the story of englishman that loves riquelme, part 2:

Looking For Riquelme – Part II: The Wilderness Years
Posted on November 24, 2013by robbro7
The 2007 Copa América was a glorious tournament for fans of Juan Román Riquelme – except, that is, for me. While Riquelme was giving arguably his best national team performances, scoring five of Argentina’s sixteen goals in the tournament and generally playing like a God among men, I was working a summer job in a factory in Suffolk.

As much as I wanted to, I could not bring myself to stay up into the night and watch Argentina’s games in case my resulting tiredness got me fired. Thankfully, an older and wiser co-worker was confident in his ability to get by on very little sleep and made sure never to miss a match. For the duration of the tournament, he was my go-to guy for Riquelme updates.

We would reconvene the morning after every game and he would tell me about Riquelme’s latest masterpieces, of which there were many. I still remember the descriptions of his free-kick against Colombia and his first goal against Peru, as well as those of the numerous pieces of skill he pulled off almost as a matter of principle.

I sat and listened, speaking only to ask for more detail so I could build clearer pictures in my mind, which I would then reimagine for the rest of the day. Once I’d heard everything there was to hear about the latest match, we would talk about how lucky we were to be alive while Riquelme was playing football.

A few weeks later, I moved to university and inevitably life went in a slightly different direction. A new age of fanaticism was about to begin.

***

It shouldn’t come as any surprise to learn that most of my friends at university were as obsessed with football as I was – the best of them was even a big fan of Riquelme. Nonetheless, the great man’s name was uttered rarely in comparison to the high school years – and with diminishing frequency.

Through the social side of university life, we found ourselves drawn to football more familiar than that in the Argentine Primera. The English Premier League was coming to its qualitative peak and the Union pub was the place to be when any big domestic game was on.

We watched any and all coverage of the Champions League and became interested in La Liga and the Bundesliga through the ESPN subscription we had in our second year. While we could conceivably have stayed up late to watch Boca as well as all the rest, it required a level of dedication that we simply didn’t have at that time.

For three years, Riquelme existed only as a memory, albeit one that was always present in the back of our minds. His remained the gold standard – the yardstick we used to measure the ability and ideology of the players we were watching. It probably seems ludicrous that we had ideological expectations of footballers and their styles of play, but we genuinely did. If I’m honest, I still do.

Players with intelligence, technique and, above all, flair were applauded; those who had primarily physical or pragmatic styles of play were scorned, even if they were undeniably effective. I lost count of the arguments we had with non-believers about the relative talents of Wayne Rooney and Steven Gerrard – or, in our view, the lack thereof. They may have been dominating English football at that time but they were gormless hoofball merchants compared to our hero.

We spent hours with our old friend Football Manager but we had long since moved on from playing as teams for whom Riquelme would sign. Following a challenge from a friend, the two of us developed an unlikely and enthusiastic interest in Norwegian football, going so far as to make a trip between semesters to watch Viking FK and Rosenborg, the teams we had respectively managed.

Although Viking’s 0-0 draw with Lyn was ostensibly much less exciting than Rosenborg’s wild 1-1 with Odd, we enjoyed the former more. It was a match between two organised sides who aimed to keep the ball, playing short, clever passes and build attacks incrementally. We saw it as a match played in keeping with our Riquelmian ideas. Even though he was physically on the other side of the globe, our hero was with us in spirit.

***

I realise now that the Norway trip was a watershed moment. For the first time, I had gone somewhere improbable for my own esoteric reasons and two important lessons had been learned: first, that I loved travelling to new countries to watch and learn about football; second, that I found it really easy.

In my mind, the world shrunk dramatically. The number of possible destinations was seemingly infinite and I became desperate to go anywhere and everywhere. Over the next few years, I would go on to visit Barcelona (repeatedly), Lyon, Milan, Rome and Ljubljana to see or experience some aspect of the beautiful game.

