I thought I was safe. I thought that my position would keep me with a view of the craziness, but out of harm’s way.
I thought wrong.
I could feel myself shrinking into the corner with each swell of people. The boys in front of me backed up, and my panic increased as the waitress on the other side of the window frantically motioned for me to move.
“It’s going to break!” she mouthed.
As if I hadn’t suspected that already. The window wasn’t made of true glass, but more of a flexible, plexiglass material that each time bent further as more people passed and jostled for positions. The waitress tried to signal the boys, but they were too intent on blowing their blue and white Argentina trumpets to pay her any notice. Meanwhile, the streets filled up even more with people, and two hundred feet in front of me adolescent boys created a frenzied mosh pit of celebration.
Welcome to Argentina’s triumph in the “round of 16,” or octavos, in the 2010 World Cup.
A group of friends and I had originally planned on meeting at a restaurant to watch the game against Mexico. Upon arriving to the closed restaurant, someone suggested we instead watch the game in front of the shopping center Patio Olmos, where the city had put up a huge screen. I was a little uneasy about watching with a million screaming fans, but after quick trip to buy an Argentina shirt I was ready to cheer on my adopted country.
“I can’t believe you abandoned me,” Doreidy said, glaring. She was dressed neither in Argentina’s colors nor Mexico’s, fearing that if she openly supported Mexico she’d find trouble.
I shrugged. “Sorry! Vamos Argentina!” I went to throw away the wrappings of my lunch; a choripan bought off the street. When I returned, our small group had gathered the attention of a local newscaster.
“Where are you all from?” he asked, holding the microphone to Doreidy.
“Estados Unidos,” she told him, and then turned away. “Oh, no, I can’t talk, I’m supporting, well…”
“We’re studying abroad here and we’re really excited to watch the game!” I told him.
“And who are you rooting for?” he asked me, “…now that the USA is out of the Mundial.”
I made a sad face. “Well, we had hope for a while, but now we, well most of are, 100% for Argentina!”
“Who do you think will score the winning goals today?”
It was a loaded question—how well did I actually know my adopted country’s team? All the names flew out of my head as I tried to remember just one. Let’s see, there’s Messi….Messi….he’s the obvious choice; I shouldn’t say him…
“I think Higuaín will!” Jennifer piped up. She took off her leather coat and turned around to reveal Gonzalo Higuaín’s number 9 on the back of her Argentina jersey.
The newscaster beamed. “Interesting prediction! He’s a great player; we’ll see how the game goes!”
As it turned out, Higuaín did score at least one of the three goals Argentina made. With each goal the crowd reacted wildly: jumping, hugging, screaming, and occasionally setting off mini firecrackers. The group of adolescent boys behind us tried to push and stir up the crowd, but they quieted down after dealt a death glare from Vicki, the petite 20 something-year-old PECLA program assistant.
Whatever the team felt, the crowd felt. Cries went up after the Mexican player obviously shoved an Argentine, and noises of approval when the referee pulled out the yellow card. Indignation spread though the crowd over unfair plays or calls.
“Now you see the Argentine come out,” Vicki said, laughing at the hand signals appearing all over the crowd; fingers curved to touch the thumb combined with the shaking hand directed at the television.
Mexico eventually scored a goal in the later part of the second half, but for the most part, Argentina won easily. After the game ended, our group split up and I headed uptown with Doreidy, two Spanish friends, and her housemates. Adam and Dani had joined us midway, creating some laughs. While Adam was decked out in Argentina colors, Dani popped up fully supporting Mexico. She quickly smeared off the flags painted on her cheeks, and calmly ignored the teenage boys making comments.
“You know what…I think I’m just going to go home,” I told the group, and turned around, headed back towards the center. My bus stop was on the other side of Patio Olmos, on the other side of the craziness.
Truth be told, I wanted to see some of the after game celebrations, which was how I ended up being shoved into the bending window of the Bonafide café.
Lines of people went past me, playing drums, blowing trumpets, and trying unsuccessfully to make phone calls. A good number looked the way I felt: overwhelmed.
Initially, my spot in the cutout of the window was perfect. I was safe from the mini firecrackers and bombs going off, and from the mosh pits in the center. But then the group of boys came, and with them, more and more people piled into the space.
The waitress tapped again. “Get out!”
I didn’t need further encouragement. I squeezed past the boys and into the sea of people. As I left the center, more and more people headed towards it. I dashed and hopped on the lone bus leaving my stop. I arrived at home to find my host parents preparing a room for the students arriving in a week.
Fiorella looked at me. “Oh, what a nice shirt!”
¡Vamos, vamos Argentina!
I would’ve liked to include pictures with this post, but my camera ran out of batteries the minute we arrived. It probably worked out for the best; one of the girls was tackled and had to fight for her camera. In the end, she lost it.
Links to the Official Songs of the FIFA World Cup 2010
