May We Never Speak of This Again

April, 2008 - Buenos Aires, Argentina 

When the Argentina guidebook tells you to avoid “Boca: the most dangerous neighborhood in Argentina”, it kind of makes you want to go to Boca.

Lonely Planet is right. This hood is no joke. It’s home to the second most famous soccer team in the world, the Boca Juniors (behind Manchester United). Unsurprisingly, Boca yields some of the most violent fans on the planet. We would later find out that a soccer fan died in a fight before this game. 

On this particular evening, the Boca Juniors are facing off against a club called River, another dominate team and #1 rivalry. These are cheap thrills people. For just $9 USD, you can watch a futbol game behind barbed-wire fencing while opposing fans throw garbage on you. 

Back at the hostel, we contemplate the pros vs the cons of making this trip. The innkeeper recommends we wait until there is a daytime game to avoid added danger. (Soccer gangs tend to get away with more beat downs by the cover of night). Our crew of four young men (myself, Mick Fallon, O.D., and "The Other Brett") comes to the following conclusions…

Cons: Getting heckled, robbed, stabbed, nunchucked, injured, dead.

Pros:  Probable fun

Even though none of us really like soccer, the group opts for adventure over repercussions. So, O.D., The Other Brett, Mick Fallon and I take the train down to Boca at night. We pick up Jerseys of the hometeam, deciding that wearing blue shirts will decrease the chances of getting shived.  We arrive in Boca Stadium. The sun is falling behind the skyline, leaving the neighborhood in cold darkness. A River fan begins to heckle O.D. as we are pushed like cattle through a maze of barbed-concrete walls. O.D. talks some shit in Spanish as the natural density of the crowd separates the two men before an altercation presents itself. Shoulder to shoulder with hostile strangers, we do our best to cover our pockets and keep each other’s backs. After 15 minutes, we are still being herded through the Berlin Wall concrete barriers toward the stadium. It feels like a zombie apocalypse film as the infected city is being evacuated. I am sweating like Kobe Bryant in a Colorado courtroom. 

20 minutes later, we arrive at the holy gates of Boca Junior Stadium. The stadium resembles that of a prison playground where Ving Rhames would make Hell’s Angels his twinks. Tall, baren walls keep the compound surrounded as the Boca fans in blue are kept on separate decks from the River fans in red.  Construction fencing topped with barbed wire separates the insane fans from the field. In South America, soccer is as much of a religion as it is a game. Due to violent Boca Junior support groups, Boca Stadium is one of the more dangerous places to see a match. Fireworks and glass bottles are commonly smuggled into the stadiums. Subsequently, “Football Hooliganism” has been added to Wikipedia. Noting the following about Argentine soccer…

In 2002, the Argentine government announced emergency security measures because football violence continued, with three people dead and hundreds injured in two weeks. Argentina also deals with three of the most dangerous organized supporter groups in the world, which are Los Diablos Rojos (from Independiente), Los Borrachos del Tablón (from River Plate) and La 12 (from Boca Juniors).

Imagine if America had a sports gang called “Los Diablos Rojos” that supported the L.A. Lakers. Rooting for Steve Nash would become the scariest thing since throwing Pepsi at Ron Artest. Argentine sports fans put American sports fans to shame, but that’s only because there’s no shame in knifing your rivals. Maybe that’s why Americans don’t like soccer.

In March of 2011, Colombian soccer fans dug up the coffin of a deceased friend who was also a huge fan of the local team. The group of hooligans carried the 300 lb casket past “security” and into the stadium, passing the dead teen like a crowd surfer as the game played on. Authorities commented that they “didn’t know how the men got the (8 foot) coffin past security.”

Entering Boca stadium, the four of us scrunch into the Boca fan section. We have the worst seats in the house, well deserved for showing up late. The locals get to the game supremely early to start their gameday rituals and rally their Boca allies. There are no seats, only large concrete steps covered in old gum and sandwich wrappers. The yelling is ceaseless from start to finish. 180 straight minutes of excitement dabbled in fear. 

As the game goes on, our friend Mick Fallon complains about having to “push a Harris”, which is college-code for the need to poop. As it is not a good idea to go the toilet solo, we urge Fallon to wait until the game is over. Fallon goes dead quiet for 10 minutes, then begins to ask again, more desperate this time. A fart cloud surrounds our vicinity. Smelling quite poorly, “The Other Brett” and I urge Fallon to use the toilet, regardless of the risks. He agrees and leaves for the restroom. I agree to go with. Like two schoolgirls, we squirm through the crowd towards the toilet area. Fart clouds are trailed every step of the way as I take them straight to the face.

The Boca Stadium restrooms are a marvel. Fire code doesn’t exist, and that’s fine. But the travesty here is that there is no plumbing. No plumbing in the country’s most popular sports arena. A line of soccer fans forms behind a small drain in the restroom, which fits only a third of the patrons in need of relief. The remaining people move out to the hallway to pee in the stairwell like ducks in a row. There are now more people urinating in the stadium hallway than the restroom itself. Void of options, I join in the public urination and proceed back to the game, leaving Fallon in line to wait for the only toilet stall.  Walking back to the seats, I climb stairs as rivers of piss run onto my shoes.

The score is 3-0, Boca, which pleases us in a sense that we won’t have to deal with excess fan rage that could result from a nail-biter. With only six minutes left in the game, we begin to worry about Mick Fallon, who has been gone for almost an hour at the toilet. With sixty seconds left in the match, Fallon returns, shirtless. There was no toilet paper. There is no shirt on Fallon’s back. He grins a little. You might say it was a shit-eating grin.

The final horn rings. Boca wins 3-0. Fans of the away team begin to rampage on the upper deck directly behind us. I look behind me to see River fans unzipping their pants, peeing on us and the Boca crowd below. Alcohol is not even served on the premises. These people are quite possibly stone cold sober. Argentine peckers hang over the guardrail as golden showers pour from the sky. Garbage and dirty water complement the streams. We pull our shirts over our heads into “Cornholio” mode. Half-naked Mick Fallon provides comic relief to the demoralization consuming us. May we never speak of this again.