Los fanaticos
dEl tri
It was as
if I had been transported to an entirely new place. The volume of the crowd
buzz was steadily growing; the seats were rapidly filling with green bodies,
wide-brimmed sombreros and a seemingly endless stream of Chicharitos. My
adrenaline spiked back to where it was upon entrance. This is what it was
supposed to be!
Only moments before, the first
game of the day had ended in a meaningless, anticlimactic 0-0 draw. During that
first match I had been stunned that I could actually make out the various calls
and cheers from individual Canadian and Panamanian fans, and even the spoken
instructions the players were giving each other on the field. When I had first entered the stadium, I was
filled with energy, anticipating the high level Gold Cup soccer and especially
its fans. But that excitement quickly waned as we approached our seats. I became deflated, disappointed not just at
how few people were in the stands such a short time before kickoff, but in the
almost complete silence throughout the match.
Even a big play garnered only a heightened murmur. The basically boring game ended without
fanfare of any kind.
That was when I noticed the
change. It was as if I was actually
in Mexico.
My section was suddenly filled
with elated faces and voices. I had to speak up for my out of place English to
be heard by my friends and family. And it was as if everyone was indeed friends
and family there, all in support of El Tri.
The crowd
erupted when the Mexican National Team took the field alongside underdog
Martinique. It seemed like the whole
state burst into song with the Mexican National Anthem. As Martinique put the ball into play the
entire stadium exploded into a cacophony of cheers. Now, instead of individual voices blaring
out over the quiet now and then, there was a constant hum that crescendoed with
every challenged 50/50 ball or downfield Mexican pass. Any call in favor of the
opponent (no matter how correctly warranted) was met with a fervor of boos,
hisses, whistles and a few “Chingate”s. Even on the opposing goal kicks the
entire crowd would wave their arms in the air cheering, louder and louder
(similar to an American football kickoff), until it climaxed on the goalkeeper’s
contact with the ball with a deafening “Puuuuuuuu-tOOOOOOOO!!!!” This is what I expected, wanted, craved,
total passion. With a shot on the poor Islander goalie the roar of 25,000, the
stadium only a third full, was so deafening I doubted it could be any louder.
That was
until Marco Fabian broke the ice with a looping offbalance rebound that bounced
into the back of the net. OH MY
GOD!!! Total and utter elation. The
entire stadium shook like thunder with everyone jumping up and down screaming,
even my usually reserved wife and her sister.
It felt like being on the dance floor of a gigantic club at midnight on
New Year’s Eve, everyone dancing and celebrating to the fullest of their
ability. Most tried to imitate Andres
Castor’s infamous “Gooooooooooooooooooooooooooolllllllllllll!!!!!!” for as long
as they could before taking another breath.
Yes, this was exactly what I had sought.
When
Martinique earned a penalty kick to gain the tie minutes later, I feared
for the life of the referee. Even
mothers and children were screaming things that would make a Marine drill
sergeant blush as I learned some new
Spanish.
The stunned crowd then grew ominously quiet.
Quickly, though, a rocket from way outside by Luis Montes gave the adopted home team the lead back, and the stadium again
exploded in fiesta “MEH-HEE-CO! MEH-HEE-CO!”
The jubilation and excitement maintained throughout halftime.
The roar grew yet again as the second half
kicked off. The match remained 2-1 and the
crowd visibly and audibly stressed throughout the rest of the half. With each successive play or change of
possession, the crowd “OOOOOHHH!”ed and “AAAAAAAAH”ed in accordance. The
tension mounted. The collective sigh of
relief exhaled with a Martinique miss created a stiff breeze. While a narrowly missed a shot by Mexico
brought a ridiculous, “AAAAAAAAAWWW” as if 25,000 people had had their own
lifeblood drawn out of them.
I was hot, thirsty, hungry and
had to pee, but there was no way I was missing even one second of action. We were all literally on the edge of our
seats, desperately begging for another goal to seal it. When it finally came, Miguel to Miguel, a beautiful cross by
the young speedster Layun and finished strong by the substitute striker Ponce, the post-game celebration had begun.
An electrical hum buzzed the air, everyone singing, whooping and
Ole-ing, as we exited the stadium in a rhythmic Conga crowd, the sensation lasting all the way home.
Even though
this was only Mexico’s “B” squad in a mid-level tournament, we all felt like we
had personally won the World Cup. I vowed to never miss another Mexico game played in
Colorado.
