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.