Things We Americans Know Nothing About: Fútbol and National Pride

My face was on fire. A tickle like scattering embers shot through my eyes and up my nose, plunging down the back of my throat and digging spurs into my taste buds. Antonio, our program director, called it “unpleasant”, but I never imagined this: a restaurant brimming with sneezing, coughing, tear-welling victims of the noxious breathe of La Ley, struggling to compose itself enough to complete a single order-serve cycle. Following a round of sniffles and a side of fingers vigorously mining swollen tear ducts , I saw the waiter wandering over to our table. I could tell that he was uncomfortable, his blood-pregnant eyes pulsing as he tried to keep a solemn face ­—SNEEZE.  

 

So much for that.

 

“Saludate.” If only I had a Luca (1000 Chilean pesos or 2 dollars) for each “Saludate” offered on that Wednesday night. That night, Plaza Italia, the social locus of Santiago, was showered in wishes of health, as everyone expressed their disgust for the tear gas through verbal empathy.

 

Out the window, the streets were empty. There were a few cars and zealous locals keeping the maintaining the pulse of Chilean pride, shouting “Chi-Chi-Chi! Le-Le-Le! Viva Chile!” But the car horns were sparse, and the cheers were muffled by running noses and swelling sinuses, crickets compared to the bellowing hiss that emanated from Estadio Nacional just hours before. It was frustrating to see so much excitement, so much pride in Chilean fútbol (and so much temporary disgust for Bolivian fans), quelled less than 2 hours after a four-nil victory that all but ensured Chile’s entry into the World Cup.  Documentary clips of Abbey Hoffman and violent pontifications by Richard J. Daley came to mind… but in truth, this tear gassing in urban Santiago was nothing monumental. In fact, it happens quite often from what I understand, usually when Chile defeats a Latin American foe.

 

The reason: Traffic.

 

Upon leaving El Estadio, the people cluster in the streets, waving flags and celebrating the success of their team as cars pile up and horns harmonize into a tangled maelstrom of impatience. For most, there is no time for the extravagancies of nationalism; they have kids, they have work, they have wives and girlfriends and brothers and sisters to get home to, and home PROMPTLY they wish to be. One minute, la calle is bumping; the next, heavy clouds of white smoke are encasing the trafficjammers like a suit of irascible bees, forcing all those affected to scatter to the nearest bar, restaurant, or taxi. A sea of Red, White, and Blue is reduced to an asphalt block brindled with salt-stained cheeks and rising gas. I thought, FOX or MSNBC could make a show called “When Supporting Your Country Goes To Far” if this happens as often as I’m told. Unorthodox as its methodology may be, perhaps El Gobierno feels that Chilean pride should move its people to tears…

 

Yeah, and the NSA was collecting telephone calls for a “voyeur” audio-art project.

 

But enough about politics. Ah, yes, of course— The Game.

 

My host family’s apartment is located about three metro stops from Nuble, the station closest to El Estadio. On a busy morning, it might take you ten or (apocryphally) fifteen minutes to hop on at Parque Bustamante and off at Nuble. Double that, and you have my total waiting time on the platform at Parque Bustamante on Wednesday night. People inside the trains contorted their bodies in unsettling shapes, merging with those to their right, left, front, and back just to avoid the vice of automatic doors. To get on the train, you had to target people who were getting off, and jump in front of them so that they would have no choice but to pull themselves into your spot, and, naturally, you into theirs. And so there we were, a gelled pod of human marmalade packed into a jar of glass and metal. At Nuble, we were set free by the automatic door, everyone shouting “Permiso, Permiso!” but not a single person allowing another to pass him. And so we poured over one another into the station, relishing the extra six inches of space created as we emerged from the station onto Dittborn Street.

 

Filing down the long stretch of car-bound road leading to El Estadio, we must have passed at least 200 sandwich stands, a few hundred drink and nut kiosks, and thousands of street vendors, each one shouting over and over the shortest elevator pitch known to man (Luca! Luca! Luca!) in an attempt to shed piles of t-shirts, jerseys, and flags bearing the insignia de la patria Chileana. And after weathering the temptations of cheap consumerism, we finally arrived at the impressive (and crowded) Estadio Nacional. Picture 67,000 flag-wrapped fans beaming with praise for their beloved team and brimming with maldichos for their opponents (Note: Mothers were brought into it and there were many, MANY confident accusations of Bolivian homosexuality) . 

The poor Bolivian fans, crammed into a caged box about a thousandth the size of the stadium, protected by a shield of Chilean metal and Kevlar (ok, so I doubt the Kevlar is Chilean) so that they all may return home alive. “Maricon,” “Puta Madre,” and other unspeakables were arched and launched like ardent arrows at the nation that sits at dead last in the Latin American league, not because Chile hates Bolivia, but because Chile loves Chile. It could have been Brazil up there (though, the “cage” would have to be widened quite a bit) or Spain (in which case “gringo” would quickly change from affectionate to pejorative and malicious) or the United States (well, there would be no one cheering for them in El Estadio, so I’m guessing our beloved players would just have to swallow all of it themselves…). The point of soccer at the international level is to bring the people of a nation together in celebration of strength and vitality. And at game, the goal-triggered twitch and explosion of Chilean fans, all shouting “Chi-Chi-Chi…”in unison told the story of a nation welded together by its culture, by its history, and its soccer.

 

In retrospect, that might just be something worth crying over.