By JAMIE LAFFERTY
n Magazine by Norwegian, December 2018
On a cool, clear evening in Buenos Aires, San Martín de San Juan, a small football team from western Argentina, arrives to face the music at La Bombonera. Home of Boca Juniors, the largest and most successful team in the country, the stadium is the beating blue-and-gold heart of the colourful, chaotic La Boca neighbourhood.
Indeed, it’s known as much for the noisy enthusiasm of its fans as for the skill of its players, who’ve counted Maradona among their number. Officially the Estadio Alberto J Armando, it’s known to everyone as “The Chocolate Box”, thanks to its unusual shape. But in reality, it’s more meat grinder than confectionery container – certainly for visiting teams who enjoy little success here. This is partly owing to a police ban on any travelling supporters, put in place in 2013, that ensures a wholly partisan atmosphere permeates.
The result is an intimidating frenzy reminiscent of the Two Minutes Hate in George Orwell’s 1984. “An ecstasy of fear and vindictiveness... [flowed] through the whole group like an electric current, turning one even against one’s will into a grimacing, screaming lunatic.” A game at La Bombonera is like that, only 45 times longer.
And yet, strange as it might sound to the nonfootball fan, this fury holds a certain appeal. In a sport where growing corporatisation has led to an increasingly bland and sanitised experience, Boca’s wild terraces are a throwback to a different era. For fans from around the world, this intensity is something to be sought out. Tickets are hard to come by, and it’s not an experience tourists can just wander into, but local tour company Tangol has begun to offer tickets to select foreigners who are accompanied by seasonticket-holding guides. As soon as I heard this was possible, I wanted to experience it. I’m from Glasgow, a city with a notorious footballing reputation of its own, but, even so, visiting La Bombonera seemed like it could be something above and beyond anything I had encountered at home.
A couple of hours before kick-off, I’m duly picked up by diehard Boca fan and Tangol guide Santiago Puerta. Inside the minibus, there’s an eclectic mix of tourists: two stern-looking Finns, a cheery American family and a lone Iranian backpacker. “You’re coming to my house now – it’s a privilege,” says Puerta to all of us as we board, and he makes sure no one is wearing any red or white clothing (the colours of middle-class rivals River Plate) before reassuring us that we’ll be in a section of the 49,000-seat stadium away from flares and trouble.
As the minibus moves through the city, it passes buses of hardcore Boca fans who have been touring the city for hours, shouting and singing out of the windows to let everyone know it’s game day. As we get closer to the stadium, Puerta gives us a potted history of the club, which was founded in 1905 by Italian immigrants for La Boca’s vociferous working class. Now the most popular team in the country, their jerseys are found across Argentina, but the reason for their famous colour scheme is surprisingly arbitrary. “The founders couldn’t agree on which colours to have, so because La Boca is close to the port, they decided to go down there and take them from the next ship that came in,” explains Puerta. “It was Swedish, thank God, because these colours are really pretty. This is what we have: blue and gold for life.”
As we climb high into La Bombonera for the start of the game, those same hues are on the back of every fan and draped from all four stands. The sun is setting so even the sky seems to pay tribute to the team, shifting from a powdery blue to a burnished gold. Puerta settles his guests before taking a seat on the stairs, making it easier for him to jump up and roar when Carlos Tévez gives his team the lead after just nine minutes. The collective roar sounds like an explosion. The atmosphere at La Bombonera is intensified in part because of the steepness and semi-circular shape of the terraces, which boost the acoustics.
From high in the main stand, we have a great view of the pitch, but also of La Doce (The Twelfth Man): the relentless fans behind the goal who move from one chant to the next, with just a quick breather at half time.
While there’s no doubting the commitment of any fans here – even we newcomers quickly lose our inhibitions when a goal is scored – La Doce sets the rhythm for the stadium, and perhaps the entire country. Season tickets at La Bombonera are generational and there are rarely vacancies in their manic stand. The section does have seats, but they’re only used as springboards, allowing fans to jump all the higher when shouting their heroes’ names. Even before scoring, Tévez was the most popular man in the stadium. A short, stocky striker, he first made his name here with Boca Juniors before making his fortune in the UK. Despite never learning English, he made a huge impression there, almost single-handedly saving West Ham from relegation, then winning titles with Manchester United, and their old rivals Man City.
Like many South American players, Tévez eventually opted to play out the final days of his career in his homeland, back with the team that gave him his break. He’s now the highest-paid player in the league, even though his wages are a fraction of what they were in England, Italy and during an ill-judged spell in China.
For Boca fans, the money is not important, though – what really matters is one of their most beloved sons choosing to return home. He grew up 20km from the stadium, in desperate poverty in the notorious Fuerte Apache barrio. While many footballers cover their bodies in patchworks of tattoos, Tévez came into the game scarred: as an infant he accidentally pulled a pan of boiling water off a table and onto himself. Despite his millions, he’s never had any surgery to diminish the scars that run down his neck and chest. At the end of games, he often removes his jersey, as though to remind everyone what it means for him to be here.
