Come with me to the fútbol game. You'll like it.

Picture by Seracat

Last night was Spain's Super Bowl.

Spaniards feel the way about soccer that Americans do about chicken: it's good for you, easily available, and universally liked. So, when the two biggest Spanish teams get together and play, it's kind of a big deal.  This year, it also happened that the two are ranked 1 and 2 in the league, they each have a star player that is emblematic of the whole team, and they are both really, really good.

Barcelona versus Madrid. The Spanish press dubbed the game El Clásico, and it was destined to be one for the ages, or so they said.

Come with me to watch, won't you? You shouldn't miss this experience.

The first thing you notice is that the small pub you are in is humming with anticipation. It's packed, and there's only standing room, because you got there 2 minutes after kickoff and apparently Spaniards can be on time for something, given a strong enough incentive. You are about to get a master's education in Spanish profanity.  When the other team misbehaves by throwing elbows or punches, which they do with alarming frequency,  the old men around you in the bar question the marital status of each player's parents and the general level of morality of his mother.


Quickly, it becomes apparent that you are standing on the wrong side of the bar - you are standing with the Madrid fans, who apparently keep separate company from the Barca fans, where you belong. No matter, because after the first few minutes it is obvious that Barca is taking the tar out of Madrid. Shots of Cristiano Ronaldo looking distressed keep appearing on the screen, prompting jeers from the viewing crowd. "At least he's handsome, since he's mierda at soccer", they snicker. You are listening, since this is your only commentary - you have given up on trying to follow the television announcer within minutes.  His Spanish is ultra-fast and undulating, and the pitch and speed directly correlates with the relative excitement of the game. At the end, when Barcelona scores the fifth and final goal in a 5-0 shutout, you think that he must almost be passing out from excitement and lack of oxygen.


A 5-0 shutout is hardly the makings of a classic game, but you are not disappointed, because the good guys won. You put on your coat with the rest of the crowd and head out into the pouring rain, satisfied that you at least will not forget this one anytime soon.