El Super Clásico, Boca Juniors versus River Plate, the blue and yellow versus the red and white, the horizontal band versus the diagonal band, the xeneixes versus the millonarios, the bosteros versus the gallinas, one of the most anticipated sporting events in the world, took place this past weekend at River Plate’s Monumental. The stadium was completely sold-out and tickets coveted by non-members of the club were only offered by scalpers for exorbitant prices. Despite the shortage of admissions, my teammates and I were somehow able to witness the spectacle in person.
Getting to the field was an adventure in itself, as we had neither tickets nor player IDs. Three hours before game time we stepped off the bus, joining the mass of red and white making its way to the ‘holy grail.’ Fans were only allowed to access the field by the main avenues which lead to the Monumental, no short-cuts allowed – trying to cut through actually cost us time since after being turned away by the police guarding the residential streets, we had to backtrack and start from where we had originally begun. Banner after banner decorated the fans’ path, stretching across the road between the trees lining the main boulevard and interrupting the crowd’s view of the otherwise clear blue sky. The aroma of sausages, burgers, and steaks cooking on the grill wafted from the vendors’ stands set up along the side of the road, tempting fans to spend double what the same choripan would cost anywhere else in the city.
As we approached the towering cylinder of red, black, and white, we tried to get past the first set of ticket checks by entering through the back gate where the guard recognized us as women’s soccer players and let us through. Unfortunately, every access to the stadium from that side of the club was cut off and we were forced to reassess our options. We exited through the same gate and joined the ‘river’ of fans again. Our luck changed, however, when we ran into two security guards in a row who recognized us and let us cut through the parking garage and into the club. All that stood between us and the field was stadium staff and turn-styles. Thankfully, we could count on my teammate’s friend, a club employee, who snuck us in the elevator up to one of the best sections in the Monumental, the Belgrano Baja.
An hour and a half before kick-off, we find ourselves sitting in the lower section of the stands between the corner flag and half-field, across from the home team’s substitute bench. The peons of the barra brava are setting up their red and white ribbons which stream from just below the scoreboard at the top of the stands to the fence at the bottom of the section. Spontaneous bursts of song and chants break out around the stadium. Around the grand oval hang banners announcing the presence of fans from all around Buenos Aires and the rest of the country. Some political banners infiltrate the sporting atmosphere but are overwhelmed by the homemade flags of the banda’s faithful supporters.
The empty white spaces of the stands continuously shrink as the hinchada makes its way into the stadium. An endless sea of red, white, and black spans across the stands, highlighting the obvious lack of the hideous blue and yellow of the opposing fans. Undoubtedly, some undercover ‘bosteros’ (depreciative term referring to Boca fans which literally refers to the smell of manure native to the riachuelos of the port next to the club) managed to sneak in, attempting to cover their unbearable stench with a thin layer of neutrally colored clothing. Some of the more infamous fanatics hide their faces and features with a hood, ducking their head to avoid being recognized and exposed, at risk of receiving a severe beating at any sign of their true loyalty.
Cries of “Coca, Coca, Coca,” “café, café, café,” and “helado, helado, helado” from vendors offering refreshments interrupt the excited pre-game chatter among the crowd anxiously awaiting its beloved millonarios. Within minutes, almost 60,000 fans fill the country’s pride and joy, its cathedral of sport, El Monumental, where the likes of Messi and Maradona have delighted and thrilled hundreds of thousands of spectators from Argentina and the rest of the world. Only one small square remains empty in the middle of ‘la popular,’ the upper section directly below the scoreboard.
“Boom, boom, boom...” A steady beat of a bass drum echoes around the stadium as the big guns, the capos, of the barra brava take their “assigned” places (River’s barra is called Los Borrachos del Tablón which, more or less, means the “Drunks of the Stands”). Surrounded by the same faces as always, not daring to break tradition for fear of bad luck or of getting on a boss’s bad side. There is, however, except for a vertical line of police officers ensuring that no fans try to overtake the section, one other area which remains completely empty, representing the absence of los muertos (the dead), los pechos fríos (heartless), los amargos (the bitter), the visiting fans, who, after a deadly altercation outside a stadium before a pre-season exhibition, were banned from attending all away matches for the rest of the season, a punishment applied to the fans of the rest of the teams of AFA’s leagues (the Argentine Soccer Association).
The grass is impeccable, recently trimmed, perfectly groomed, with alternating stripes of light and dark green across the width of the field, ready to host the long-awaited battle between the two giants of Argentine soccer. As the opening whistle approaches, the fans get more anxious, urging on their beloved River with all their spirit while whistling, jeering, and cursing the enemy goalkeeper as he warms up. The excitement is contagious, even to such a recent addition to the millionario fan-base as myself. The chanting and singing is almost continuous as only a few minutes remain before the teams are announced.
My friend gives me a heads-up to take out my phone and prepare to record because the show is about to begin. The crowd starts to sing, “River, mi buen amigo...” As soon as the first River player emerges from the tunnel, the party truly gets going. Red sparklers are set off, red and white smoke rises from different points around the stadium, and all around the oval shredded paper rains down like snow. The fans, instead of getting distracted, draw inspiration from the display and the singing gets louder and louder with each verse. A helicopter hovers over midfield, probably filming the spectacle, until Boca is announced and the joyful singing turns into a combination of hateful whistles and vulgar anti-Boca songs, which reach their climax as Boca’s number 10, Juán Román Riquelme, ambles his way onto the grass.
The singing and drumming continued throughout most of the match, except after Boca’s goal around the middle of the first half. It was quite an eerie moment, as 60,000 people went completely silent, and the only sound within the stadium was the celebration of Boca’s players and staff on the field. The undercover fans had to use extreme self-control to avoid exposing themselves through even a smile or a happy twitch of their body. The silence lasted only briefly as the crowd recovered from the shock and began to urge its team onward to try to tie up the game and possibly go on to win.
Although River played well, moving the ball around with one and two touches, the team’s best three goal-scoring opportunities were unsuccessful, thwarted twice by the post and once by Boca’s ogre-like goalkeeper, Orión. Unfortunately, the party would not be completed by a River comeback victory, not even by a tie, instead fans had to watch desperately as the minutes ticked down to the final whistle then suffer through Boca’s celebration in the middle of the field, complete with hugging, jumping, and crying. Thankfully, the reaction from the River fans was not as violent as I had expected. While some idiots began throwing full plastic bottles on the field from the upper deck, making fans on the lower deck run for cover, the majority of the River faithful simply began to sing and applaud the team for its 90-minute effort.
As the fans started to stream out of the stands, action in one section drew the attention of the rest of the stadium. At one corner of la popular, there was a sudden rush of people toward the top of the section, toward the billboard, apparently escaping something. It seems as though a Boca fan had blown his cover and was paying the price for his audacity. A group of River fans, most likely of the barra brava, had surrounded him and were beating him mercilessly as he cowered against the fence. The attack lasted at least five minutes, which is how long we watched before heading toward the exit, and there was not a policeman in sight. It must have ended before the bostero was seriously injured as the scuffle did not make headlines the following day.
Leaving the last bit of nastiness aside, as well as the unfortunate scoreline, witnessing the Super Clásico was an amazing experience. A game between two fierce rivals with histories of championships and glory. A game which divides an entire nation in two, uniting each side and disregarding any socioeconomic, racial, or gender boundaries. A game which twice a year captures the world’s attention and draws it toward Argentina for a reason other than its hellish inflation and scandalous debt default. A game which takes fans’ attention away from daily struggles and stresses, allowing them to immerse themselves in the unique emotional roller coaster known as the Super Clásico.
