Buenos Aires
Occasionally you meet someone in Buenos Aires who says they don’t like football. There follows an awkward silence while you rack your brains for other topics of conversation. You fail, then go on to discuss in great detail the title decider between Boca Juniors and River Plate on the penultimate weekend of the 1964 season.
Everyone here knows something about football – even those who say they don’t. And if they feign indifference during the rest of the year, no one is immune from the frenzy that proceeds the superclasico, the twice-yearly derby between Boca Juniors (the team from La Boca dock, an area inhabited by the descendents of Italian immigrants) and River Plate – the rich boys from Nuñez, a middle-class suburb seven kilometres north. In a country not divided by race or religion, your team is what defines you and in a recent survey 40 percent of Argentinians were found to be Boca fans while 32 percent followed River.
The rivalry began in 1923 when River (pronounced “Reever”) moved away from La Boca. With its brightly-painted houses, the area is now a quaint tourist attraction frequented by artists, but the stench of the Riachuelo River is a poignant reminder of the poverty that still lies within kicking distance of La Bombonera, Boca’s imposing cylindrical stadium which dominates the skyline.
Boca’s fans are known as los xeneizes (the Genoese, since Genoa is where many of the immigrants came from) or, less affectionately, los bosteros – loosely translated as the shit-shovellers, since La Bombonera stands on the site of a factory that used manure to make bricks.
Boca fans appreciate good football, as provided by Batistuta, Riquelme and Maradona in recent decades, but above all they demand blood and sweat, as typified by 1966 World Cup villain Antonio Rattin, Boca’s midfield linchpin and captain for 15 glorious years.
River fans are known as los millionairos because, well, they’re a bit richer, or las gallinas – the chickens – after they surrendered a 2-0 half-time lead to lose the 1966 Intercontinental Cup Final.
Their fans have come to expect attacking football from their teams, the standard set by the 1950s forward-line La Maquina, The Machine, and personified more recently by the likes of Crespo, Ortega, and Aimar.
Despite the rivalry, it’s safe to walk the streets sporting your colours. Hooliganism can be particularly ugly, of course, with many fatalities over the years, but most incidents take place away from the grounds.
Yet inside their stadiums, the 60,000 macho, hate-filled voices generate the kind of atmosphere that many in Britain have been missing since the advent of all-seater stadiums. They jump in unison until the concrete structure trembles, shout dementedly and toss little bits of torn paper into the air.
Argentinian fans also love to eat. Both stadia are surrounded by parrillas, where whole cows are barbecued and served piece by piece: testicles, intestines, ribs and finally, cuts of sirloin. And at half-time grab a choripan – a fat-drenched sausage. It’s almost like being at home.