Day 273: I Was There

According to the sports newspaper Marca, the first match of the national team in the World Cup was something to tell our grandchildren about.

Nobody was expecting a spectacular match that day. When I got the tickets for that match through the FIFA website, I never imagined Spain would crush Ukraine. I chose that match simply because it was being played in Leipzig, which is close to Dresden. I thought Shevchenko’s Ukraine would give us a lot of trouble, that it would be a very tough match to win…

I managed to get tickets for my father and me. The day before the match, I rented a car and went to pick him up in Berlin. We spent the night in Dresden and the next day headed to Leipzig. We were able to park almost in the city centre, very close to the stadium. We weren’t there to go sightseeing — we were there for one thing only. We took a short walk to soak in the atmosphere around the match. We ran into Emilio Butragueño (he was in a hurry so no photographic proof) and Manolo el del Bombo (and yes, there is photographic proof of that).

Manolo’s “show” made me feel a bit sorry for him. Everyone wanted a photo with him. Everyone wanted to meet him. He posed with a smile, but you could tell he wasn’t enjoying it. The fans hugged him, grabbed him tightly, even hurt him. But he kept posing. I commented on it and my father said:

“— He makes a living from this.”

I thought about it for a second and could only mumble:

“— Ah… true…”

Right after that, maybe still emotional from meeting Manolo el del Bombo, we got lost and couldn’t find the entrance to the stadium. The entrances were divided into four colours, one for each side of the stadium, all clearly explained, and yet we still got lost (actually, it was my fault — I assumed we could walk around the stadium on one side, but it was blocked off for security reasons).

My father was impatient to see the players’ warm-up. We ran inside and entered the stadium — a stadium built into a hollowed-out hill. We imagined there would be strict security, guards checking IDs every 10 metres, undercover police catching and beating up scalpers… But nothing like that. There was hardly any security, just enough to break up a fight if one started. The scalpers were operating openly, selling tickets with other people’s names on them (the tickets were personalised to prevent resale), all under the police’s watch — who in theory turned a blind eye but in practice were getting a cut of the scalpers’ profits as bribes (yes, there’s corruption in Germany too).

Our seats were very far from the Spanish fans; we were surrounded by Germans. I guess it was because I bought and paid for the tickets using my German address and my Sparkasse Dresden account. The beer inside was expensive, and on top of that you had to pay one euro as a deposit for a cheap Budweiser cup (in Germany it’s called Bud, because there’s an older beer already called Budweiser) that everyone ended up taking home. They also sold World Cup programmes, pretzels, hot dogs, Coca-Cola…

Suddenly, they announced the players’ entrance. My camera was in my hand, trembling with excitement. I filmed the whole moment: the anthem, the crowd shouting and singing, the moment…

Then the match began — an absolute show, four goals. Every time Spain scored, I hugged my father, gave a smug look to the Germans in our section, and gave Emilio (watching from Spain) a symbolic fist bump. There was a Ukrainian sitting next to us who left at half-time and never came back. There was another one two rows ahead who refused to do the Mexican wave. Right next to him, there was an elderly German lady who always did it… ten seconds late. The atmosphere in the stands was completely festive.

When the match ended, it was a bit sad that the players didn’t come out to thank the fans: because they always travel in luxury, they don’t realise there are people who’ve crossed half of Europe in terrible conditions just to see them play, who’ve made huge sacrifices to watch them kick a ball for 90 minutes. The least they could do was look at the stands and wave.

After the match, we drove back to Dresden, stopping at a couple of little villages along the way to rehydrate. When we got home, we rested a bit, got changed, and went to a biergarten (a bar with a terrace) near my house, next to the Hauptbahnhof, to watch the Germany–Poland match. We had loads of beers (the bartender kept serving us), had dinner, and argued with the locals about the World Cup. My father gave the bar owner my Real Ávila jersey as a gift (one of these days I really have to go give it to him… but I really like that jersey… well, maybe when I leave).

The next day we woke up early to go to Berlin. My father’s little getaway was over. I dropped him off at the airport and rushed back home. I had skipped two days of class for the match, and I had tons of work piled up. But it was worth it — now I can say: I was there.

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