Buenos Aires has a lot. You may even say it has it all. This is a city with a metro population of nearly 16 million people. Not only does it have the most bookshops per capita in the world, it is home to the widest avenue in the world. It is of course the birthplace of tango. Vibrant cafe, food and art cultures are ever-present in the city also. Yet it is the concentration of top class football clubs, and the general intense passion for the sport in the city, that really sets it apart from anywhere else on earth.
The city boasts an incredible 24 professional football teams at present, the highest among any city globally. Virtually all have their own stadium, reflective of the intense rivalries abundant across the metropolis. Amazingly, five of the cities teams have been crowned world club champions in modern history.
Nowhere is the passion for football more evident in the city than in the working-class neighbourhood of La Boca, and the historic Bombanera stadium of Boca Juniors. After all, this is the club that Diego Maradona made his name with. So when we eventually reached Buenos Aires, and knew roughly how long we would be there for, the obvious thing to do would be to see when Boca were playing and whether I could source a few tickets.
A proverbial ticket-rollercoaster ensued over the course of the next ten days. Our Argentine friend named Gustavo, that we met on our boat trip in southern Chile a few months previously, put us in contact with a local who had sourced Boca tickets for him in the past. The contact named Diego proved as difficult as nailing jelly to a tree throughout our ticketing back and forth. However, to his credit, when the chips were really down he eventually came through for us.
With tickets for me and the kids sorted (Laura and her mum had a very civilized ladies evening in the upmarket neighbourhood of Puerto Madero planned for themselves), we awaited the big day. Boca would play on Saturday evening against Defensa y Justicia, the 2020 Copa Sudamericana champions. By the morning of the match, talk of anything other than the game was almost non-existent amongst the three ticket holders.
As part of our “tourist ticket-pricing deal” that Diego had skillfully negotiated with us, he would collect us before and drop us home after the match. Argentine club football is not the equivalent of a Volvo in terms of safety, so having a local escort us door to door was something we were happy to part with a few extra pesos for.
As we approached the car park close to the stadium, there was still well over two hours until kick-off. Yet the street were already awash with people, color and life. La Boca has only one team, one passion, one club. This is reflected in the colours of the houses, apartments and businesses. It quite literally is, the only show in town.
We soaked up the atmosphere as we followed Diego step for step until the first of the three ticket check points. It’s funny, every time I go to a game or an event I really care about, my heart skips a beat when I hand over my ticket and the QR code reader attempts to validate my entrance. Thankfully a positive beep came back from the machine and we were allowed to proceed. The last two ticket checks were equally positive, meaning we were in. This was however our point to say goodbye to Diego, at least for about four hours until the match was over.
Our seats were in a reserved section, in the upper tear behind one of the goals. In La Bombanera at least, the term “reserved” means that you have a seat. This is where the prawn-sandwich comparisons start and abruptly come to a halt. The stands of the stadium were built many decades ago, and reflect the opposing desires/realities of the time – wanting to build a stadium with as big a capacity as possible versus the small city space available to actually build. The solution, build high, build tight and build very steep. Effectively what this means is a vertigo bonanza that surely must result in numerous fatalities each season. Added to this, the plus rows are designed whereby the only way to get in or out is to walk on the seats of the people in the rest of your row. Definitely not the premium section of Croke Park or the Aviva Stadium!
As kick-off approached, the atmosphere grew and grew. The kids were mesmerized by the noise, flags, flares, colours and passion on view. It really was incredible. The evening temperature was above 35 degrees, so the locals needed no second invitation to remove t-shirts and jerseys and swing them around in joyous chorus. This excitement seemed to flow through the kids as we made three daring pre kick-off bathroom raids (via the seats of our new friends of course) to the bathrooms.
The noise as the two teams entered the field was as impressive as I have heard in a long time. The stadium was close to erupting. As a reminder, this was a league game between clubs not considered particular rivals, at the start of the season, and a Boca team not considered likely to challenge for an honors that season. Passion indeed.
The first half flew by. There were chances for both teams but ultimately no reward. The loudest cheer came when a penalty awarded for Defensa y Justicia was overturned by VAR. Halftime in Argentine club football, from my experience anyway, is a time for quiet, a time to reflect, a time to breathe after 45 minutes of insanity (and before 45 minutes of further insanity). This afforded us the time to talk about the football we had seen, the incredible atmosphere we were experiencing, and of course, visit the bathrooms once again.
The second half was a more desperate, chaotic and tense affair. Boca pushed and pushed for a winner. The harder they tried, the more their lack of talent showed. On more than one occasion, the opposition could and should have stolen the game, only to be denied by an in-form home goalkeeper.
Amazingly, the final whistle was not followed by moans, groans, whistles or silence. Instead, the referees three long shrill blasts were followed by a raising of the volume in the terraces amongst the home fans. For a good twenty minutes, they continued to sing, dance and swing jerseys above their heads. By then, mesmerized by the occasion myself, it was the kids dragging me out reminding me that we had Diego waiting for us outside the stadium.
As we left La Bombanera, or “The Chocolate Box”, we knew we had experienced something very special that evening. This was not because of the actual match we had seen, or the players that had given their all for their team. It was the fans, the people, and the passion that we would remember for a very long time.
Click here to read the “Argentina Del Norte” blog post
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