While I regularly researched the costs and practicalities of getting to almost any country on Earth, one above all was always in my thoughts: Argentina. In addition to geographical variety that is more or less unique on our planet, a new language to learn and relatively cheap living expenses, Argentina offered one incentive that nowhere else in the world could even come close to matching: the chance to see Juan Román Riquelme play football.

By the time I finished university, making the pilgrimage seemed straightforward in my mind. Reality, however, presented a significant obstacle. In short, I was flat broke. I had no choice but to return home and take the first office job I was offered. Like most first-world twenty-somethings who stepped out of higher education and into a global recession, I struggled to get a job and all but gave up hope.

In economic terms, I thought, this was not a time to be making foolhardy voyages, spending thousands of pounds crossing continents and oceans and coming back with nothing tangible gained. I decided to keep my options open for as long as possible and see where life took me. Eventually, employment came my way and I focused on keeping my head above water. As the pennies came in, however, my dreams went out. I started to drift.

***

It was the best part of a year later, in the middle of the most non-descript day at work, that everything changed. Out of habit, I began my lunch break by opening up several football sites to get the latest news. I read the words ‘Boca Juniors confirmed for Arsenal preseason tournament’ and the world seemed to stop spinning.

After a decade spent dreaming of what it would be like to see Riquelme in person, after countless hours reading about Argentina and Buenos Aires and Boca Juniors, after all the saving up, budgeting and then saving up some more – and after having finally given up – it seemed utterly inconceivable that he was scheduled to play an hour’s drive south of our house. It was all I could do not to fall off of my chair.

After a few minutes, the shock passed and I began frantically messaging the members of our old high school Riquelme fan club, asking if anyone was up for seeing our idol. The first affirmative response arrived within seconds. I will never forget it, so perfect was it in expressing my feelings at that exact moment: “We have to go. Literally HAVE TO GO.”

Our number fluctuated over the next few weeks and finally settled at six. When tickets went on sale, I bought the closest to the Emirates turf available. There was no way we were going to watch Riquelme for the first time from anywhere other than pitchside.

When the big day came around, the fervour among our group was bordering on religious. We had talked of little else for months. One of my friends borrowed a DSLR camera from a relative so he could immortalise Riquelme Day in the highest possible quality. Another had travelled from Cardiff just to see him. As for me, I had barely slept due to a combination of excitement and residual disbelief.

We arrived at the Emirates Stadium several hours early and took our seats before the players from New York Red Bulls and Paris Saint-Germain, the two sides playing in the first game of the day, had begun to warm-up. Our impatience for them to get their match over and done with was palpable. Mercifully, the time passed quickly and they were soon gone. Then, after a short interval that felt like an eternity, Boca’s players emerged from the tunnel and we gazed upon the face of God.

***

We had our money’s worth before he had even finished his warm-up. Everything he did in front of our eyes, the first touch, the nonchalance, the weight of his passes, was textbook Riquelme. We got just as much joy out of the things he didn’t do – like run. I estimated that out of the ten or twelve steps he had to take as part of each ‘sprint’, no more than two or three could be classified as anything other than ‘strolling’. He was exactly as we’d hoped.

When the match began, we were all ready to be blown away by his genius. Sadly, the first half was a stark illustration of how European football had left him and his ilk behind. While Arsenal were the archetypal modern side – a collective of equally autonomous and interdependent creative players – Boca were an orchestra of ten plus one conductor.

The players that Arsenal were using to attack – full-backs, wide-midfielders and a striker – behaved totally differently in Boca’s system. They could barely do anything creative, least of all venture from their positions and try to score a goal, without Riquelme’s approval in form of a pass to them.

There were plenty of chances for these situations to develop, as every other Boca pass seemed to be to their playmaker. For the most part, however, their buildup was slow, predictable and disappointingly rudimentary. Too often Riquelme backed himself into a corner. Arsenal took control easily and it was no surprise when Robin Van Persie put the Gunners ahead after half an hour.

