"Guys"

I was never the mover and shaker in high school or college. I was never the one who knew people, who could tell you “where the party was at.” In fact, I usually missed the party because I was in the library. In Argentina, however, a large part of the “work” I have come to do, involves going to soccer games. For which you must get tickets. And you don’t get tickets unless you have “a guy,” or two. And curiously enough, once you have a guy, and people find that out, you start to become other people’s guy. So it was that I received a small wave of phone calls mid week last week as other foreign students, hoping to catch a Boca game before the end of their semester abroad, called asking (and in one case, begging) me to help them get tickets. This game was especially difficult, being the last of the season for Argentina’s most popular team, which sat in a three-way tie for first place. I made calls, and bargained, and waited, and made more calls. I relayed semi-dubious promises from my guys to my friends. Ultimately, after prices did their filtering, I took two French kids and an Italian to the Bombonera. All three are huge soccer fans and know much more than I do about the game. But I have guys.

It was an odd experience for me. I very very rarely lead any sort of social activity. And it is not necessarily an experience I enjoy. I don’t like being responsible for others’ enjoying themselves. Basically, I’m not sure how “good” I am at “fun.” I suppose I knew that my friends would enjoy the game and that, if Boca and Colon failed to produce goals that could hardly be my fault. But I was afraid we wouldn’t arrive on time, or that one of them would get robbed. As we walked from the bus to the stadium, scalpers offered us tickets at about half the price we had paid. I had received several warnings not to buy on the street as the Boca houses a healthy ticket-counterfeiting industry. Still, I had my doubts, and assumed my friends would, too. They didn’t complain, however, and Benjamin, the Frenchman, mentioned that he, too, had been warned not to buy scalped tickets. I was relieved, but now that it was on my mind, I worried that our tickets might be fakes.

After almost an hour in line, we approached the stadium gates and were asked to have our tickets in hand. Anais, the other French friend, took out her ticket and let out a worried “ooo.” Perspiration from a water bottle jammed into the same pocket had stained and blurred the writing on the front of her ticket. Alessandro, the Italian, reasoned that the electronic bar on the back was the only part that really needed to be in good shape and we all hoped he was right. I had Anais go ahead of the rest of us in line, offering to give her my ticket if hers didn’t work. But it did, as did ours. We giggled, relieved, and the kid manning the scanner smirked with contempt at our apparent glee on entering a stadium in which he had grown up.

Once inside the stadium, we parted ways. I headed off to the liveliest section, to intrude on the hooligans, some of whom I know but none of whom can even be considered guys of mine. We cheered and jumped and, of course, sang. Boca scored three times in the first half, bringing as much relief as happiness to the home crowd. A few fans had brought radios to track the other games, and word of mouth brought the news that San Lorenzo and Tigre were both winning, obliging Boca to win or go home empty handed. Boca and Tigre had weak opponents, and no excuse not to win. San Lorenzo’s rival, Argentinos Juniors, was strong, coming off an impressive performance in the South American Cup. But Argentinos’ barra had offered the team cash to throw the game, and thereby cast an obstacle in Boca’s path. Such is the hatred felt for Boca by fans of all other Argentine clubs. It makes my feelings toward rivals of my favorite American teams look like mild bitterness, at worst. I will certainly chant “Yankees suck” in the 7th inning of a boring Orioles-Devil Rays game. But I doubt I would ever try to pay Baltimore to lose to Boston, just to keep the Yankees out of the playoffs. Another level indeed.

So Banfield was falling to Tigre and Argentinos (even having refused the bribe offers) was not standing up to San Lorenzo. The Bombonera grew tense in the second half as Colon scored two and brought Boca dangerously close to falling from the top. Tiago, the kid next to me whom I had met during half time, wrapped his arm around my waist and gripped the security rail behind me, leaning the rest of his body as far as it would reach over the row in front of us. He shrieked his encouragement, veins bulging and sweat dripping on the heads below. He knew as well as the rest of the grandstanders that the true fan must take his share of responsibility. As my interviewees regularly tell me, “in the cheap seats, you aren’t a spectator, you play every game.” In moments like these, we fans wish we were on the field. We know we aren’t good enough, but we also know that this championship, this game 7, this final, is too important to leave in the hands of others, no matter how talented. They can’t possibly want it as much as we do. But the best we can do is scream. So scream we did, me and my new brother in angst.

Our words asked the players for effort, and begged them to show that they felt what we felt. I always feel a bit fake singing these words, but I belt them out anyway, lest I be revealed as a tourist. A tourist taking a spot that would otherwise be filled by another voice; a voice trying to lose itself; a man offering to “give my heart for the cup.” Though I planned on leaving the stadium with all my bodily organs (metaphorical and actual), the least I could do was be loud. Thankfully, I knew the words.

In the final two minutes, the cheap seats at the other, calmer end of the stadium started to shoot off fireworks. Our end remained tense, but Tiago’s arm relaxed a bit. Smiles began to tug at lips and, as the final whistle blew, thousands of mouths let out sighs of relief, inhaled, and started to sing songs of victory.

But there is work left to do. The three leaders will play each other this coming week, one game with each opponent. I called my guys and reserved my place in the stadium. I will be there, and I will be loud, and maybe I will be able to hold Tiago up again. I pay, I sing, I try to earn my keep in the bleachers. But no number of connections, no amount of money, and no quantity of burst blood vessels will make me feel fully legitimate among the soccer faithful. I enjoy it more, but the role of hincha does not fit me much better than that of “guy.”

Advice, Luck, and Random Help

“You just need to make powerful friends,” said Diego, a Red Cross volunteer in San Martin square. “If you have friends high up, and they introduce you around, the rest can’t touch you.” I had explained that I was doing a study on soccer hooligans and he had readily offered his advice. Like most Argentines, he started with a warning: “you know, things are pretty f**ked up here, you should be careful.” He listed a few incidents, each ending with someone beaten (or worse) for being in the wrong place, at the wrong time, wearing the wrong jersey. Or for having money. But “you’ll be fine if you make friends with the bosses,” he assured me. “You know what you could do? You could go to jail,” Diego went on.

“You mean…” I knew I would have to prove myself, to some extent and in some way, to get access to the barrabravas. But Diego’s advice had running through my head images from a whole other level of manhood-demonstration. Images of me meticulously sharpening the back end of a toothbrush, before finally jamming it into the tattooed lower back of someone named Bruno. And then the more realistic images of Bruno and a gang of guys named Tony and Gordo stomping me relentlessly, my broken toothbrush kicked hopelessly far from my outstretched hand.

“I mean you could write a letter asking for permission to enter the jail where they’re holding Rafa Di Zeo.” Diego brought me back to a slightly more believable reality. “Seriously, you think they’d let me into the prison to interview him.”

“Well if he wants you to get in, you’ll get in.” Rafael Di Zeo, head of “La 12,” Boca Juniors’ barra, turned himself in a year and a half ago, after a couple of months in hiding. He is serving a 4+ year sentence for something called “aggravated coercion,” related to his role in an especially bad bout of football violence in 1999.

So my first plan for accessing “La 12” involved sending letters “up the river,” asking politely for permission to speak to a jailed head hooligan. Other thoughts have involved randomly introducing myself at game time, visiting a body shop in La Boca where some barras hang out, and buying a “tourist pass” to ride the bus and watch a game with the boys from “La 12.”