He still plays the game like that too, as if getting the ball is his only way to get out of Fuerte Apache. As he smashes through defences, a neutral fan might feel sorry for his opponents but that’s not the Boca way. “He’s really one of us,” says Puerta, nodding with approval as a San Martín defender lies prone on the pitch. “Of course, people talk about Maradona, but he was already finished when he came back here.”
If anything, Maradona is more beloved for what he achieved with the Argentinian national side than his single 1981/82 league title with Boca Juniors. In the Museo de la Pasión Boquense – the club museum in the bowels of La Bombonera – it’s clear that players such as Martín Palermo (236 goals and 13 trophies for Boca) or Juan Román Riquelme (11 trophies over two stints with the club) are held in higher regard than “El Diego”.
However, during the 90 minutes of the match, history seems irrelevant – all that matters is what’s happening on the pitch and the irresistible rhythm of the drums, the crowd’s communal heartbeat. As they chant, fans throw their arms out as though trying to shake something sticky from their hands. When they synchronise a sort of tomahawk chop, thousands of arms slicing through the air, the collective result is hypnotic and infectious. Around the stadium, the blue and gold shimmer as Boca take a 2-0 lead, and during every goal in their 4-2 victory.
Coming to see Boca Juniors feels like travelling back to see football as it might have been in the good old days. The tribalism is very real, the atmosphere supercharged. At half time, Santiago Puerta comes over to me, keen to talk more football, listing every Argentinian player who ever played for Rangers or Celtic in Glasgow. Puerta keeps an eye on that old Scottish war, just as I like to know who wins each Boca Juniors-River Plate match, the infamous Superclásico. The battle lines in Glasgow are religious, so what about here? Why the major rivalry between La Boca and River Plate? “It’s class,” replies Puerta quickly. “Those guys, you know,” he pushes his nose back, seeming to indicate snobbery, “but this year they’re so bad it’s almost no fun to beat them... Almost.” I start to tell him that in the Europe’s top leagues, much has been lost as money has flooded the game. Season tickets are extraordinarily expensive and not enough fans support their home sides; the players are richer, but the sport is arguably impoverished. I think he’s listening, but then La Doce restarts the drums, his eyes seem to go just a little vacant and a moment later, my guide is leaning over the safety barrier, howling with 50,000 others: “When I die, I don’t want flowers/ I want a coffin that has these colours.”
n Magazine by Norwegian, December 2018
On a cool, clear evening in Buenos Aires, San Martín de San Juan, a small football team from western Argentina, arrives to face the music at La Bombonera. Home of Boca Juniors, the largest and most successful team in the country, the stadium is the beating blue-and-gold heart of the colourful, chaotic La Boca neighbourhood.
Indeed, it’s known as much for the noisy enthusiasm of its fans as for the skill of its players, who’ve counted Maradona among their number. Officially the Estadio Alberto J Armando, it’s known to everyone as “The Chocolate Box”, thanks to its unusual shape. But in reality, it’s more meat grinder than confectionery container – certainly for visiting teams who enjoy little success here. This is partly owing to a police ban on any travelling supporters, put in place in 2013, that ensures a wholly partisan atmosphere permeates.
The result is an intimidating frenzy reminiscent of the Two Minutes Hate in George Orwell’s 1984. “An ecstasy of fear and vindictiveness... [flowed] through the whole group like an electric current, turning one even against one’s will into a grimacing, screaming lunatic.” A game at La Bombonera is like that, only 45 times longer.
And yet, strange as it might sound to the nonfootball fan, this fury holds a certain appeal. In a sport where growing corporatisation has led to an increasingly bland and sanitised experience, Boca’s wild terraces are a throwback to a different era. For fans from around the world, this intensity is something to be sought out. Tickets are hard to come by, and it’s not an experience tourists can just wander into, but local tour company Tangol has begun to offer tickets to select foreigners who are accompanied by seasonticket-holding guides. As soon as I heard this was possible, I wanted to experience it. I’m from Glasgow, a city with a notorious footballing reputation of its own, but, even so, visiting La Bombonera seemed like it could be something above and beyond anything I had encountered at home.
A couple of hours before kick-off, I’m duly picked up by diehard Boca fan and Tangol guide Santiago Puerta. Inside the minibus, there’s an eclectic mix of tourists: two stern-looking Finns, a cheery American family and a lone Iranian backpacker. “You’re coming to my house now – it’s a privilege,” says Puerta to all of us as we board, and he makes sure no one is wearing any red or white clothing (the colours of middle-class rivals River Plate) before reassuring us that we’ll be in a section of the 49,000-seat stadium away from flares and trouble.
