Colombian Football: The 90 Minute War

Thousands of people join together in a collective demand for blood, smoke fills the air. Police in full riot gear steel themselves on red alert. I am simultaneously filled with fear, nervousness, anticipation. This is no pagan ritual of human sacrifice, this is no political demonstration. What is about to pass in the following 90 minutes is so much more important: A game of football in Colombia’s top division.

To the untrained observer the reaction of the thousands of fans within the ground, and the millions more glued to their television sets in the local bars is a little extreme. Football here is more than a game to the locals, it is a way of life, some say a religion. It is a moment that divides families, that transcends racial and cultural values. Where grief can turn to elation in an instant.

I have been fortunate to witness top level sport in all its glory throughout the world. From more conventional contests, such as the Superbowl or NBA playoffs, to the more obscure such as illegal cock-fighting in Thailand. Nothing can compare to the intensity of this moment. The two titans will exchange blows until one emerges the victor, their fans triumphant with honour. The other will be forced to endure the heartache and subject to ridicule in the workplace for months to come. The referee blows his whistle and the slaughter can commence.

The spectacle on the field almost pales into insignificance when compared to the scenes in the crowd. Some fans seem not to notice the game at all, dedicating their time to hurling abuse at the adjacent enclosure. This is hatred on an epic scale. Total strangers who otherwise could be best of friends are divided irrevocably into two camps to fight a brutal war.

I draw my attention away from the field of play to stare at the family next to me. A middle aged man, seemingly with his infant son roars a torrent of abuse at the officials following a seemingly justified decision. Here football transcends the generations. The same boy will one day baptise his own son into the church of football, just as his grandfather did with his father before him.

Suddenly the ball breaks in the penalty area and a chance! In perfect unison the whole stadium jumps to its feet in an air of anticipation. The striker connects with the ball and for a brief second time stops. Fans hold their breath. The ball hangs in the air like the sword of Damocles. The goalkeeper, arm outstretched makes a futile effort to prevent the inevitable. The net ripples. The whole stand screams in unison: “GOOOOOAAAAALLLLLLLLL!!!!!!!!!”

Time restarts and I am being jumped on from all sides, engulfed by total strangers who are hugging and kissing me. I struggle to maintain upright while bombarded by the bustling crowd that seems to have a mind of its own. Behind me I hear a flare being set off, the red tail arching over the stadium like a violent rainbow of elation. I cannot fail to be completely immersed in the joy of these total strangers. Like a choir, our screams merge into one collective whole. We move together, we sing together. The bond is unbreakable.

The game restarts and the taunts of our rivals continue.  Voices merge in collective symphony, songs of our successes in the past, songs about the opposition players and their promiscuous mothers. I don’t know the lyrics, and there are far too many versions to learn, but I join in the beat by clapping my hands together adding my element to the explosion that booms around the stadium. Nowhere in the world is it possible to be so accepted as an outsider as in a football ground. I stand in solidarity, shoulder to shoulder with my 20,000 new brothers with one aim in mind that must be achieved at all costs: Victory.

Both teams advance forward and chances are created for both sides, with every intense moment I share the emotion with my fellow fans. Hope, anticipation and optimism in attack, fear and dread every time the other team have the ball. At times I am jumping with enthusiasm, at others I can barely look through the crack between my fingers in fear at what is about to happen. Whether positive or negative, my heart rate never subsides, its beat echoing the incessant striking of drums in corners of the stadium.

The game enters the final stages and we still hold the narrowest of advantages. All could be won or lost in a second. My eyes dart back and forth from the clock on the scoreboard to the action on the pitch. With one final blow of his whistle the referee ends our torment and sends half the stadium into a rapture of delight. The game is over and we have prevailed. The fans applaud their heroes and the crowd is a sea of green and white flags, with banners expressing their love and unyielding faith in their club.

Finally we can relax and breathe again. The losers file out of the ground, dejected, inconsolable. Nowhere can such disparity of emotion be felt at the same time in the same place. At this one precious moment in time, Atletico Nacional own the city of Medellin. The home fans would give anything for this feeling to last forever. Fate is never so kind though: These die hard fans will return to the ground at the same time next week to do it all again.”

Match tickets can be bought via the Purple Monkey Hostel reception.  Consult them for the upcoming match schedule.