Still unsure what route to take, I spent my first week focused on finding an apartment and getting settled in. A few days later, I was sitting in a friend’s café trying, futilely, to convince him that 9-11 was not an inside job. He is Ukrainian, an avid internet reader, and much more-, if not better-, informed than I am about 9-11 theories. His Spanish is also much better than mine. So it was a welcome interruption to my frustration when two older locals walked in to start an afternoon of drinking. They greeted us coldly and Dmitri gave them their beers and went to the back to help his mother with something, leaving me alone with the less-than-friendly drinkers. A few minutes later one of them, apparently bored of his companion’s company, turned and asked me where I was from. “From the U.S.,” I said, “near the capital.” He immediately walked over and extended his hand to shake mine. “Let me congratulate you and your countrymen on your new president. We’re all expecting good things from him.”

The conversation was much warmer from then on. “What are you doing in Argentina? Anything I can help you with?”

“Working on my Spanish and, if you can believe it, studying football fans.”

“Wow,” he replied, “very interesting. You know, I have a friend who is part of ‘La 12.’ Actually, I’m his lawyer, he’s in jail. His name’s Rafael Di Zeo, you might have heard it before.”

I have learned never to lie or be vague about what I am doing. Dependent as I am on contacts in order to enter the relatively closed world of barrabravas, I make as many friends as I can, hoping that one or two will have friends with friends who can help me. In Paraguay it was “refreshments counter guy” and Julio from Club Olimpia, who gave me my most important contacts. Here, in my first week in Argentina, I had met the man in charge of getting Rafa out of prison and back running the streets of La Boca and the cheap seats of Boca’s stadium, “La Bombonera.” He promised to leave his number with Dmitri, and to ask Di Zeo if he would talk to me.

I took the subway back to my hostel marveling at my good fortune. My best project lead yet had come as I debated conspiracy politics with a Ukrainian, a friend of a friend’s boyfriend, in his small café on an out-of-the-way corner of one of Buenos Aires’ many middle class neighborhoods. And my good luck started with the lawyer’s high hopes for our President elect. I have no idea whether he would have offered to help me under other circumstances. But I like to think that I was one of the first Americans to benefit directly from the election of Barack Obama.

Oh, I Get It, You're Brazilian!

I have good and bad language days. There are days when I come bouncing back home, after a string of functional conversations, compliments on my accent, and questions about where I learned. Other days I come home quietly, hoping that my hosts won’t come out to greet me and reveal my truly dysfunctional Spanish; days when little kids have tricked me into saying dumb things, friends have laughed at my mistakes, or, at the very worst, someone has given up on speech all together, resorting to mute gestures in order to communicate with the dumb Yankee.

The most welcome and shocking of compliments is when someone mistakes me for a local. It never happens with anyone who has spoken to me very long (save once, with a Japanese volunteer, his own Spanish still in fledgling stages, who exclaimed, fully in earnest and with an adorably stereotypical accent, “You’re NOT Paraguayan!!??”). I am always flattered and thrilled by these mix-ups, rare as they are. They let me know that one day, maybe, I might actually speak this language well.

And then there is the other side to appearing local, the appearance part. A Peruvian friend, himself conspicuously dark by Paraguayan standards, once told me “you’re accent is OK but no local will ever think you’re Paraguayan because of your, ah, complexion.” Still, last weekend, watching the Paraguay-Colombia World Cup Qualifier in a hotel lobby, an Ecuadorian guest told me “you seem like a local.” “It’s true,” an Argentinean agreed, “how long have you been in Spanish-speaking countries?” Ironically, I misunderstood the question. But the Ecuadorian wasn’t talking about my Spanish, I had barely spoken to him before his comment. Maybe it was the red and white shirt I was wearing, sporting my support for the national team. Or maybe it was that fact that I had hardly moved from beside the grill, helping to prepare Paraguay-style meat to celebrate the game.

At a game on Sunday, several people rattled off paragraphs of Guaraní to me, obviously assuming I was Paraguayan. Later, as opposing hinchadas waged a rock-throwing battle for control of the main exit to the stadium, I chatted with an older guy who had chosen to hide behind the same wall. “I hope they arrest them all,” he said, “I have to drive out through that door, I can’t go the back way, and I’m afraid their going to break my windows.” Then he said a few things in Guaraní, at which I smiled (apparently inappropriately). “Oh, you must not be Paraguayan,” he realized. The police came and arrested some members of the smaller hinchada, escorting the rest out of the stadium. The officer in command explained that the fans of the opposing fans were too numerous to arrest but that they were waiting for buses and would go home soon.

I waited 20 minutes and walked out to catch a bus with the last of the trouble-making fans, now more tired, less drunk, and significantly calmer. I took three buses to get home, finally getting off a few blocks too late in my still unfamiliar neighborhood. Walking home I stopped at a gas station store to buy a hot dog. Actually, I bought two, my gluttony revealing to all the Paraguayans in the room that I come from the country of great portions. I sat down to eat, watching the Paraguayan soccer wrap-up on the store’s T.V.

Two bites into my second hot dog, a little kid, probably about 8, sat down next to me, eyes fixated on the highlight reel in front of us. We watched in silence for a few minutes before, my he looked up and said “Cerro has 18 points now, right? That means we might have a chance.” “Ah you’re a Cerrista,” I said, “and do you know how the Luque game came out today?” “1-0, Luque won,” he responded. “Oh, must have been a good game.” He misunderstood, “Oh so you’re Luqueño, where do you live?” “Well I live just across the street,” I replied, “but I’m neutral.”
“You’re what?”
“I’m neutral, I don’t have a club.”
“Oh, I get it, you’re Brazilian!” he explained, his face lighting up with understanding.
“Well, I’m not Paraguayan, but I’m not from Brazil either.”
“Where are you from?”
“Guess”
“Argentina,” I shook my head, “Uruguay…Chile…Bolivia,” and he seemed to have run out of ideas.
“I’m from the U.S.” I gave in.
“So that’s why,” he said. And he looked at me with wonder. Too young to be judging by my language abilities, he had probably just never met anyone from so far away.
“Do they eat meat there?” he asked, wide-eyed. “What about yucca?”
“Not really.”
“Seriously, they don’t? That’s so odd”
Brazilians are weird, which explains their lack of Paraguayan club preference. They are, however, at least sensible enough to eat normal food. North Americans are downright alien. My new friend could pardon my accent, in fact he may not even have noticed it. He could pardon my club soccer neutrality, if it was because I was a Brazileiro. But to not eat yucca, well…“don’t you get hungry?” An exotic bunch we are.

Names

I was cooking fish with Arnaldo, my Club Guaraní contact, when Adolfo Trotte, famous boss of the Club Olimpia hinchada, finally returned my phone call. A couple of days before, I had gone to Club Olimpia looking for a friendly employee who had offered to introduce me to hinchas. “Julio’s on vacation,” said the man who works the refreshments counter. He couldn’t tell me when, exactly, Julio was expected back. “Maybe you can help me then,” I said, “Julio told me he knew members of the ‘barra’ and I want to interview them for my study.” “Maybe I can help you then, maybe I can help,” said ‘refreshments counter man’ (he and others have told me his name approximately 37 times but I still haven’t managed to learn it). “Come back on Friday at six and I’ll introduce you to one of the bosses of Olimpia’s barra.” I thanked ‘refreshments counter man’ and headed back home.

When I arrived on Friday, I ran into another friend (whose name I have also not been able to retain, but who I identify by his ‘floppy hair’) was sitting by the club entrance talking to a short, solidly built guy with earrings. I said hi and he asked if I was there to play soccer. “No, ah, I’m here to see the guy who works at the refreshments counter. He was going to introduce me to some friends of his from the barra.” The earringed guy looked away quickly, making me think that he was my promised contact but that he was going to make me go through the motions before he talked to me. “Floppy hair” seemed to agree that the Yankee should work for his priviledges, “Ah, well, there’s your friend,” he said, also neglecting to give me the actual name of ‘refreshment counter man.’ I walked up and said hi, and ‘refreshment counter man’ told me to wait while he went and got his friend. He walked behind me and talked to the earringed man for a few seconds. Then he whistled my attention and motioned for me to come over.

