I am not a sports fan. Before my trip to the Camp Nou stadium, I had never attended any kind of sporting event that didn’t involve garlic fries, and I didn’t really have any expectations. I watched just enough of
the World Cup this summer to know that soccer games generally involve a lot of players rolling on the ground, clutching a knee or an ankle with a pained expression (if pressed, maybe I could even rattle off a name or two that isn’t Beckham), but that was pretty much it.
So when, by chance, I ran into a classmate who offered me a free ticket to the FC Barcelona-Villarreal futbol game with only a couple of hours to prepare, I realized I didn’t know anything about the nuances of being a spectator. Would the color of my sweater be an accidental offense? Would I have to sing the Spanish national anthem before the game? Would there be snacks?
One fact I picked up quickly is that watching futbol here isn’t altogether that different from watching American football, or baseball, or hockey, but with one glaring exception: There’s beer, but only of the non- alcoholic (or otherwise smuggled) variety. While this late discovery certainly accounted for a discouraging start to the game, I wasn’t about to let my sobriety get in the way of a free ticket.
Anyway, the game. I’d been told that I wouldn’t play witness to the best of FC Barcelona in all its glory, since they were playing Villarreal, rather than rival team Real Madrid. But that couldn’t have mattered less. I squinted down from the nosebleed section, miles away from the pitch. I took my cues from the red-and-blue-clad Barcelona fans in front of me and cheered excitedly when they did. And — pardon my rusty So Cal vernacular — it was fucking awesome.
It’s said that futbol, certainly more than Catholicism, is the religion here. And it’s true: Even for someone as lacking in knowledge and devotion as me, going to a game clearly isn’t just an excuse to get drunk in public and heckle the more hapless players. For comparison, last Sunday, the pope him- self came to Barcelona and there was just enough fanfare for Sagrada Familia to trend on Google News. One FC Barcelona match — not even against a top-tier rival — gets the kind of coverage that Benedict XVI can only pray for.
The game took place at Camp Nou — a massive stadium owned by FC Barcelona, built in 1954 and located in the heart of the city — which can seat up to 99,354 rabid futbol fans at any given time. That night, the stadium wasn’t quite so packed; the game probably drew a half-capacity crowd, with thousands decked in either a jersey of choice or (prob- ably more likely) tourist garb, as I certainly wasn’t the only exchange student in attendance.
Unlike America, where you get a hodgepodge of supporters in any given section of the stands, fans are obligated to sit next to other fans supporting the same team (even without real beer, I suspect there’d be a strong possibility of mid-game brawls).
It wasn’t long after I settled in to the top of the stadium with my fellow Barcelona supporters that David Villa of Barcelona scored the first goal, 21 minutes into the game. My side of the stadium erupted into a level of excitement that I normally associate with nothing less than a Super Bowl victory: People cheered, hugged, climbed over one another, spilled non-alcoholic beer with abandon and cried. The jubilation didn’t last long, though — the Brazilian Nilmar, from Villarreal, scored five minutes later and tied up the first half of the game, banking a shot off the far post just past the charging keeper (he was aptly cocky afterwards; we booed him). Luckily for us, Lionel Messi was on the pitch and dominated the second half of the game.
At first I was a little skeptical — what’s a sporting experience without a pint in hand? — but by the time FC Barcelona’s star forward Messi scored his second goal in the 83rd minute of the game, (another quick lesson from that night: He’s, uh, pretty important), it wasn’t obligation, feigned joy or even the example of the rows ahead that brought me to my feet. Instead, it was the actual excitement of the moment: Of feeling, despite my nationality and curious accent, a swelling of pride for this place that’s started to become my home.