A game of football is like being 16 again. Nearly all attempts at scoring die in the early stages; some get close, and the few that actually succeed are so rare as to be sort of unbelievable. Having a plan is pointless.
The Mexicans make a point of enjoying their Sundays, so the park was packed. Families, excited kids, courting couples, curious passersby, proud/arrogant marathon finishers, numerous buskers, and some sort of mass rally or political meeting – there are so many that one barely bothers to find out for what. Everyone buoyed by the glorious late summer sunshine.
A long ride south down Insurgentes to Estadio Olimpico Universitario, the game between Pumas and Altas scheduled for a 4pm start. The brutalist stadium, concrete chic, was built for the 1968 Olympics and in the half century since one suspects that no updates have been made. Who needs roofs anyway.
Follow the crowds, buy a $4 (50 pesos) Pumas hat on the way and grab a spot in the concrete stands 15 minutes pre-game. Still sunny through the clouds. I made eye contact with the old bloke furiously pouring beers a few metres away and with essential first-week spanish (cerveza, cuanto cuesta, gracias) soon sat with a full beer (don’t forget – two cans poured into a plastic cup, as it should be). All was well in the world. The pre-match song/ritual, fists to the sky, hearty, pseudo-religious singing, me quite lost but I love the intense home game vibe, the visiting thousand or so Atlas fans wedged into the bottom deck, though they will be happy with that position later in the day, undercover and isolated at the far end. One poor bloke in an Atlas shirt tried to enter with the local fans and was sent up the other end.
The hardcore Pumas fans were on the wing, top deck, singing and flag-waving. The game started placidly and progressed slowly, attempting to provide better entertainment than the general vibe in the stands. Minimal chances, minimal attacking. Both teams in the bottom half of the table and neither very good. Atlas poor, Pumas attacking in a haphazard way, most of the half passed and then the inevitable goal-celebration-referee review-reversal-abuse from confused/annoyed crowd and back to 0-0. Half time, another beer.
The dark cloud darkened, floated away, to be soon replaced by something even darker and more intimidating. The locals must be used to the intense, sudden arvo storms that have dominated this summer. Record-breaking rains in a city I always knew as very dry. The more cautious in the crowd pre-empted the storm by putting jackets on. Others remained defiant, happy in their Pumas shirts as a few huge, sporadic raindrops fell, a telltale sign of something about to happen. All drank beers, some smoked cigarettes (scandalous) and from one corner came the waft of a joint. Sweet liberty.
Your correspondent considered a certain idiotic rich-world debate about a stadium needing a roof as a condition for funding it while this place is a massive slab of concrete, stuck in time, no modern comfort for the arse cheeks, barely any toilets for the steady drinking crowd (last time an old bloke just pissed in the sink – reminding me of being at Moorabbin in the late 80s), no assigned seats and NO roof, as we would soon lament. But hand delivered beers at max five metres, a friendly crowd (for now) and the constant stream of also hand delivered stadium gourmet food options (sabritas, tacos, queso somethings who even knows, nieves, marquesitas, various ice creams, etc etc). Not sure? Order and find out. Surely everything goes well with a late arvo beer.
So, pay for lack of comfort with other perks.
The second half started, and most of the crowd remembered again why they were there. Most were just content with consumption and chat, the family/party/friends meeting atmosphere, one eye on the dull match, Pumas wasting more opportunities, Atlas seemingly eyeing a 0-0 draw.
Another goal, another moment of elation, a review, the ref getting his moment in the sun (gloom by now), overturned, back to 0-0, the restless crowd given a chance to vent, your correspondent picking up new curse words used in context.
As if in frustration at the dull match and human incompetence, the gods decided to intervene halfway through the second half.
Rain steady now, more jackets found, more stubborn defiance from the real men in the house, and then the storm. Lights on, sky dark, the rain pushing towards torrential, most of the top-level crowd seeking shelter by optimistically/pointlessly trying to find cover from the wall, cursing their tightarse self for clicking on the cheaper tickets online earlier in the week.
Some people left. Weak. A group of tourists who half an hour ago were sitting bare legs and t-shirts in the glorious heat had now scattered, their Mexico City experience maybe just a bit too authentic. A tough decision. Try to get home (prob gonna be a 0-0 draw) or stay and chalk it up to experience and a story to tell? Your correspondent would do the latter, no doubt, conditioned to see sports watching as an exercise in pain-pleasure-pain, hand in hand. He found his trusty rain jacket (packed at the last minute after a pretty brutal and wet ‘summer’ in CDMX), put it on and stood in the rain, which unbelievably continued to grow in force, the aforementioned jacket already quite useless.
If this team, Los Pumas, is shit and would stumble to another 0-0 draw against visiting cellar-dweller Atlas, I had chosen them knowing full well that there were two other superior teams in the same city. So I would stay and watch the last 20 minutes in insipid weather, through a huge injury time extension due to interminable referee reviews and the faked injuries of opposition players sprawling in agony on the grass.
The ball got heavier, the pitch became puddle-ridden, visibility low, and the standard dropped further. The home team persisted. In the 92nd minute, a corner, and a man emerged from a pack of players to put the ball into the net. It was Aaron Ramsey, the Welshman, the token gringo, just brought on as a sub as the coach searched for something. His first ever goal for this team. No review. Goal. Like in the old days The crowd ERUPTED in the rain. Hail now. Three points clutched.
The last 15 minutes played out in farce. Fifteen-metre passes stopped halfway as the ball got stuck in a deep puddle. Exhausted players dove like suffocating fish seeking water. They tried to adapt. Atlas belatedly tried to attack for an equaliser. The whistle went, unheard in the torrent. And the soggy players walked off, Ramsay the hero.
The hardy supporters celebrated, the most dedicated (drunk) took their shirts off and showered in the rain. The girl kept selling beers, and most of us huddled in the tunnel and waited for the rain to slow before heading back into the grim city reality, the chaos of getting home and thoughts of Monday. All delayed for now.
Your correspondent, soaked head to toe, found his way outside into more rain, completely lost, disoriented, the city darkened, an end-of-the-world vibe, cars driving aimlessly, humans running in directions unknown. Phone battery dying, maps pointless, buses stranded, the streets rivers, the 10km walk home the only/best option, short of finding a boat.
Dark Dirt 