“This is Tony,” he told me, “he can help you.” I introduced myself and gave the elevator speech version of my study. Tony nodded, not meeting my eyes, and said “Ok, I think I can help you.” “I’m not a boss or anything, just a member. I’d talk to you, but I have to ask permission first. If I tell you yes, and then my boss doesn’t like the idea, I could have some trouble. I’ll check with my boss on Sunday at the game and I’ll call you.”

On Wednesday, not having heard anything from Tony, I called him and he said that his boss had agreed to talk to me. I had been hoping for permission to talk to the underlings, more than an invitation to meet the boss. But Paraguayans never cease to surprise me by offering more help that I even ask for, let alone expect. “He never answers his phone if he doesn’t recognize the number so you have to send him a message first saying that you’re my friend, the journalist, and you want to interview him,” Tony explained. “Oh, and his name is ‘Señor Adolfo Trotte,’ make sure you call him that.” Needless to say, I wrote it down.

That afternoon, I sent Mr. Trotte a message and he responded saying he would call me back later. I thanked him profusely, assuming he was used to receiving excessive gratitude. His response was not exactly a ‘you’re welcome’: “fine, but it has it’s price, BROTHER.” I laughed, showing the message to a friend. “I think he’s joking,” I said. “Maybe, we’ll see what he asks for,” came the less-than-reassuring reply.

A couple of days and a few reminder messages later, Mr. Trotte’s called. Wiping onion juice and fish skin off my hands, I answered the call politely: “hello, sir, how are you?” “I’m fine, and you, my Yankee friend?” We exchanged pleasantries before Mr. Trotte abruptly cut us off, “I have to go, hang up now, I’ll call you. Hang up now.” I complied and a few minutes later Mr. Trotte called again, “OK, what can I do for you, my friend, keeping in mind that I am a busy man.” We scheduled an interview for “exactly” 1:15 that afternoon, “don’t come early, please, I won’t be available, but don’t come late, I have things to do.”

Arnaldo and I put a rush on our fish and jogged out to the avenue to catch a bus to Sajonia to meet the boss.

I was running late and Arnaldo told me to be sure I messaged Mr. Trotte, and told me to drop his name while I was at it, saying that they were friends. “I thought Yankees were punctual, what happened? And I don’t know who your friend is, but I’m glad you ate lunch already,” the boss replied. His tone changed immediately after I arrived, apologizing and 5 minutes late. “Five minutes is nothing, come in and sit down.”

Mr. Trotte wore short-cropped, dark hair, accompanied by sunglasses, an open-necked shirt, and a gaudy, gold chain. He sent his wife and daughter to the back room, ordering his son to stay with us to serve Terere and “listen and try learn something.” Mr. Trotte had me explain myself and my project and asked me to list who I had talked to already and recount how I met Tony. Then he reclined in his chair and declared himself “ready to answer any question, anything.” He explained that many fan tactics and most of the songs and cheers come from Argentina but that “we have a few little sons of bitches with good heads for adapting lyrics.” He told me he considered the fans to be the “twelfth player,” their vocal support playing a key role in the game itself. Then he delivered the cliché “this game is played both on the field and off.” “In what sense?” I asked, expecting to hear more about fan backing. “In all senses,” he started, “you know many coaches have paid off the referee, bought opposing goal keepers and defenders. And our best coaches always remembered to bring their own water and food to away games, so that the other side can’t put anything in it.”

Having moved to the darker side of Paraguayan soccer, I decided to ask about fan violence. Trotte told me it was really just an expression of individual and societal problems “bigger than soccer.” He declared that he did not support violence, but, of course, “if someone throws a rock at me, I’m going to defend myself.” He also admitted that “youthful inexperience” may have caused him to think differently about violence earlier in his career. “Age lets you look back on past errors with a new perspective,” he said, solemnly.

Our conversation was interrupted by several phone calls, each of which Mr. Trotte took outside the room, leaving me with his son. Oscar, about 14 years old, was quiet and answered my questions in mono-syllables. He did, however, open his mouth fully to tell me that, “no!”, he had never thought about supporting another team, just to defy his father. I apologized for asking.

Our interview ended with yet another phone call. Mr. Trotte apologized but said that he had to go to a meeting. He offered to talk to me again if I had more questions and to put me in touch with the boss of the barra from Cerro Porteño’s (Olimpia’s biggest rival). “We’re friends,” he said, and was dialing his number before I could even thank him. “He’s not answering but, look, I’m going to meet him right now so why don’t you just come with me.”

We drove across town, to one of Asuncion’s nicer neighborhoods, and met Zoilo Ramírez on a street corner. Mr. Trotte sent me to wait in his car while he and Zoilo spoke for a few minutes. Then a large bald guy joined them and the meeting continued. Once, they were interrupted by a street vendor, who called Zoilo by his first name, shook his hand, and sold him a honey cake. When they finished, Mr. Trotte brought me out of the car and introduced me to Zoilo. The Cerro boss and I conversed but Mr. Trotte did most of the talking. “So you’re not busy are you, Zoilo? Why don’t you take this little son of a bitch with you to your shop so he can interview you? He’s free all day, he doesn’t have any plans” (thankfully, all of this was true for both of us). Almost without speaking to each other, Zoilo and I agreed to go to Mercado 4, where he owns a printing shop, so I could interview him. We bid farewell to the gran Olimpista, Zoilo by saying “good luck, Adolfo, see you next week,” making him the first I had heard address Mr. Trotte by his first name.

We drove to the market in Zoilo’s rickety, old car. On the way, he pointed out various places to me, many of which he named in Guaraní, first, before translating. When we arrived, he offered me Terere and we talked for 45 minutes. He told me about his childhood in the interior and how he was proud of his rural heritage. He is also proud of his club’s long-standing (though disputed) reputation as the most popular, “the people’s team.” He assured me that Cerro still enjoys the majority support of Paraguay’s poor, although he admitted that there were plenty of poor fans of other clubs as well. “We still call ourselves ‘popular,’ and I think we deserve it,” he concluded.

In general, he was quieter, more modest, and more polite than Mr. Trotte. He admitted that he had great respect for Mr. Trotte and that the Olimpia faithful often out-shouted the Cerristas at rivalry matches. Still, he stubbornly claimed that his passion was greater than any Olimpista’s and that Cerristas threw better parties after big wins.

Both Olimpia’s and Cerro’s hinchadas are organized into geographic units, with each local boss in charge of choosing his crew and bringing it to each match. Leaders are generally not assigned specific tasks, except at the very top level where Zoilo and Mr. Trotte are in charge of relations with the club, the press, the government, and each other. Both, Zoilo told me, have received plenty of criticism from those underneath them for being too friendly with each other. He confirmed that many on both sides actually believed that fans of their rival were bad people and not to be trusted. Unlike Mr. Trotte, he was willing to admit those beliefs could cause violence, along with the “broader social issues and violent personalities” at whom the Olimpia boss threw the blame. He confirmed that the “mere colors” of Olimpia could excite violent passions in many of his friends. “It’s irrational,” he said, “it doesn’t make sense, but it’s how the boys are.”

Ironically, Zoilo is both the only hincha I have met who truly embodies the identity of his club and the only one to recognize that that identity is not entirely realistic. His humble roots, quiet demeanor, and populist pride fit perfectly with Cerro’s identity; an identity that for many Cerristas, is perfectly imagined. And yet, he denied that his passion had anything to do with class or economics. “I’m against Olimpia, that’s all. They wear the wrong colors, but we’re not that different. I want to beat them on the field, but off it, I don’t have any problem.”

