La Bombonera and the Maracanã

by Joel Rookwood

We might as well be honest. Last season was a nightmare for everybody connected with Liverpool Football Club. And when it was over, we all wanted to disappear to foreign fields and forget the experience.

So, with the money I had secretly been saving for Moscow, I decided I would get away for a while. Well away. And I've never really been one for Magaluf. Instead I usually spend my summers in a different continent, in places where I'm less likely to encounter fat Brummies desperate to convince the world that Birmingham City really do 'shit on the Villa'.

This year's slightly more exotic destination was South America. Five of us booked a flight into Ecuador and another one out of Brazil. The plan was to travel overland through nine countries in six weeks.

Along the way lessons were learned, like: Colombia is about as safe as Juventus away, you can't get by in Ecuador without bribing bizzies, and Peruvian birds aren't impressed by Scousers attempting Salsa. We also got bricked in a political riot in Bolivia, which was worse than anything that idiot Danny Dyer could ever dream up, before nearly dying of pneumonia in the Chilean Andes, and wasting a few days in Paraguay and Uruguay. But it was in Argentina and Brazil where the adventure really started. For by the time we arrived, the football leagues of both countries were underway.

The first of three games I went to was at Boca Juniors, a club which deserves its global reputation. The football may be crap, but the fans are nuts. On the morning of their curtain raiser against Gimnasia, we managed to get hold of five tickets from a tout. On closer inspection minutes later we read the words 'Dama Jub' inscribed on the tickets, meaning 'Female Youth'. Ironically, the three of us who were the least feminine and youthful of the group scraped in on them. But the other two got knocked back. They were however switched on enough to buy another ticket each before kick off, yet they were soft enough to get them for La Doce end. The 12th Man stand is one of the most notorious in world football. They lasted most of the game before being treated to a mugging and a legger at the final whistle. Yet, despite the very real danger of being a gringo in La Boca neighbourhood, especially at 'that end', Boca Juniors is the complete football experience – especially when they win 4-0.

We spent our last week in Rio, another city that lives and breathes football. With the promise of watching the famous Flamengo against league leaders Gremio at the Maracanã on our penultimate night, the lads didn't fancy the additional less glamorous trip to watch Botafogo v Cruzeiro the evening before. But it was another ground and another game, and when in Rio… So, I went alone. After a day on the ale at Copacabana Beach, I walked into the ground a little worse for wear. The sight of 40,000 home fans dressed from head to toe in black and white did much to sober me up however, particularly as I was in a red shirt. I bought a Botafogo top straight away and threw it over mine, but knew that I still stood out a mile.

I attempted to remain anonymous, and took in a lifeless game, punctuated only by a last minute penalty, which the home side secured and then scored. The flare display that followed the game's only goal was impressive, and so instinctively, out came the camera. Bad move. With the only flashes in the entire ground emanating from my camera, I felt the eyes of a thousand Rio Scals on me, and one group of lads in particular. With the Boca experience fresh in the memory, I knew I had to avoid wandering around the dark unfamiliar streets after the game looking for a taxi. So I opted for the early dart. Predictably, I was followed.

All four lads I had been travelling with had either lost or broken their cameras en route to our final destination. That meant the 800 irreplaceable photos in my possession were the only record of our trip. But the half dozen handy looking lads who then fronted me outside the ground weren't the type you could negotiate with. So I didn't. I suffered a few blows, but despite the bruises I somehow managed to keep hold of the camera, flag a taxi, fit my by then swollen head into it, and escape into the night.

The match the following night, a 2-1 victory for the home side, was less eventful. And though it was played at the most famous ground in world football, it has to be said, Flamengo are nothing on Boca Juniors. A banner claimed that Flamengo are the best supported club on the planet (allegedly they have 38 million fans in Brazil alone). Yet this merely appeared to epitomise the delusions of grandeur that a certain neighbour of ours has been exhibiting in recent years. The two Latin giants represent contrasting cities in nations which lie at the very centre of South America's obsession with football. But whilst the continent's cultural capital may be in Rio, with all Brazil's World Cup successes; its heartbeat undoubtedly lies in Buenos Aires, where the domestic league rightfully reigns. So whatever you do, make sure you don't die without a visit to La Bombonera, and then if you have time, the Maracanã.

Joel Rookwood

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