Futbol: “Hello, neighbor!”

Post by Grubb.

That’s what I hear from the guy wearing a baseball cap standing next to me on the street corner of a busy Buenos Aires thoroughfare while Ella and I wait for the bus carting us to the soccer match Monday night. Brooke, one of the women about to attend the game with us, had commented on his accent. Coming from Detroit, she guessed he was from Chicago. Presently he was a retired elementary school principal (at 63!) from Portland, Oregon, “But I grew up in Chicago.” I interjected, “So did I.” “What part?” “University of Chicago.” “What street?” “Street? Corner of Kenwood and 55th.” “Northeast or Northwest?” What the hell? Mr. Google Maps. “Northwest.” That’s when he smiled at me and said, “Hello, neighbor!”

Apparently Jonathan (“Everybody calls me ‘Jon’.”) grew up across the street. We never would have crossed paths since by the time he was born in ‘61 my parents had moved to the Bay Area, so he missed out on Ted Kluszewski and the White Sox winning the 1959 American League pennant. Monday was my birthday, and that, coupled with bumping into somebody from ye olde hood, put me in a Borgesian frame of mind. Was flashback Jon a presentiment? The guy had this ironic smile. What was he foreshadowing?

Before I could lose myself in a Borges short story, our group (mostly American except for a tall, rail thin British soccer fan from Nottingham with frizzy grey hair and damaged right eye that had resolved into a permanent squint) was hustled onto a commuter bus that took us, after numerous stops, to an outlying industrial neighborhood. It reminded me of those hardscrabble sections of New Jersey that are always featured in movies about the mob. Dark warehouses, littered streets, and, suddenly, on a corner, the dim lights of a pizza parlor where our soccer tour of mostly retired teachers ate. And drank. Our Nottingham gent made sure quart bottles of Brahma beer were plunked on the long table with regularity.

After pizza and suds we marched up the street with Calamar fans who merged together from alleyways and streets (I didn’t see any parking lots but they must have been somewhere) to funnel through security. The low slightly rundown concrete stadium reminded me Stagg Field where the Pan American games were held at the University of Chicago in the Fifties. My Borgesian flashback premonitions were getting stronger.

Our group was relegated to the section of steps behind a large fenced backstop to the right of one of the goals. We weren’t season ticket holders so we got the cheap seats. Did I say seats? No, no, no, this is where fans stood. For the entire game. I looked around. The lack of septuagenarians was not encouraging. But the Calamar fans in our area were loud and raucous and the energy was spirited enough to make think I would forget about my arthritic legs.

Partisan drums beat louder and louder and then there were explosions and fireworks followed by a toxic brown cloud which quickly dissipated and the game could begin. I’m used to eruptive displays coming at the end of the game, so it seemed backwards to me, but then I’m south of the equator and the upside down aspect to goings on is looking more and more normal.

We weren’t more than a minute into the match when at the end of the field it looked like the white clad Tomba team scored a goal. At least that’s what my eyes told me, but I had my doubts since the stadium had gone quiet as if nothing remarkable had occurred. Tomba fans weren’t allowed to purchase tickets, so okay, responses to action on the field were bound to be one-sided. And the scoreboard was tucked low in a bunker off midfield. The referees could see the score, but the rest of us had to trust our lying eyes.

When Calamar finally scored at our end of the field the fans went nuts. Arthritis, what arthritis? I’m getting the feeling it’s a tie game.

At halftime I followed the squint-eyed bean pole from Nottingham who instinctively knew where beer was being sold. I was just interested in how the proletariat was being served. Minimally as it turns out, from a small counter set up in a dark alcove by the entrance. The whole operation made the refreshments at our Isotope ballpark look like Disneyland goodies.

But there was some serious soccer going on. The game moved quickly and there a few collisions that reminded me of hockey games I’ve seen. A couple of players had to be carried off the field. When Calamar was flagged for the offense, garbage was hurled on the field. Our section got louder and louder with cheers being led by guys standing on posts. Ah to be young with incredible balance!

Even with the scoreboard hidden at midfield I could tell time was almost up. Tomba players were sharply passing the ball at our end of the field. A low shot was fired off from the corner right in front of us. The Calamar goalie blocked it with a diving catch. Pandemonium.

Calamar scooted the ball towards midfield. The fans were ready for them to break the tie. A pass was intercepted. Tomba crowded the ball to the right of the goal. Bloop! The ball squibed lazily over the head of the Calamar goalie. Silence. So he must have scored. Calamar tried to regather, but minutes later the game was over.

From the two utter silences versus the one wild celebration, I figured the final score was 2-1 in favor of the Tomba. I could feel the Calamar pain—in my legs. An appropriate place to feel pain after a soccer match.