We finished and Zoilo headed out to a gym in the center of the market. I walked a few blocks toward downtown to buy my ticket for the Paraguayan team’s upcoming match against Peru. It turns out that Zoilo and Mr. Trotte were meeting to coordinate their support for the national side. Though both hinchadas will be present, they will sit at opposite ends of the stadium, with police instructed to separate them from each other, as well as from the Peruvians. And so, even with leaders who call each other by first names and a common national name to chant, Wednesday’s fans will still be called “Cerrista” and “Olimpista,” with all those names’ un-realistic, but very real, implications.

We All Know This is a Country of Bribes

“We all know this is a country of bribes.” So started a news story I heard a couple of weeks ago. The anchorwoman was interviewing officials from Paraguayan bus companies, asking about their on-going (and not terribly effective) anti-corruption campaign. Bus drivers here have a simple and efficient method of supplementing their hourly wage. They offer discounts to passengers who return their tickets as they get off the bus so that they can be re-sold. At the end of the day, the driver’s pre-made strip of tickets has more left on it than it should, based on the actual number of passengers, and he takes the difference home.

Paraguayans are used to this. A friend laughingly told me that Paraguay was once ranked the 2nd most corrupt country in the world, but it had recently fallen a few places and “isn’t winning anymore.” The other day, a police officer walked into the lobby of my hotel, said hi to me and a few other guests, and sat by the front desk, obviously waiting for something. Cristian, working reception, rummaged through its safe drawer for a few seconds and then said something to the officer in Guaraní. Next he approached me and asked if I could lend him 50,000 Guaraníes (about $12). I only had 10,000 on me so Cristian jogged across the street to the hotel owner’s to get the other 40,000. He returned and handed it to the cop, who took it, smiled, and walked out.

I figured the exchange had been some sort of payoff but was surprised that it had been so open and public. I asked Cristian why he had paid the officer. “Every couple of weeks we give him a tip,” he answered, “because they don’t pay them enough.” “And if you don’t give him anything?” I asked. “We tip him to avoid trouble,” Cristian responded. “What kind of trouble?” “Well, the police themselves can send thieves. If you don’t pay, they know people who can make trouble. It’s better to just give them their tip.” And, of course, Paraguayan police also accept “special” tips in exchange for especially-arduous work like “forgetting” traffic violations and paying extra attention to “vulnerable” businesses.

Amidst such run-of-the-mill dishonesty and bending-of-rules, soccer could be a haven of honesty, meritocracy, and pure athletic entertainment. But it’s not. At all amateur levels, clubs fake their players’ identity cards so they can play in younger divisions. And even at better-regulated professional level, every season seems to be marred by accusations of referee-buying. Most-recently, Cerro Porteño, following two straight draws characterized by questionable calls and disallowed goals, issued a statement accusing “dark economic and sporting interests” of “obtaining the services of certain referees.” A poll on a popular Paraguay soccer site asks not whether readers think the allegations are true, but only who they think the culprit is.

A majority choose Horacio Cartes, president of Libertad, a large Asunción club widely believed to have purchased its historic season last year. This wasn’t the first time I heard controversial allegations against Libertad. In an interview earlier this week, Arnaldo, a member of Club Guaraní’s “barra” (official group of fan-leaders and hooligans) told me that Libertad exists purely to launder money. I asked around and a few friends told me, in hushed tones as if conveying state secrets, that Cartes is a known Mafioso and drug trafficker. Internet searches didn’t reveal much in the way of evidence for these claims, focusing more on Cartes’ escapades with various South American supermodels. My friends assured me that only a few well-informed people (apparently including everyone I know) is aware of Libertad’s dark secret.

Whether the Cartes rumors are true or not, the fact is that corruption is a regular and largely accepted part of Paraguayan life. And soccer is as important to this society as anything (perhaps excepting beef). So it is really no surprise that the grease-money culture has found its way onto the pitch. But it’s still sad. I really was hoping for the haven of honesty thing.

Who Do You Know?

Yesterday, Guaraní, sitting in first place, traveled to the small city of Itauguá to play the small club of 12 de Octubre. “12” was promoted to the first division just a few years ago and has frequently been in danger of falling back to the second. In this particular tournament, however, the Itagueños have been near the top of the table since the beginning. A couple of weeks ago I met a guy named Ramón whose son plays for the “12.” Ramón owns a convenience store near my hotel and struck up a conversation with me once when I stopped in to buy water. I explained my study and he told me his son was a soccer player. We chatted for 20 minutes while Ramón counted and re-counted his day’s earnings. (In-fact, Ramón has been doing this every time I visit his store, morning, afternoon, or night. He never writes down his total immediately after finishing counting so that he generally forgets and has to start over several times before finally recording the result. And “recording,” for Ramón, usually means yelling the number to his employee, Victor, or his wife and asking them to remind him of it later).

Though often insightful, Ramón talks a bit like he counts, repeating the same question several times before finally realizing that he already knows the answer. For our first three or so conversations Romón stubbornly insisted that I was a scout and that, once I saw him play, I would take his son with me to the U.S. to play with David Beckham. I have done my best to dispel this particular belief of Ramón’s, not wanting to make promises I can’t fill. At this point, he is merely hoping that I will be Filipe’s agent when he breaks into the American market.

Perhaps with that in mind, Ramón invited me to go to the 12 de Octubre’s game yesterday, promising to introduce me to the players afterwards. I thanked him enthusiastically, feeling lucky to have made such a useful contact. Moreover, yesterday’s game promised to be a good one with “12” sitting 2 points behind Guaraní with a chance to take over first place with a win.

Guaraní, named for Paraguay’s pre-colonial ethnicity and language, is Paraguay’s third oldest soccer club. It is also one of two major Asunción clubs that are playing well this season. While the biggest two, Cerro Porteño and Olimpia, continue to disappoint in the middle of the table, Guaraní and Libertad have played consistently well. And Guarani’s fans have rewarded them for it. They show up in greater numbers every week and (despite assurances to the contrary from my Olimpista friends), they have consistently outnumbered Olimpia’s supporters over the last couple of weeks.

An hour before our scheduled departure, Ramón called to tell me that his son was not in the starting lineup and he was going to stay and mind the store instead of going to the game. I decided to go alone and got bus directions from Cristian, who works in the hotel. As always, the directions were right on. As far as I know, there is no such thing as a written bus schedule or system map in Paraguay. Most Paraguayans tell me that each bus runs whenever its owner thinks it should. And yet, every time someone tells me something like “take the 12D, get off after the church, walk a block North, stand under the Coke bill-board, and get on the Itagueña Directa, and get of with the people wearing Guaraní jerseys” I arrive exactly where I’m going (though usually late).

So I arrived at the stadium just before the start of the game and, accidentally, entered the opposing fans’ bleachers. Not wanting to pay again, I decided I would watch with the Guaraní supporters and get to know the “12” folks at another game. I stood next to a father and his two sons and watched pre-school-aged kids walk around the outside of the field carrying banners asking fans to enjoy the game, respect each other, and please stop throwing rocks. We were standing against a fence at one end of the field, just a few feet from one of the goals. I was excited to see the game from so close. One of the advantages of soccer’s promotion-demotion system is that it occasionally brings the huge teams to play in small clubs, giving fans a chance to get much closer to the players than they can in metropolitan stadiums.

As I waited for the game to start I noticed a couple of young guys in Guaraní jerseys hanging banners on the fence above. One was wearing huge aviator sunglasses and wobbling precariously; evidence of his thorough pre-game preparation. He backpack overflowed with banners and flags in Guaraní, or “the Aborigine’s”, gold and black. I doubted anyone but an official member of the “barra,” or the small group of super fans who lead cheers and start fights on behalf of each club, would carry around such paraphernalia. When he got down, I tapped him on the shoulder, told him I was researching fan culture in Paraguay, and asked if I could interview him after the game or if he would give me his number to talk later. “You want a good interview?” he asked. “Yeah, I think so,” I responded. “Then you need to come with me, I’ll introduce you to everyone.”

