Pumas and Pelotas

It seems that I always manage to be in Argentina during great sports times of the year. With apologies to a few of my former travel companions – you know who you are – this year I decided to take full advantage of it. Shay and I decided to stick around Buenos Aires this weekend to get a look at some of the spots we missed two weekends ago, and more importantly, because there were two major, Argentina-wide games happening Saturday and Sunday. Most Americans may not get the craze because our favorite sports are largely national in nature, and therefore based on teams and cities, vs. nationality and one’s flag, which in some places can be all people have to look forward to and take pride in. The fairly recent internationalization of basketball is about all I have to make a comparison with, and that’s a weak one at best. Soccer – leaving it at “the beautiful game” when played by Argentines grossly understates the experience – was on display Saturday, matched Sunday by the world’s Cinderella rugby team in the form of los Pumas. “During the rugby world cup, we’re all Pumas…”

Tickets for the 2010 World Cup qualifier between Argentina-Chile sold out fast this week, leaving me with the prospect of scalping tix in a country faced with an increasing counterfeiting problem. Fortunately Shay’s school had been advertising an “excursion” (“excursions” are but one of many reasons I continue to love the concept of studying abroad) to the game. U$s 120 – about what I would pay for two mediocre Jazz seats – got Shay and I lunch, transportation and guides, and two field-level seats at rocking and rolling, 66,000 seat River Plate stadium (again, using the only analogous language I really know, the Argentine equivalent of the L.A. Lakers). We met up with a large, U.N.-style group before the game at one of Belgrano’s fancy pizzerias. Aussies, Irish, Germans, East Asians, Africans, a girl from D.C., and other kids our age spent an hour getting to know one another better over pizza and drinks. I’m convinced that if one pushes him/herself hard enough to live as big a life as possible, experiencing all that life has to offer, said person eventually crosses a threshold where it’s almost impossible not to be able to quickly establish immediate connections with people, and if continued, the experiences combined with momentum, and therefore potential connections, began to exponentially increase, almost like a pyramid scheme. Mexicans talking to me about boarding Snowbird, me talking to Aussies about playing Footy and rugby, Irish asking about Mitt Romney, D.C. folks, big shocker, talking educational pursuits, all taking about Iguazu. It was this kind of experience that reminded me why I still enjoy, or at least will tolerate, bunking in with five strangers at cheap hostels.

The game itself – Shay’s first Latin American soccer game – was an experience I won’t soon forget. The stadium – Buenos Aires’ best and biggest – was jammed full with 60,000 screaming, dancing, flag-waving Argentines, drowning out every few minutes the familiar chants and drumbeat of 5,000 intrepid Chileans. We took our seats – second-row seats 20-30 yards from one of the corners – behind chain link fence and barbed wire – a stark, occasionally annoying reminder of how rabid these guys are about their soccer. I got a refresher course throughout on all of my Argentine insults and cusswords, all of which when heard in Spanish make me laugh out loud.

Though many have commented on the improvement in Chilean soccer in recent years, I don’t think anyone really expected much of a contest going in. The boys in powder blue and white proved us right. Rarely have I seen a team toy with another seemingly so easily. The Argentines combine speed with passing skill that makes the game look easy. The Chileans did the only thing they could do under the circumstances – play hard, and when beaten, which happened often, foul. That proved not to be a remedy, as in the first half the Argentines looped in for goals from 20 yards two successive indirect kicks with the precision of laser-guided munitions. The place went nuts, fans jumping up and down, singing and chanting, “goooool gooooool goooool,” I thought I was going to have to try to physically defend my wife.

With apologies to my Chilean friends and aficionados, I enjoyed it immensely. I didn’t want drama this time out, rather offense and a rout, as I knew the place would get especially rowdy were Argentina winning. The Chileans played a better game the second half, but the damage was done. Once again, Chile went down to Argentina, 2-0. I’d cautiously venture to say that Argentina’s win was probably a good thing, good for the Argentines, who, speaking beyond soccer, have in a number of ways been outshined by the Chileans the last few years.

Recoleta and Rugby…

Sunday we headed to yet another of Buenos Aires’ unique neighborhoods, this one the ritzy, uppity, Beverly Hills-esque Recoleta, home to the Argentine elite, beautiful houses, upscale malls, lush, green parks, “Telemundo girls,” Recoleta National Cemetery, and the city’s best handicrafts market (Shay and I kept commenting on the amazing array of talent on display – we’ll go back one of these weekends and no doubt drop hundreds of dollars).

