I am clueless. About football. Or so I have just been told in no uncertain terms. My friend looks at me disdainfully, and bangs another search command into Google, hoping to find a website that streams the Euro Cup live. He poutingly ignores me to drive his point home: my suggestion to wait until the game is over, download it and watch it uninterrupted was the ultimate blasphemy. I thought it was a brilliant solution to the stuttering image and horrific sound quality that we were dealing with while following the descent of our respective nations down the drain of outed teams, but I obviously broke a secret code.
The Dutch game on a TV at Babaganoush in Taganga, Colombia
We are in the only air-conditioned place we have access to: the captain’s lounge in Santa Marta marina. For the better part of the first half we have seen the game as if through a sandstorm, with the Colombian commentary coming through the speakers as a Chipmunks rap song. There is nothing more frustrating than through the mumble of it all suddenly hearing “GOOAAALLL!” but not seeing it. Hence my suggestion, which I figured was perfectly safe, as there was little chance anybody out here is going to give us the score and spoil the surprise. My friend stubbornly persists in watching the sandstorm.
You can see why we might have a problem with wi-fi here…
I can see how this is a frustrating situation for someone who, from the age of 4, used to go to every home-game his team played. I currently live a five-minute walk away from Arsenal stadium, but have yet to go see a game there. In all the time I lived in Amsterdam I only ever saw the Ajax stadium on the inside during concerts. I don’t know what kept me out, other than the exorbitant prices and the fear of getting a fist in the mouth from a rabid hooligan for accidentally wearing the wrong colour.
Until 1966 violence was mostly directed at the referees, not at supporters of the opposing team. Those were safe times for ignorant or colour-blind spectators. But soon after, any reason seemed to do: international rivalries, geo-political tensions (like in Croatia, after the breakup of Yugoslavia), racism, neo-nazism, historical enmity and economic reasons. Nothing cures a bad day at Jobcentre like beating the crap out of your fellow unemployed over a game of chase-the-ball, I guess.
I’m guessing this is not Hooligan Central
From the depths of the captain’s lounge where the silent treatment has apparently been suspended I am assured that the Ultras are a different species. For them it’s all about the game, not the fight. Their code is about faithfulness towards the group, respect for the elder members, no attacks with weapons or against innocent bystanders. This sounds decidedly Buddhist-like and I imagine fans with painted faces kissing the feet of a grey-haired Supreme Master with a green wig. But it seems even these football Beatniks have taken a right turn lately and are not as cuddly as they once were. This is worrisome, as my friend confessed to being an Ultra and his team just lost. I leave him to his scrambled screen and make a quick exit.
Symbolism at its best — courtesy of http://www.flickr.com/photos/ssanyal
Back in the UK, I find myself in the midst of the final days of Euro Cup euphoria. I wasn’t here when the English team was booted from the Cup, so I guess I missed the one occasion that could really have incited violence. Still… one last check before I leave the house to watch the finals in the pub. I think I’m safe. For as far as I know, no country has pink as the team colour.
Curious Gipsy 