Federico led me through the crowds, pushing and shoving to clear a path, and we arrived at the other end of the field where Guaraní’s barra had already been singing and jeering for a half an hour. This barra distinguished itself immediately by the unmistakable smell of marijuana in the air. There were also several guys with long straight hair and dark skin, looking much more like the indigenous folks for whom Guaraní is named than the average white, Spaniard-looking natives of Asunción.

Federico introduced me to his friend Arnaldo, another leader of the barra, who immediately offered me a joint, promising that Paraguayan weed is the best there is. He was markedly disappointed when I declined but forgot it all as the game started.

It was not Guaraní’s night. They lost 4-1 in the end with “12” dominating most of the play. Despite (or because of) their team’s play, the barra was constantly loud and occasionally violent throughout the game. Midway through the first half, “12” keeper stopped play to show the referee a rock that had landed a few feet from him, thrown by an anonymous member of the Aborigen’s mob. The team received a warning and the referee, accompanied by Guaraní’s captain, walked to our end of the field to plead for calm. As Guaraní’s skipper jogged back to his teammates, leaving the referee without an escort, Federico thought it fit to throw his black and gold umbrella at the official. It missed but was confiscated, causing Federico to ask me “why did I through my umbrella? Now it’s gone. Why?” with a pitiful look on his face.

At half time the riot police assigned to the match entered the Guaraní bleachers and stood behind us for the rest of the match. Federico fled the stands, hiding his face, as the police walked up. “That official, guiding the police, last time I was here he took away my hat. He robbed me. That’s why I can’t go back up.” I joined him against the fence at field level and he pointed out one of his banners hanging at the other side of the field. “It’s upside down,” he said, laughing. “It’s upside down because I’m really drunk!”

With the final whistle, Guaraní’s supporters, most of whom had faithfully endured their side’s embarrassment, filed out disappointed but up-beat. The loss leaves them one point behind “12” for first place and they quickly turned their attention to next week’s match with Cerro Porteño. After “12’s” last goal, the Guaraní keeper sat in the middle of his goal, head hanging dejectedly. The barra did nothing but encourage him. Despite his poor performance, and their disposition to violence, the Aborigine faithful pleaded with him to “be strong” and to “think about next week, focus on Cerro, nothing happened today.”

Granted the loss is Guaraní’s first in an otherwise impressive season, but I was struck by the difference between this encouragement and Olimpia fan’s cheers of “useless keeper!” at a match I attended two weeks ago. I was also struck by Federico and Arnaldo’s patriotism, both going on about Paraguay’s beauty and the quality of its people. That, along with the indigenous-looking fans made me wonder if there may be an element of ideology in being a Guaraní fan. Unlike most U.S. cities that have only one or two teams in each sport, Asunción has several and their followings are usually not determined by geography. This may leave more room for politics and identity to help determine fan-ship.

Leaving the stadium, I decided to walk a few blocks before getting on a bus. I found myself with three Guaraní fans who recognized me from the stands. I explained my study to them and they asked if I had many friends in the Guaraní barra. I told them I knew Federico and Arnaldo and they nodded with recognition. Then they spoke to each other in Guaraní for a few minutes. Then one turned to me and said “in case you understood what we just said, we decided not to try to jump you or scam you because you seem like good people and you know people from Guaraní.” “Thanks,” I said, not really sure what else to say but more determined than ever to keep making friends.

Luque

Sunday afternoon I went to Luque, a small city 40 minutes from downtown Asunción, to see the final of a local tournament. Robert, from Fundación Dequení and a Luque native, invited me, proud to show off his local stadium. It is a nicer and newer stadium than Olimpia’s, and seems very big for the club’s size. Robert assured me that it was always full when Luque played, but I had seen a match or two on T.V. in front of fairly sparse crowds.

In play yesterday was the intra-Luque championship. Various neighborhoods and little towns in and around Luque have local teams that compete each year for the internal crown. I asked Robert which team he wanted to win and he laughed and said “I’m from Luque, remember, I just support Luque.” It emerged in conversation that people from the center of the city consider the local tournament below them, while those from outlying areas take it very seriously. All pretensions and divisions aside, most Luqueños come together to support the main Luque side, though you wouldn’t know it by the number of middle fingers and threats thrown around during yesterday’s internal. Both teams had brough marching bands, much like those at high school football games in the U.S. These dueled for control of the airwaves, leading their respective crowds in song. I am beginning to realize that there are only a few tunes and messages used by Paraguayan teams. Each club has its own version, but it is usually unique only in the strategic placement of mascot names; praising one side and questioning the sexual orientation of another depending on who happens to be singing.

The match was exciting, ending in a 2-0 victory for Herrero, which, by the magic of a points and goal differential system I do not begin to understand, meant that a penalty shootout was needed to decide the championship. The other side, whose shirts looked like Argentina’s but whose name I did not learn, won on penalties and proceeded to block the avenue immediately outside the stadium with a mini-parade. Robert took me to a bus stop and I rode home in time for dinner and a movie (Hellboy, dubbed in Spanish with Italian sub-titles) with Arturo’s family.

Wins for the Home Side

Sunday started, as usual, with the trek up-town to watch the youth team play at Club Mariscal Estigarribia (I have finally learned the name of the park/club that I have been practicing at since my first week). I got up early and was on a bus by 6:20am to arrive at the field before the 7:00am scheduled start. This weeks opponent was relatively weak. They looked positively tiny next to our sides players, some of whom probably shave more regularly than I do, despite being “16.” Paulo, the goalkeeper, actually showed up for this game, despite having been absent for a week straight. Mariscal E. won 3-1, their first victory of the season, the players suitably joyful as they at their post-game empanadas and watched the younger kids play.

I decided, for the first time, to stay the whole day instead of leaving immediately to go watch Defensores play. The Peruvians were already out of the running for the elimination tournament and it seemed unlikely that they would put forth much of an effort, despite the fact that they were facing another Peruvian team (rivalries in the tournament are undoubtedly within, rather than between, countries). So I stayed at Mariscal and watched 4 more matches, starting with the under 8’s and working up to the under 13’s.

The little kids, needless to say, already have more foot-skill than I will probably ever have and weave through and around each other impressively. But they play on the full-size field and, technique not-withstanding, they are still kids. It would probably take the fastest of them 30 seconds to dribble the length of the field, even without swarms of other 8-year-olds kicking, stomping, and sliding in their path. So the games are slow and rarely display more than one goal. But that does not keep the kids and their parents from taking things extremely seriously. I have amassed a sizeable vulgar vocabulary, in both Guarani and Spanish, simply by listening to Norma, a club member and soccer mom, as she encourages (and curses) her son and his teammates. An extremely polite and helpful person in non-fan contexts, Norma turns into a font of profanity each time a 3-foot-tall forward mis-fires or a snot-nosed keeper fails to hold on to a soft shot.

Mariscal did well on the day, winning 3 and tying 1 of its matches. Afterwards, the club parents sold chicken and “rice salad” (which consisted of white rice sprinkled with basil and lathered with butter) to raise money. I bought myself and plate and sat on a bench to eat and show the day’s pictures to a multi-aged group of players and parents.

