Gremio, a football experience

This morning, the only Brazilian football team I am able to name made it onto BBC News, for the unsavory taunts thrown around at their most recent match.  After fans called an opposing player a “monkey” (A terribly popular Brazilian themed insult, it would seem.  Earlier this year, it was Europeans throwing around the insult, rather than Brazilians themselves.), the club has been blacklisted from Brazil’s main cup competition.  My experience at the Arena do Gremio was thankfully lacking in racial tensions; however, I still found much of note.

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Mustering up the proper amount of excitement for a soccer match borders on impossible. It's not just that the team isn't mine, nor that my relation to soccer began in June of this year for the World Cup. There's something more. The crush of people isn't exhilarating it's oppressive. The lines aren't met with the cheery attitude of the amusement park, rather something closer to dread. The game itself isn't horrible; yet it is, like all sports to me, terribly dull.

Yes, the air of the fans, marching in packs of shared heraldry is beautiful, but... They yell and they argue. They drink, then discard their trash on the ground.

Before entering the stadium area, when we were still along the interstate, we passed signage for Argentina and Uruguay. Whole countries within driving distance. Even having driven through Europe, it still amuses me, that here, so close to the border, countries are given the same amount of acknowledgment as a city up the way. Then we passed a horse, tied to a tree, a stones through from the interstate. He was young, skittish towards the traffic. Behind him stood poverty, boxes made of scraps and tin. After seeing the favela in Rio, this was painful.

We parked in a better area. Not a favela, not really. There were satellite dishes and walls made of plaster. Here, the people weren't given pity, the animals were. Dogs roamed around free. Healthy from afar, but up close, coughing, dying. Cats with swollen eyes perched on roofs, while their compatriots painfully mewed.

The residents were industrious. Offering their yards, or maybe their neighbors, for parking. One lady led us down the street, then passed us off to another man, who led us to another block, before instructing us to park on the sidewalk.

Exiting the neighborhood, a sea of blue and black striped jerseys met us, streaming towards the entrances. Police on horseback patrolled, as well as security guards in semi riot garb. The ticket booth on the east had lines for miles. The west side was just as bad. Both doubled within minutes. Thousands of people impatiently queuing 30 minutes before the game, then 15, 5, 45 after. By the end, the old and the parents of infants were booed for their preferential treatment.

I may have spent more time on Instagram than actually watching the game.

The game itself was un-eventful. Grêmio won 2 x 0.  We entered the stadium just in time to see the second goal.  I never caught the other team's name. The players of both teams seemed to fall at an extraordinary rate. Apparently it hurts less than being kicked by cleats. More interesting than the playing was the smell surrounding us. Sweet popcorn, I think. Though I never could place who was holding it.

Unable to find the sweet popcorn, I tried to hide my disappointment.