El Partido Grande

The stadium in Mar del Plata was full to capacity, luckily, our side won. ¡Viva La Boca! - AC

As roughly 15,000 hands waved forward and backward in unison along with a perfectly harmonious chant in a sea of blue and gold speckled with giant waving flags small bumps began to rise on the back of my neck. On the other side of the stadium, a similar sea of passion was brewing, only its waters where red and white. Running through the middle of the concrete stands between the two factions was an empty row of seats boardered on each side by police wearing bright orange vests over full riot gear - shielded helmets, body armor with leg and arm extensions, bulletproof vests, plexiglass torso length shields, battons and guns. In the middle of this torrent of passion and seperated from the madness by a nuclear green moat was a brilliantly manicured and lined soccer field. On it was the game thought by many in the world to be the most fiersome athletic rivalry in existance. Despite the fact that during the middle of summer, the teams were meeting for a friendly exhibition match, the air in the stands was anything but friendly.

Boca Juniors vs. River Plate is a game that inspires warnings in most Argentina guidebooks. Every couple of years CNN or ESPN shows footage of rabid fans screaming and tearing apart stadiums or brawling with cops, the footnote on the screen usually reads, "Buenos Aires, Argentina." Up there with Celtic vs. Rangers in Scotland and Arsenal vs. Manchester United in England, the Boca - River game is the South American match to see. It´s your typical rival; working class favorite Boca Juniors from the capital´s ghetto port of La Boca against River Plate from the other side of Buenos Aires in the rich neighborhood of Belgrano. Argentines say it´s dangerous and as a Yankee whiteboy walking in a crowd of similar looking blokes speaking english, I was on edge.

As an off-season exhibition, the game was played in Mar del Plata, a very popular beach town six hours south of Buenos Aires. On a Saturday the entire capital empties out and migrates here transforming the light warm sand into a sea of wrigling brown bodies tanning and standing in the waves. On this particular Saturday things were not much different. The beach was teaming with porteños and rumors spread of fighting down the beach, where both Boca and River hooligans had been let off tour busses.

Most people from Buenos Aires support the working class Boca Jrs., who in the late 70s and early 80s were the team of Diego Maradona, one of the sport´s biggest and best names and still a god throughout Argentina today. As we walked into the stadium it was a relief to learn we would be standing on the Boca side. While Boca was favored as usual, the thought of River going ahead was a frightening one. Visions of CNN and ESPN flashed through my mind, rabid Argentines tearing the limbs off a gringo and devouring it raw.

So when the boys in blue put their first goal in the back of the River Plate net, I went as crazy as the rest of the Boca side. Fists went in the air, grown men hugged and the noise was deafening. When Boca scored its second goal, the side went just as crazy, and ten minutes later the River Plate end could be seen behind the opposite goal rioting, causing a giant hole in the crowd left by panicked running civilians. The sea of blue and gold only laughed and chanted louder, taunting their losing enemy with song.

Despite the good mood of the winning side´s fans, when the match ended the army of police opened up only one side of the stadium to let out the River Plate fans first. As a helicopter overhead monitored movement and cops on the ground encouraged the losers to disperce, we waited until the River masses had made it 20 blocks from the stadium and then the police opened up the other side to release us into the Mar del Plata night and walk to our bus.

Even with the 12 hour round trip bus ride and rather cold maritime winds, the game was all it had been cracked up to be. I sang, I jumped, I beat my fist in the air and along with the man next to me I even managed to hollar out puta at a River Plate player once or twice. But most importantly, my side won and I lived to tell the tale.

- AC