Olimpia's Woes

On Wednesday I went back to see Olimpia again (this time leaving behind my cell phone and carrying with me exactly enough money to for three (just in case) bus rides and a ticket for the cheapest section). Cristian and Juan Carlos were busy managing a dinner party for a visiting Menonite youth group (believe it or not, there is a “Menonite Colony” in rural Paraguay), so I went alone. My knowledge of Asunción transportation is still far from adequate and my first choice of bus turned off in the wrong direction about a black after I got on. I got off and walked back to the main avenue to try again. After about 5 minutes, three buses came around the corner, one of which was singing.

As far as I could tell, the 20 or so fans that filled the back of the bus with black and white jerseys and fight songs maintained the same (high) decibel level throughout the 15 minute bus ride, the 10 minute shuffle through security, and both 45 minute halves of the match. They quieted down briefly at half time, if only because most had to push their way through the crowd to discharge the pre-game beer that had now made a thorough run of their bodily systems.

Olimpia is having a rough season. Going in to Wednesday, they had only one win in the current Paraguayan tournament and were on the brink of elimination from the South American Cup. The week before, they had sacked their old coach and brought in Ever Almeida, an ex-star goal keeper. During his legendary career, Almeida and Olimpia twice won the Copa de Libertadores (A Latin American championship) as well as several Paraguayan titles and one world-wide club championship. Still, this week’s newspapers and posts on sporting websites showed only tempered optimism.

At least on Wednesday night, the “tempered” part tuned out to be more appropriate than the “optimistic.” Olimpia created multiple chances in the first 20 minutes, but never looked like scoring. Once an Olimpia forward raised his hand pleading for a corner kick, almost before the shot had left his own foot. His confidence that the attempt would go wide was matched only by that of the opposing goal keeper, who hardly moved. Disappointing as it was, the first quarter of the match was Olimpia’s best. They hardly had a chance in the second half and went down 2-0 on defensive errors; one a dumb tackle in the box that awarded Guaraní a penalty, the other a series of flubbed clearances by defenders combined with a fumble by the keeper and ending with a Guaraní forward dribbling the loose ball into the net, un-molested.

The soccer not particularly compelling, I spent much of the second half watching the crowd. Standing to my left was a large, goatee’d fan whose shaved head revealed bulging veins after each Olimpia mis-play. He usually followed his short, furious bursts of profanity with a cigarette, emptying most of a pack before leaving the stands. Early in the half, his asked a friend “this is the first team playing, right? I can’t tell,” and was apparently pleased with his own wit, repeating the sarcastic query 5 or 6 more times before 90 minutes. To my right were a group of kids about my age who seemed to gain more pleasure from taunting stadium vendors than from watching their team self-destruct. They would scream “soda!!” at the chipa vendors and “milk!!” at the hat salesmen, snickering proudly when one actually turned to tell them he didn’t have any. These are apparently common stadium antics. Cristian did the same a week and half ago, yelling at vendors who chanted “coca cola” to ‘remind’ them they also sold Fanta and water.

I left the stadium quickly after the final whistle, not wanting to keep anyone waiting at home. The Olimpia fans seemed more dejected and depressed than angry and there wasn’t much violence. Still, since the match, many have worried, out-loud and in print, that the “barra de la O,” as the most fanatic are called, will turn to out-and-out destruction if their side continues to disappoint.

Sunday

On Sunday, I got cut from another team. The teenagers’ opponent decided I did not look the right age and refused to allow me on the field. It was a shame because neither of their of-age keepers (or at least, neither of the keepers with papers calling them 16) showed up. The result was a 3-2 loss to a much bigger and richer club, after the bench-warmer-turned-keeper who filled in for the day fumbled two soft shots into his own net.

Defensores lost as well, (their hired talent failed to show up for the early morning match) officially eliminating them from the tournament. On the up side, this means that they will start practicing every Friday night. They invited me along, filling the last soccer-free day in my weekly schedule.

We left the field and went back to Arturo’s house to eat a roast and watch “The Day After Tomorrow” on Telefuturo.

Which Super do you Work At?

On Saturday I went to Fundación Dequení’s Fútbol Callejero tournament. A couple of times a month, they organize a day of street soccer for the kids working in their supermarket baggers programs. I met Robert and a few other Dequení staff members at the foundation at 7am and we road in a minivan, along with 12 kids and 8 disassembled soccer goals, to a nearby park.

When we arrived, I helped hang banners and assemble goals and then was sent to Robert’s field to help him manage the game. Armando, who runs the show on soccer days, came over to review the rules and procedures. “These games aren’t just about goals,” he said. “We don’t want anyone going home hurt today so I want to see clean games, I want to see solidarity and respect, and I don’t want to hear profanity,” he explained. “Robert will be keeping track of your values, which matter just as much as goals,” he added, most of the kids nodding that they understood. “But of course,” he continued, “the team that scores the most goals, wins. And the other side goes home. I mean, that’s obvious,” he added, the kids again nodding their approval.

Before the action started, Robert added that he would also be watching how each team celebrated its goals. Having grown up watching Deon Sanders and TO collect fines and enemies for their “excessive celebrations,” I naturally assumed that Robert would be penalizing us for embarrassing our opponents or wasting too much time with our post-goal antics. As in turned out, however, the only celebration rule seemed to be: “the more-extravagant the better,” (a fact I quickly realized when one team, following an easy goal tapped in from a couple of yards out, picked up the scorer and danced the perimeter of the field with him on their backs).

The Dequení folks were nice enough to let me join the kids playing, and I offered to play be keeper for a team that was short a player. The teams are divided by supermarkets, and some are smaller than others. The smallest, including mine, formed mixed teams. This meant that my teammates assumed I worked in a super, and each asked me, in turn, “which super do you work at.” Sometimes they phrased it more like “where are you from,” and were completely bewildered when I offered up my nationality, rather than workplace. Needless to say, it was not an international crowd; neighborhood and type of supermarket form the most important boundaries and harshest rivalries in the Dequení games. So I was something of an oddity. Several kids asked if I was from Brazil and one simply told me I was Argentinian.

My team won its first match and, as our opponents returned to the bus stop on their way home or to the afternoon shift bagging groceries, moved to the next field to play another winning team. “I´ll play goalie in the second half,” a small kid the Super Seis in Luque offered. “Don’t worry,” I told him, “I actually like playing in goal, so if no one else wants to, I’ll stay there.” He agreed.

It may be a mark of how well-developed this country’s soccer is, that in Paraguay, there actually are real goal keepers. In Panamá, it often took pushing and shoving to decide who would be relegated to goalkeeper, and almost everyone would tell you they were a forward, if you asked them. In Paraguay, even kids younger than 10-years-old seem to have chosen or been assigned the position they are best at. It is often actually the most capable keeper (rather than simply the fattest kid) who stands between Paraguayan posts. So, when I told my team I would gladly stay in goal for the rest of the day, they understood and didn’t feel the need to thank me.

My day finished with a game between the Dequení staff and a bunch of local men who come every Saturday to beat up on the social workers before starting the nights binge. Not surprisingly, I spent the game in goal. As far as Fundación Dequení is concerned “the blonde kid only plays keeper.”

Happy Birthday

Wednesday night, I went to a meeting of the Directiva de Defensores de Lima. Though I didn’t know this ahead of time, the Directiva essentially consists of the 5 oldest, least talented Peruvians on the team. It’s members started the team a few years ago and pay to play. The rest of the players are chosen for talent talent, regardless of country of origin, and are often paid.

The meeting took place at Javier, a directive member’s house. It was his mother’s birthday and the meeting was supposed to double as a party for her. In reality, she had to cook and serve a group of 6 of her son’s friends while they argued about whether or not to pay off their next opponent. The night before, at a league meeting, the other teams had decided to take 2 points away from Defensores as punishment for a fight they had gotten into with the Bolivians the week before. This meant that Defensores would have to win by 3, and two other teams would have to lose, in order for them to go on to the elimination round. Several Directiva members wanted to offer the other team’s captain money to intentionally give Defensores a penalty kick, should they be short a goal. This was not about the best team winning, not about proving that we were good enough to triumph against the odds. This was about obtaining a foot-tall brass cup; an object too precious to leave in the hands of something as unpredictable (and often uncooperative) as merit.