In conversations at the soccer game with Argentines, I’d learned that the place to be to watch the Argentina-South Africa Rugby World Cup semifinal was a sports bar called “Locos por Futbol” (Crazy for Soccer). Luckily we showed up a few hours before game time, just in time to be able to talk our way into a reservation for one of the last available tables. $33 landed us reservation with free food and drinks up to that amount. Food prices being what they are here, that sounded just about right.

The day was absolutely gorgeous (sunny/75 degrees), so Shay and I strolled – yes, one can’t help but stroll happily in B.A. – to nearby Recoleta Cemetary, Argentina’s Arlington Cemetery. The cemetery is more like a city unto itself. Rather than bury their dead below ground, Argentines build upwards. They compete with one another to build the most elegant, grandiose, ego-stoking memorials to their dead possible. The result is pedestrian alleyways, streets and highways of mausoleums of all shapes, sizes, colors and materials, garnished by statues, crucifixes, gargoyles, life-sized likenesses, and stone-cast eulogies, interspersed with large trees, lamp posts a disproportionate number of cats. In short, it’s like nothing you’ve ever seen, and is maybe the only place I can think of where small numbers of camera-toting tourists provide some reassurance. We spent a couple of hours in there gaggling at the different structures and snapping pictures outside of Evita Peron’s family tomb and that of Domingo Sarmiento (don’t ask, it’s a history dork thing).

Which brings us to the highlight of the afternoon – the Rugby World Cup semi-final elimination game between traditional powerhouse South Africa and the upstart, Cinderella, Pumas of Argentina. I’ve snapped millions of pictures this foray, because I can’t seem to impress upon people enough – or convince them for that matter – that this is not Mexico down here. There are no dusty roads, no cacti, no little guys in sombreros sitting in the shade, heads covered, nursing a jug of tequila. Why do I bring this up now? It’s simply one more example of how in many ways this city is the New York of Latin America. In all my travels, other than the books at Vegas, this was the best sports bar, in terms of overall enthusiasm and viewing capability, I’ve ever been in.

Like the soccer game the day before, the place was jammed with Puma jersey wearing, foaming at the mouth, Argentine rugby fans. Everywhere one looked there were mega-screen sized TVs showing the game, or highlights from previous games, seasons and glorious moments. AC/DC, Korn, Guns n’ Roses and other samplings of American rock music blared over the speakers. Different shades of neon lights alternatively added to the ambiance. The Quilmes (the Budweiser of Argentina) folks were of course there, handing out free hats, rugby balls and t-shirts. The menu was typical sports bar, of which we took every bit of our u$s 35 ($35 for two for a game at a sports bar – I’d double that at home). Approaching countdown, we knew we were in for another wild time.

Our fellow patrons didn’t disappoint, though the team finally did. As happens with all teams that are still learning, growing, clawing toward establishing a tradition of excellence, the Argentines were simply bulldozed by a better, traditional powerhouse South African Springbok team. Which isn’t to say the Pumas didn’t play a good game. On the contrary, there were portions of it where they dominated the kicking game, field position and the passing lanes. But they made far too many mistakes: dropped passes, a couple of ill-advised pitches, and missing kicks for points. In the end, they dropped the game 36-17. Typical of rugby, the end of the game turned violent, the Argentines losing their cool (Argentines are big. If you want to picture an Argentine, look eastward to Italy or Germany, not south to Mexico.) Equally cool, even after punches are thrown and high tackles made, once the game is over, all shake hands and hug, even kiss, something many American sports stars could stand to learn – a little class.

The Locos por Futbol crowd rocked its way all the way through the game, providing a show in the show for us, the yankee foreigners from way up north. As always, folks looked out for us, and then, upon learning we can hold our own with the language, made us feel at home. A great time – a great weekend, the third such in a row we’ve enjoyed down here. We’ve now experienced most of the sights and sounds of B.A., Oktoberfest in European-style Villa General Belgrano, and the best in sports that Argentina has to offer (though we still need to get to a Boca Juniors game). Next weekend we’re off to the country again for a stay at one of Argentina’s cultural and historical icons – San Antonio del Areco’s famed “Estancias,” or ranches, home to Argentina’s gaucho (cowboy) culture – for BBQs, horseback riding, hammocks and time amongst solitary, guitar-strumming, mate-toting, ballad singing gauchos unchanged for hundreds of years. If the previous weekends are any indication, we’ll have plenty to write home about.
Burnett, 10/14/07