As the minibus moves through the city, it passes buses of hardcore Boca fans who have been touring the city for hours, shouting and singing out of the windows to let everyone know it’s game day. As we get closer to the stadium, Puerta gives us a potted history of the club, which was founded in 1905 by Italian immigrants for La Boca’s vociferous working class. Now the most popular team in the country, their jerseys are found across Argentina, but the reason for their famous colour scheme is surprisingly arbitrary. “The founders couldn’t agree on which colours to have, so because La Boca is close to the port, they decided to go down there and take them from the next ship that came in,” explains Puerta. “It was Swedish, thank God, because these colours are really pretty. This is what we have: blue and gold for life.”
As we climb high into La Bombonera for the start of the game, those same hues are on the back of every fan and draped from all four stands. The sun is setting so even the sky seems to pay tribute to the team, shifting from a powdery blue to a burnished gold. Puerta settles his guests before taking a seat on the stairs, making it easier for him to jump up and roar when Carlos Tévez gives his team the lead after just nine minutes. The collective roar sounds like an explosion. The atmosphere at La Bombonera is intensified in part because of the steepness and semi-circular shape of the terraces, which boost the acoustics.
From high in the main stand, we have a great view of the pitch, but also of La Doce (The Twelfth Man): the relentless fans behind the goal who move from one chant to the next, with just a quick breather at half time.
While there’s no doubting the commitment of any fans here – even we newcomers quickly lose our inhibitions when a goal is scored – La Doce sets the rhythm for the stadium, and perhaps the entire country. Season tickets at La Bombonera are generational and there are rarely vacancies in their manic stand. The section does have seats, but they’re only used as springboards, allowing fans to jump all the higher when shouting their heroes’ names. Even before scoring, Tévez was the most popular man in the stadium. A short, stocky striker, he first made his name here with Boca Juniors before making his fortune in the UK. Despite never learning English, he made a huge impression there, almost single-handedly saving West Ham from relegation, then winning titles with Manchester United, and their old rivals Man City.
Like many South American players, Tévez eventually opted to play out the final days of his career in his homeland, back with the team that gave him his break. He’s now the highest-paid player in the league, even though his wages are a fraction of what they were in England, Italy and during an ill-judged spell in China.
For Boca fans, the money is not important, though – what really matters is one of their most beloved sons choosing to return home. He grew up 20km from the stadium, in desperate poverty in the notorious Fuerte Apache barrio. While many footballers cover their bodies in patchworks of tattoos, Tévez came into the game scarred: as an infant he accidentally pulled a pan of boiling water off a table and onto himself. Despite his millions, he’s never had any surgery to diminish the scars that run down his neck and chest. At the end of games, he often removes his jersey, as though to remind everyone what it means for him to be here.
He still plays the game like that too, as if getting the ball is his only way to get out of Fuerte Apache. As he smashes through defences, a neutral fan might feel sorry for his opponents but that’s not the Boca way. “He’s really one of us,” says Puerta, nodding with approval as a San Martín defender lies prone on the pitch. “Of course, people talk about Maradona, but he was already finished when he came back here.”
If anything, Maradona is more beloved for what he achieved with the Argentinian national side than his single 1981/82 league title with Boca Juniors. In the Museo de la Pasión Boquense – the club museum in the bowels of La Bombonera – it’s clear that players such as Martín Palermo (236 goals and 13 trophies for Boca) or Juan Román Riquelme (11 trophies over two stints with the club) are held in higher regard than “El Diego”.
However, during the 90 minutes of the match, history seems irrelevant – all that matters is what’s happening on the pitch and the irresistible rhythm of the drums, the crowd’s communal heartbeat. As they chant, fans throw their arms out as though trying to shake something sticky from their hands. When they synchronise a sort of tomahawk chop, thousands of arms slicing through the air, the collective result is hypnotic and infectious. Around the stadium, the blue and gold shimmer as Boca take a 2-0 lead, and during every goal in their 4-2 victory.
Coming to see Boca Juniors feels like travelling back to see football as it might have been in the good old days. The tribalism is very real, the atmosphere supercharged. At half time, Santiago Puerta comes over to me, keen to talk more football, listing every Argentinian player who ever played for Rangers or Celtic in Glasgow. Puerta keeps an eye on that old Scottish war, just as I like to know who wins each Boca Juniors-River Plate match, the infamous Superclásico. The battle lines in Glasgow are religious, so what about here? Why the major rivalry between La Boca and River Plate? “It’s class,” replies Puerta quickly. “Those guys, you know,” he pushes his nose back, seeming to indicate snobbery, “but this year they’re so bad it’s almost no fun to beat them... Almost.” I start to tell him that in the Europe’s top leagues, much has been lost as money has flooded the game. Season tickets are extraordinarily expensive and not enough fans support their home sides; the players are richer, but the sport is arguably impoverished. I think he’s listening, but then La Doce restarts the drums, his eyes seem to go just a little vacant and a moment later, my guide is leaning over the safety barrier, howling with 50,000 others: “When I die, I don’t want flowers/ I want a coffin that has these colours.”
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