In the end, however, Arturo and a friend visiting from Spain convinced the rest of the group not to waste any more money on the season. They would, instead, try their luck on Sunday and hope to pull through. Next the members decided that I would not, after all, be able to play with them. They told me it was because I wouldn’t be here until the end of the next tournament, but I sense that may be a polite way of saying that they can’t spare a roster spot for a un-talented, un-paying, gringo.

After almost two hours of meeting, the birthday celebration lasted all of 20 minutes. We brought the cake and the presents, took pictures, sang, and sent mom back inside to do the dishes. The Spaniard and I tried to help clean-up but were told firmly to return to the “party,” which continued without its honored guest.

First Day at Work

On Wednesday I went to Fundación Dequení to sit in on a meeting about the soccer tournament they run for street kids. I had gotten bad bus directions from a friend and ended up having to call a cab to make it the rest of the way. I arrived at 5 minutes late, but, as it turned out, the meeting had been postponed and the boss, who had invited me, was not expected until later. Only one employee had arrived on time. I exchanged numbers with Robert and he showed me pictures of previous soccer tournaments and other Foundation activities.

Then another employee walked in and Robert told him I was a new volunteer. “Hi I’m Zack,” I said. “Hi, I’m a socialist,” he replied, lifting up his Dequení polo to show me a “Palestinian Liberty Now” t-shirt underneath. “Just so you know,” he went on, shrugging. Robert chuckled and Nelson, the socialist, went around the corner to his desk. The rest of the staff trickled in and introduced themselves, though none quite as memorably as Nelson.

After a half hour or so, the boss still had not arrived and Robert explained that she would arrive later but that if I wanted to, I could go home and come back the next day for the meeting. Nelson leaned around the corner and asked if I could accompany him to his supermarkets. Aside from soccer tournaments, each staff member in that office is in charge of visiting and looking after the baggers in several supermarkets. “The bus is boring, I want some company,” Nelson said.

I agreed and we spent the rest of the morning touring several neighborhoods of Asunción. Afterwards, we bought food and ate lunch in Nelson’s apartment, which looks like my bedroom from high school: walls covered with old concert announcements, band posters, clippings from socialist newspapers, and pictures likening George Bush to Hitler. We ate and debated politics, my broken Spanish not doing liberal-democracy’s cause any favors.

Then I took the bus home, planning to go back the next morning for a real meeting.

Monday was a productive day.

In the morning I helped Arturo with his work, downloading pictures of Batman to make into trading cards and folding and packaging Spiderman cards. In the afternoon, I went to Fundación Dequeni to look for volunteer work. They work mainly with street kids and had been recommended to me by a Peace Corps volunteer in the hotel last week.

As it turns out, one of their current projects is a street soccer tournament. The kids, who mostly work as baggers in supermarkets, spend part of Saturday playing soccer at the foundation. Ultimately, the Foundation will choose a team to represent it in a national tournament, but the real idea is to give the kids something to do and to help learn to work in teams, etc. I’m going back for a meeting tomorrow and it looks like I will be able to help out as a volunteer for most of September.

In the evening, I went to club Olympia, where I had made friends with Julio, the guy in charge of managing the Astroturf fields that the club rents out at night. I went to say hi and to give him my new cell phone number, but when I arrived he asked if I wanted to play with the club employees. Once a week they rent one of the smaller fields for themselves and play games of 5 on 5.

I played, not so well but with plenty of energy, and made friends with Manuel, a friend of Julio’s who actually works at a call center, selling cell phone plans to Spaniards. He invited me to come play in the “barrio” with him any time and to go visit his family in the country anytime. He and Julio explained that the barrio games, usually in public parks and empty lots, are very different from the pay-to-play club matches. The soccer is better, the players care more, and shoving and elbow-throwing are par for the course. I’ll take him up on his offer sometime this week.

So that’s more-or-less what I’ve been up to. I’ll try to make the next posts shorter and more focused. Thanks for reading this far if anyone actually did.

A weekend of ups and downs, August 23-24

Saturday night Arturo and I went to a karaoke bar with his employees. He runs a small shop that prints fake Dollars and Paraguayan Guaranies for kids games and piñatas. We went and collected the Saturday crew and walked down the street to an inconspicuous spot whose contents were three tables, a fridge full of beer, drunk soccer fans, and a large, new sound and video system which did not quite fit its surroundings. As it turned out, karaoke meant less singing along than it did singing over. The soccer fans, whose team had just won an important match nearby, sang stadium songs to drown out the Mexican classics and Beyonce concerts on the sound system.

Our group went home one by one: first Eusabio, the art student who said his throat hurt; then Raquel and Ruth, who had to get up early for church the next day; then Celeste, who was tired and pregnant; and finally Arturo and I, lest his señora worry. When we arrived home, not quite as lucid as we might have been, Arturo apologized and told his wife, Nanci, that it had all been my idea, that he had wanted to come home much earlier and soberer, and that we wanted to eat hot dogs. We ate, I accepted the blame, and I went to bed.

Sunday started with Arturo yelling, his still-slurred speech a reminder of the night before. “It’s 6 o-clock, Zacarias, time to get up.” I had to be on a bus at 6:30 to get across town for a soccer game at 7. The youth club with whom I had been practicing was scheduled to play the youth team from the biggest club in Paraguay, Club Olympia. They weren’t supposed to win but, if any of their players put on a good display, they might be invited to Olympia’s soccer school, where young Paraguayan stars are made. I arrived just in time to hear Profe Luis’ final instructions and encouragement. The basic message was, don’t look at their jerseys, forget that it’s Olympia, just play like you did last week.

They didn’t. They looked tight and tentative all game and only managed one real chance, losing something like 9-0 (I’m not sure even the referees kept count). Coach Luis scolded them for missing this great opportunity to be scouted, but told them that there would be others. Then he told me that he wanted me to play next week, to add speed to his line-up, and that I would have to shave and tell the referee I was 16.

We then collected Profe Luis’ family and rode a bus to another park for the embassy tournament. Defensores de Lima had already played, and tied, the Bolivian team currently in first place. They were a bit disappointed; a win would have made their road to promotion to first division much easier. But life goes on; and win or lose, everyone eats roast meat. Having the early game also meant that Defensores could minimize the hours of the day to be spent in playing form and maximize those spent drunk. I played soccer on the small field with younger kids while the men re-hydrated.

When I came over for a break, the Arturo told me I played well but that I missed a lot of chances. I responded that I was in good shape and ran well but had trouble putting the ball in the net. The word I used turns out to have the same double meaning for Peruvians as it does in English: the team got no end of amusement out of my self-proclaimed inability to “score,” providing suggestions, and even offering tutorials, if I was interested.

As things calmed down in the park, I walked back to the hotel where I stayed last week to meet up with Cristian. We had planned the day before to go to Sunday’s rivalry match between Olympia and Cerro Porteño, the second biggest club in Asunción. A few minutes after I arrived, Cristian emerged with an Olympia shirt for me to wear and we met a few of his friends on the street and walked down to the corner to catch a bus to the stadium. I had, of course, heard that these matches were crazy and I had to be careful not to be caught alone, wearing Olympias black and white in a crowd of Cerro’s red and blue, or vice versa. I wasn’t sure how seriously to take all the talk.

At the bus stop I got my first sign that they meant what they said. One of Cristian’s friends, Junior, wore an old Olympia jersey with large rips down the back and sides and the words “white mafia, pure insanity, no limits” written on the back. He bought beer for everyone and when I offered to collect and throw out the empty bottles he said “no, keep it, that’s a projectile.”

