I went to the big soccer game yesterday with my friend Pilar’s older brother, Mario, and his 10 year-old nephew, Marcelo. We took a small taxi. On the way, our driver made up his mind that he wanted to go too. After all, the crosstown rivals were playing: Alianza Lima vs. Universitario. I saw a different part of Lima and 30,000 or so different faces in and around the dusty stadium, Alianza’s home turf known as el Matute. We arrived a little late to the game, so we bought our tickets from a scalper who was wearing a Ramones jean jacket. After maneuvering our way through scalpers, hawkers, and dirty, friendly dogs, we verified that the tickets weren’t fakes and pushed on to the gates. Before entering the stadium, we were all padded down by some serious police. Mario, Marcelo, and el taxista got through quick enough, but the cop who was inspecting me held me up, asking me what I had in my left pocket. I pulled out my cherry-flavored chapstick and a cheap, plastic pen. The cop looked me dead in the eye, threw my pen aside, and told me to move along.
Once inside, tall, barbed-wire fences separated the spectators from the field. Since we got there a little late, we had to sit in one of the corners. Mario and Marcelo had wanted to sit in one of the ends—they’re both fans of Universitario—where all of the local hooligans jump against each other and sing songs mocking the other team, calling each other faggots and chickens respectively. Police in full riot gear stood at slacked attention not five feet away from us. Torn up pieces of the yellow pages were scattered all about and, as I soon learned, were wadded up and used as harmless but meaningful projectiles. Along with wrappers and empty cups, the spectators threw these projectiles mostly when Universatario's team and the refs came on and off the field. The police shielded them from the paper rain with their riot shields.
The game itself was rather slow. Not much action or impressive skill. Not many shots on goal. 0-0. Even though Peru as a whole is huge on soccer, its national team hasn’t qualified for the World Cup in something like twenty-five years. The fans didn’t let this deter them from having their fun, though. The two big highlights, however, didn’t even really have anything to do with the game. 1) At halftime, a comely young woman—the only blonde that I saw in the entire stadium—came out with one of those t-shirt shooter guns and shot a few into the crowd. 2) Late in the second half, the referee came up limp and had to stop the game for a few minutes. In both instances, the crowd went nuts: desire in the first instance and ridicule in the second.
In other sports news, it saddened both Tali and
me to see the Pistons lose last Thursday. Besides the end of the season, the fact that I’ll probably never hear those Peruvian announcers, Vizcarra and Porras, announce a game ever again got me a little down. When they weren’t too busy giving shot outs—saludos—to family members, friends, and emailers, blowing through random noisemakers and kazoos, and dissecting the dance team’s moves, they talked about the game. Here are a few examples of their commentary, some of which were translated into English by me:
-“El boxout de Ben Wallace fue extraordinario.”—Porras
-“Here comes the Frenchman, Tony Parker—ooh la la.”—Vizcarra
-When “Hey Ya” came over the stadium speakers, Vizcarra asked, “Who sings this song? The Black Eyed Peas?”
-“Well, it doesn’t look like Rasheed Wallace is saying ‘Feliz Navidad’ to the referee there.”—Porras “Nor ‘Feliz cumpleaños.’”—Vizcarra
-At one point in the final game, Vizcarra told a joke about Mexicans that lasted at least three minutes.
