Above: Police waiting for something to happen at a Heredia soccer game
Thursday 2/28/08 Heredia, Costa Rica
If there is a man in Costa Rica who hates soccer, I pity him. Here, soccer manages to permeate anything and everything in the same way a subtle ache somehow reaches the far corners of one’s body. It is a component of life, a thick yarn in the fuzzy mat of culture upon which the Costa Rican household is built.
On Wednesday and Sunday, people watch the national league games on TV. On Monday mornings, men in suits on buses jump to the weekly soccer insert in the newspaper and check the stats of their favorite teams from around the world. (Following multiple teams from the national leagues of different countries is not uncommon.) During free time at school, even if they only have 10 minutes, kids run to the fields and kick around the ball, adopting the same fierce intensity they see their favorite players exude on TV. Businesses have after-work intramural leagues. One morning bus driver I see each week proudly sits under a neat halo of stickers advertising the name of his favorite team.
Above: Game on!
On cloudy, chilly days, days when life seems like a thick sludge that must be waded through, noticing the Costa Rican love for soccer in the world around you creates an uplifting sense of community. In their love for soccer, fans create loose teams of their own, groups of people unified by their support of players they likely will never meet. To join one, all you need to do is pledge your allegiance. Watch a few games on TV. Ask your co-workers how your team did over the weekend. Get a patch for your bag. Go to a game. Buy a team t-shirt. It’s so simple, and, some would say, so ingrained in what it means to be a Costa Rican, that not being affiliated with a team is tantamount to being just plain lazy.
It is of no surprise, then, that on game nights, when the various tribes come together in stadiums around the country to worship the sport that unites their members, the people begin to buzz. Energy radiates from the stadiums like smoke from bloated volcanoes. It is concentrated, powerful, and released in floods and explosions when soccer balls hit nets or players collide.
Above: Fans at the game
Last night we went to watch Heredia’s team play in the local stadium. The game itself was fun to watch, but, for me at least, the fans were far more fascinating.
Men in starched shirts with nice belts around their waists screamed countless variations of the Spanish word for ‘prostitute’ at the referees, players from the opposing team, and random fans around them. At times, the cursing was so loud that the cheers from fans on the other side of the stadium were drowned out by a din of vulgarity.
When women walked past groups of men, be they groups of teenage boys, businessmen, or male stadium officials, the men would whistle at the women and beg them to stop and talk. At one point, one particularly loud, drunk group of guys directed these types of calls at a woman who was walking with her boyfriend. When her boyfriend turned to confront the four men calling out and whistling, one of the men ripped off his shirt and challenged the boyfriend to a fight, all in the span of three seconds. Staring at the drunk, shirtless man before me challenging a random stranger to a fight over a random girl (who at this point had walked off), I couldn’t help but think of nature documentaries I had seen that captured the mating rituals of animals like mountain goats, bears, or other large mammals. The clashing of horns or claws. The display. The Roarrrrr! of it all. If mountain goats or bears wore shirts, I’m sure they’d rip them off with the same showy, dramatic flare when trying to impress females. Needless to say, a fight broke out and lots of guys acted like five-year-olds who didn’t get their popsicles even though they finished their veggies.
People beat drums and danced. People cringed when players from their team fell. We stood when goals seemed inevitable. We sat when goalies cleared balls to midfield. Vendors sold peanuts, pizza, and churros. Fans ate peanuts, pizza, and churros.
Above: La Garra, or The Claws, of Heredia’s fanbase
When the game was over, people leaked from the stadium gates in thin steady human streams. The screamers were quiet, having purged their angst. The parking attendants perked up and started working again. The announcers wrapped the cords around their microphones.