The 7 of us piled into the number 56, which was already mostly full of singing Olympia fans. Marcos, another of Cristian’s friends, sat next to me and was nice enough to speak to me in Spanish and help me learn the Olympia songs. A few general themes emerged from the lyrics: “Olympia is great, I’m for Olympia, and Cerro fans are bitches, as are their mothers, and we will kill them.”

The bus dropped us off about 5 blocks from the stadium and we walked with a crowd of Olympistas. In the U.S., the mood would have been of anticipation and excitement. Here it was already of anger. Once, a confused fan in a Cerro jersey somehow found his way onto our street and was immediately pounced on by a crowd of black and white. He escaped with scratches and bruises but only by running full speed down a side-street.

After a few minutes, we reached the stadium and, after arguing and complaining about the prices, finally relented and paid our 30,000 Guaranies to get in. We were searched and then searched again and then we finally moved into the corridor to walk to our area (the sections for rabid fans don’t have seats). Cristian and his friends stopped to buy inflatable noise-makers.

As I stood waiting for them a large guy approached me asking what I had in my pockets. I didn’t recognize him but our group had picked up a couple of new members on the way in and I thought he might be a friend. Then he started padding me down as if to search me. He wasn’t uniformed but I was confused and didn’t protest until he reached into my pocket and took out my cell phone. Cristian saw but was about as confused as I was and didn’t intervene. The man turned and walked with the crowd and I moved to follow him. I immediately came face-to-face with another guy, who had been standing behind me as if throwing a pick in basketball. He pushed me solidly in the chest and then stood blocking my way. I backed down, startled and confused. The rest of our group had since climbed the stairs into the stands and Cristian and I hurried to catch up. And so went my first encounter with stadium crime in Paraguay.

Inside, the crowd was busy jeering and singing and throwing bottles. The youth game was just ending and both sets of fans had a half an hour to warm up (or wear out) their lungs and promise to do all sorts of horrible things to each other before the soccer started. In reality, the game seemed almost of secondary importance.

Lucky for me, the songs, signs, and cheers were almost exclusively in Spanish. Banners hanging above the fan sections declared different neighborhoods’ loyalty to one team or the other. Many of the places listed had first division teams of their own, but none with the lure of the two biggest clubs in Paraguay. My favorite sign read: “your jersey, my second skin,” proclaiming the author’s superior dedication to his club. More-common, however, were signs emphasizing the inferior sexual performance or illegitimate parentage of opposing fans. The songs and cheers had similar themes. Both sides adopted each others’ characteristic melodies, cleverly replacing key words with “bitches” and “win” with “lose.”

When the match finally did start, it started fast and with violence. Within minutes, Olympia’s especially energetic left wing midfielder had retaliated for a hard tackle by knocking an opponent flat on his face after play had stopped. Though Cerro would also have a man sent off later in the match, the Olympia faithful were fully convinced that the referee was against them and, naturally, that he was born out of wedlock.

Tough and hard-fought, the game remained tied until late in the second half. Poor defense and timid goal-keeping then allowed Cerro to take the lead. Their half of the stadium did not stop shaking for the rest of match, while the Olympistas remained more or less quiet, even when a free kick came within inches of tying things up. The match ended 1-0.

Walking back to the bus stop, Cristian and friends all stopped to chunks of broken sidewalk. They devised strategies (“you throw high, I’ll throw low”), and made promises, but ultimately did not encounter any buses or cars full of Cerristas. I couldn’t help but wonder how Cristian, whose little brother was a Cerro fan, could so desperately wan to hit someone else’s little brother in the face with a brick.

On our way we witnessed another beating, this time the victim was not dressed in the wrong colors but perhaps had said the wrong thing or had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. He escaped relatively un-harmed, stumbling down a side-street as riot police approached to calm things down.

A few minutes later, Marcos spotted a couple walking ahead of us, the boy wearing a Cerro hat. He pulled it off and shoved its owner as the rest of our group approaches. Juan Carlos, often the most level-headed of the group started yelling “hey, that’s enough, it’s done!” I assumed he was trying to calm Marcos down until he explained further “you should have taken your hat off, out of respect. We had to do it for you, out of respect.”

So we took home a souvenir. On the day we were down a cell phone, up a Cerro hat, down a goal, and down 30,000 Gs each for our tickets. And I, for one, couldn’t wait to go back.

Getting Started in the Guay

I promised a bunch of people that I would have a blog. I'm not sure how much you all actually want to read it; but since I told you I'd do it, I'll do it.

I arrived here in Asuncion Paraguay about a week ago. Before that, I had been in Panama since early June, working as a supervisor with AMIGOS de las Américas. That was a lot of fun and I got to work with some really great people: staff, volunteers, and Panamanians. Last Tuesday I flew out of Panama City and arrived, two delayed flights and two free nights in hotels later, in Asuncion at 10am local time. I spent the day walking around the neighborhood and getting to know Cristian and Nestor, two brothers who work in the hotel I've been staying in. I asked them how to greet people in Guarani, the native language that most Paraguayans use for everyday conversation. They've been quizzing me ever since. At night I took the bus downtown with Nestor and walked around while he went to his high school to sign up for this fall's classes.

Friday morning I went jogging and ran past a bunch of soccer fields on the way. All of them were fully occupied even while the rest of Paraguay was busy swearing in a new president and then celebrating the occasion with a special mass. Saturday I ran back along the same route, hoping to get to start a conversation with a coach or spectator and start figuring out how to get closer to the action. I stopped to watch some 8-10 year-olds practice in a public park and struck up a conversation with a soccer mom. Within literally 5 minutes she introduced me to the older kids' coach (who asked me to practice with them in the next time slot) and invited me to visit "the interior" and stay with her brother who "is always hosting Peace Corps Volunteers." I didn't have the adequate footwear (or foot-skill, obviously) and certainly did not impress anyone. Still, the coach, a Peruvian who has lived in Asuncion for 16 years, invited me to come back and practice with them Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays and virtually ordered me to come watch their game the next morning.

Later that afternoon, on the advice of a Peace Corps Volunteer staying in the same Attic dorm as me, I went for lunch at a place called "Mount Lebanon" that promised "Arab Loin Sandwhiches." The guy at the register did not seem to understand my order and, since I was pretty confident I had used the right words, I asked if he was Lebanese. He said yes, and I ordered in choppy Egyptian Arabic, which he understood, with a chuckle. It turned out that he had been born in Panama, but grew up in Lebanon and was just in Paraguay for a week visiting his father, the owner of the restaurant. We chatted in a mix of Arabic, English, and Spanish and his father came over after a while and invited me back anytime to practice my Arabic and eat more of what turned out to be Shawerma.

Sunday I went back to watch the kids play well but only manage a tie. Coach Infante was happy, however, telling me that their first two matches had been "disasters," and a well-played draw was a step up. We then hopped on a bus to another neighborhood to watch Infante's adult squad, "Defensores de Lima" play in the "Embassy Tournament." They lost 2-1 after an awkward failed clearance by an over-weight defender handed their Uruguayan opponents an easy go-ahead goal. The day went better for me than it did for Defensores, as Arturo (a not-so-overweight defender) invited me to move out of the hotel and live with his family downtown.

I spent the beginning of this week trying to finalize my living arrangements and figure out where I can volunteer while I'm here. I now think I will be living with Arturo and volunteering at a foundation that works with street kids. I'm hoping they will let me organize a soccer tournament for the kids or something along those lines.

I'm tired of writing for now and want to focus on the Olympic soccer final that I'm watching. I'll write more later. For now: go Nigeria!