half, but Barcelona were doing significantly better, imposing themselves on the game. Atleti had threatened a few times, but when Dani Alves tucked away a square pass from Cesc Fabregas into the back of the net, no one could argue that the goal hadn’t been coming. I managed to restrain myself from leaping up this time, but my hands had other ideas as they shot into the hair, fists clenched, and an excited giggle- screech escaped my lips. What happened next was nothing to giggle about though, as the Atleti ultras began yelling monkey chants at Alves, and a few supporters behind me joined in.
It’s one thing to say that you would tell someone off if you heard them being racist, it’s another thing entirely to actually do it, and I am ashamed to say that I did absolutely nothing. I figured that I was a) A foreigner who didn’t speak the language, b) An opposing fan and c) A girl with brown skin herself. There was no way that they would have listened to anything I said, and it’d have probably landed my family and I in some kind of trouble with the offenders. This isn’t me trying to make excuses, just trying to highlight the problems that are extremely apparent in Spanish football, and hoping that someone else with more power than I have reads this and does something about it.
The second half began with a corner for Atleti. I routinely make it a point to cover my eyes during opposition corners when I’m watching Barca play – they’re magical but, they are also (for lack of a better word) midgets, and this means that every ball into the box is a potential goal scoring opportunity.
The stadium erupted around me, uncle and his nieces were hugging, coats were flying everywhere, and food and drinks flew onto the ground. Falcao had scored for Atletico Madrid (off a lovely flick on by Busquets, mind you). Game on.
The only good piece of news for Barca was Atleti had scored early, leaving time to search for a way to restore their lead. However, the way the game was going, the possibility of Barca leaving with all three points looked increasingly unlikely. Victor Valdes, undeniably man of the match, saved shots with his arms, his chest, even his crotch, to deny Atleti. Barcelona’s best chance on the other end came when Sanchez pushed a difficult header wide, but that was about it.
Time wore on, and it eventually seemed that the goal just wasn’t going to happen. Atleti were defending systematically, and breaking with murder in their eyes whenever they won the ball. I wasn’t very surprised at how the game had played out, because Barcelona’s away record this season just wasn’t very good (they’d just lost 3-2 in Pamplona in their last away game), and the Calderon was always a tough place to go.
In the 81st minute, Barcelona won a free kick a little way out. Great, the collective cule mind would have thought, another set piece we can waste. Then Messi happened. The free kick was taken quickly, before Atleti had their wall in place, but quite frankly it wouldn’t have mattered. The ball curled up and over everyone, in an arc that at the beginning seemed like it would have flown into the stands, and twirled into the upper 90 of the goal.
At that point, the atmosphere was so hostile that the slightest show of joy would have probably led to a mass attack on the girl in the Barca scarf, so I just stamped my foot and clenched my fist and prayed that the score remained as it was, which it did.
When the final whistle blew, Carles Puyol collapsed in a heap on the ground, Victor Valdes, who had just made a game saving save in the final minute celebrated in victory and I blew out a long sigh of relief. To my surprise, the hostile football fans had disappeared. Good ol’ uncle was back, although his nieces wouldn’t quite look me in the eye.
Uncle turned around a shrugged at them with a smile on his face as if to say, better luck next game. I was struck by how good natured they were in defeat, which was completely at ends with how they had been during the match. I guess football can do that to people. I purchased an Atleti scarf on my way out as a souvenir (but mostly because it was anti-Real Madrid).
I don’t care much for Atleti despite all that, and I will quite readily cheer against them if I happen to like the opposition. But when they beat Athletic Bilbao 3-0 in the Europa League final, despite actually quite liking Bilbao, I couldn’t help but think of uncle, and smile.
Memory added on September 21, 2012
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