Barcaloco – Everything for the Barça fan

I had only planned to see the Barcelona/Osasuna game while I was in Spain, but circumstances dictated otherwise. I caught a second division match between Levante and Huesca while I was in Valencia, and then made my way to Madrid. Several people had suggested that I ought to see a game in Madrid, and the idea of being at the Bernabeu surrounded by Madridistas creeped me out entirely too much for me to be willing to see Real. So I checked the Atletico schedule and they were, of course, playing Real at the Bernabeu. I wavered for the entire train-ride to Madrid, the entire subway-ride to my hostel, the entirety of lunch and the bullfight. And then, half-full of anis and still reeling from the corrida, I talked myself into going. It was the Madrid derby, after all, and I convinced myself that it was therefore justified. "I would only go the Bernabeau to see Atletico or Barca," I told myself. And by the time this internal conversation was happening, I was connecting to the 10 line and on my way to what La Liga Loca happily calls Castle Grayskull.

 

The major conundrum I faced after I decided to go was that I was going to have to be spending money on Real. I know someone's gotta pay for Karim Benzema, but I didn't want it to be me. I'd been giving warnings by the Brazilian who worked at the hostel to avoid ticket scalpers at all costs, and that put me in a bind. When I emerged from the subway, I was overwhelmed with the experience of being at the stadium. It's incomparable to Camp Nou in every way. While Camp Nou feels like a part of the neighborhood, the Bernabeu practically seems like its own town. It towers intimidatingly over the horizon, with big spiral staircases at each corner and practically an entire mall attached on one side. The next detail sounds made-up but actually is true - when I left the bullfight, it was hot and perfectly sunny and by the time I got off at the stadium, it was cloudy and raining. There are stalls everywhere selling all manners of Real gear, of course, but for a Barcelona fan, that stuff takes on a menacing tone. All the shirts lined up, Kaka, Ronaldo, Higuain, Raul, Xabi Alonso, Benzema. (Okay, nothing menacing about Benzema.)

 

It was just a few minutes before kick-off when I got there, and I tried to find a ticket window - not as easy as it sounds. When I finally did, I was told the game was sold out except for socios. The woman told me to try another ticket window around the corner in case they had any extras, which I did, and they didn't. As I left the ticket office, feeling mostly relieved for having missed out on the chance to give some of my euros to Real and excited about the prospect of sitting in one of the restaurants near the stadium and watching the game while I dug into some of that lovely Spanish food, a tall guy with curly hair that looked like he could've been a cousin of Pau Gasol came up to me. He asked me in perfect English, "Are you looking for a ticket for the match?" I said that I was, but that they were sold out. He was a socio, he said, and would sell me his ticket for 100 euros. I eventually bartered him down to 60, and agreed. We went back over to the ticket window where he collected his ticket and we completed the deal. Excellent! Into the match, and instead of paying Real, I was just helping one of their fans make a little profit on his own season tickets. This was just the moral compromise I was looking for.

 

I'd be entering the stadium, it turned out, through one of those spiral staircase towers. This was a series of walkways, escalators and stairs that take you directly to the top levels of the stadium, lest the people who've paid several hundred euros for their tickets might have to mingle with those who, like me, bought them from some fan-club season-ticket holder on the street outside the ground. On my way up (and it was a long way,) it occurred to me that I wasn't going to be able to bring myself to celebrate Real goals and I needed some cover for just how to avoid doing that. I decided to play dumb American tourist who didn't really know what was going on. I tried to add a little American to my Spanish accent, and got ready to act as though I couldn't tell which team the red one was and which team the white one was. Well, any good infiltration needs a disguise.

 

When I walked out of the concourse and toward the seats, I was once again overwhelmed by the vastness of the Bernabeu. Purple and white as far as I could see, and the air thick with songs and chants. Now it really felt like enemy territory. When I got to my seat, Atletico was leading 1-0. I successfully contained my excitement about that, and managed to do the same when Kun Aguero broke free of the defense and put the ball narrowly wide. Just before halftime, Cristiano Ronaldo put a point-blank open-net header over the bar. Relishing my role as the American who only knows the bare minimum, I turned to the exasperated Madridista next to me and, in my worst Spanish, said "Wasn't that Ronaldo?" He huffed, "Yes." "Isn't he very expensive?" He spit. "Yes. Very, very expensive." 

 

Just after the half, Real put up two goals in quick succession. I started to lose my nerve a bit watching their supporters' clubs jumping and singing in jubilation and seeing all those white scarfs everywhere. I decided to leave if they scored a third, losing confidence in my ability to maintain faux-neutrality if they really started handing it to the Rojiblancos. They did score a third, of course, and I left under the guise of needing to go the bathroom and then beat the traffic. These are, naturally, things I would never do during a game and therefore perfect for my carefully-created though ultimately rarely-used alternate persona. While in the bathroom stall, I pulled out my pen and wrote Visca Barça! on the wall. I made my way out of the stadium as quickly as I could, and headed back home on a subway car gloriously free of Madrid fans.