Far away from our purple mountains and amber fields, people do not grasp the intricacies of bowling and think that the Super Bowl serves as an American celebration of piling on top of one another in full masquerade.
While in Spain last semester, I discovered this firsthand. I remember wandering misty-minded through the narrow, elegant streets of Oviedo the first night after arrival. In the confines of a small caf‚ that smelled of salted pork I followed the gazes of a handful of older men and watched and watched as Oviedo tackled the giants of Spanish soccer, Real Madrid.
Americans know how to root for their teams, but except for perhaps Cubs and Red Sox fan, I had never seen such loyalty and devotion. Soccer in Spain enters the lungs and upon exhalation one almost feels the desperate love of the game.
The environment at games defies easy explanation. Scarves waving, drums pounding, and emotions running over; I soon became hooked.
The names of Oli, Esteban, and Danjou became more important to me than those of Warner, Edmonds and Vi¤a. The day after a match, the local newspaper never failed to place it front and center on the cover page, regardless of tragedies or impending political decisions.
In Spain, f£tbol is politics, popular culture, and perhaps even religion mixed into one steaming dish. During the years preceding the Spanish Civil War, the two clubs of Madrid became closely affiliated on an ideological level with the two sides of the bitter conflict. The red-striped jerseys of Atl‚tico de Madrid became a rallying sign for Republicans, while Franco was known as a staunch supporter of more conservative Real Madrid.
It may be hard for us to imagine that in our well-balanced, equal-opportunity society. In fact, we may be the only country that lacks a defining national sport that captures the passions of the general populous.
The Spanish importation of soccer talent from Brazil and Argentina probably eclipses other more practical products. For a country that lost much prestige since its days as a colonial superpower, this represents a soothing balm. I am a mere sports editor, but I recognize that Roberto Carlos and Pablo Aimar represent not only some serious income finance, but also new sources of inspiration. Only the truly disillusioned could call it a mere game.
Sure, there are problems with sports in Spain. Despite the modernization of society, sports remain the domain of machismo. A fledgling women’s league exists, but unspoken societal codes discourage young girls from partaking. Also, as in American baseball, several high-profile teams throw around vast sums of money that low-budget squads could never compile, thus slanting the playing field. The system has its flaws, but tell me, what mortal thing does not?
A curious thing happened after a few months in Spain. I stopped feeling like so much of a guiri (stupid American) and recognized that precious feeling of belonging. And I think some of that came from sharing a love of soccer. Normally tranquil cafes transformed into theaters of the dramatic in our presence, and yells, groans, and songs erupted in accordance with the tide of the game.
During my five months in Oviedo I learned a great deal about families, religious beliefs, customs, and more. I learned that staying out until seven in the morning drinking and dancing with Spanish girls was definitely worth the hangover. I learned that paella and tortilla stack right up there with Burger King and Steak `N’ Shake. And I learned that Oviedo could not stay in its spot in the sun.
We were all united in our suffering as the outmanned squad finally succumbed to the higher-budget teams. But they did not fall without a fight. In one of the last games of the season Oviedo shocked mighty Barcelona 1-0, prompting tears of joy from their overcome players.
I thought that I really missed not seeing the NCAA tournament and opening day of baseball season. Yet now it is the Spanish premiere league that I am jonesing for.
American sports have tradition, glamour, and worldwide publicity. But resist the urge to let all that we have blind you, or think less of other countries. Sometimes it is tough to break away from ethnocentrism, especially for a sports fan.