The first half played out like a hypothetical question brought to life: what would it be like watching a decent team from the 2010s against the best team from the 1980s? It was proof of stylistic evolution, which rewarded the neutral football fan in my head, but my heart was in pain. That is not to say it was a disaster: for the most part, we were glad simply to be watching Riquelme and occasionally he did something majestic that gave our sextet evident pleasure.

One perfectly-weighted through-ball to Lucas Viatri stands out, if only for what followed in the stands. One of my friends, Jake, was so intently focused on Riquelme that he did not realise that when the pass was played, Viatri was clearly offside. The linesman’s flag went up, the Emirates fell silent and Jake screamed “OHHH! FLAIR!” at the top of his voice.

While the first half gave us nothing to remember bar that moment of priceless comedy, the second was all that we had hoped for and more. I generally reject the idea that one player can single-handedly change a football match using nothing other than the force of his personality, but there was no denying the impact that a newly-motivated and focused Riquelme had on the game once Arsenal went 2-0 up.

Suddenly, he upped the tempo and began playing the incisive passes that he had until that point refrained from attempting. His direct opponent, Emmanuel Frimpong, was unable to cope. Again and again, Riquelme found space and played the right pass at the right time. Knowing the balance was tipping in his favour, he began urging his teammates forward. Before long Arsenal vs Boca Juniors was a distant memory: we were watching the Juan Román Riquelme Show.

Eventually, the pressure told. An error from the spooked Sébastien Squillaci allowed Riquelme to slip Viatri in to make it 2-1. A few minutes later, another of his through-balls split the Arsenal defence and confusion between Johan Djourou and Vito Mannone allowed Pablo Mouche to roll into an empty net for 2-2. Boca’s system may have been embarrassingly outmoded and ten of their players operating on a level below that of their opponents, but Riquelme’s brilliance had given them hope.

Disappointingly, both teams more or less shut up shop after the equalising goal. Aside from a few beautiful passes, Riquelme did not give us anything more to remember. Nonetheless, we left the Emirates ecstatic. He may have burned for half as long as in his heyday, but the flame was undeniably as bright as ever.

There was only one problem: now I’d had a taste, I wanted more. On the way home, I decided that no matter how long it took me to save up, I was going to Argentina for as long as possible and I was going to see Riquelme on multiple occasions.

***

It would be another two years before I arrived in Buenos Aires. When the chance to see Riquelme again presented itself – for Boca’s match away to Arsenal de Sarandí – I swore I would get to the game at any cost. That was just a figure of speech, of course: I didn’t really intend to make the ultimate sacrifice in order to see my favourite footballer. As it turned out, I would come closer to making good on my words than I could possibly have imagined.

(the source)

the story of englishman that loves riquelme, part 3:

Looking For Riquelme – Part III: Where There Is A Will, There Is A Way
Posted on December 6, 2013by robbro7
I had been in Argentina for a month before the opportunity arose to see Juan Román Riquelme in action. As I arrived halfway through the Torneo Inicial season, there were plenty of Boca Juniors games being played. There was one small but significant problem, however: I could not buy a ticket to one.

It is two years since Boca last sold tickets for home games to the general public. Instead, they are available only to the club’s socios (members). There are still ways for tourists to get into La Bombonera on a match day but, financially and ethically, they are less than appealing.

Tickets can almost always be bought from tourist offices in central Buenos Aires but, due to the fact that they have passed through several hands since they were in those of the socio that bought them, they are prohibitively expensive. What originally cost the socio 70 pesos will often remain unavailable to the tourist for less than 700.

For the more adventurous, it remains possible to go down to the ground on match-day and wait around until a tout offers his services. As one would expect, there are a number of drawbacks to that plan.

First and foremost, the chances of being sold a fake ticket are frustratingly high. Even if what one is sold is genuine, it is common for the steward at the turnstile to declare it a forgery, confiscate it as evidence and then, once the tourist is out of sight, hand it back to the tout to be sold again.

From top to bottom, the whole ticketing process stinks of corruption. It serves only to divert funds away from Boca Juniors itself and instead funnel the cash towards an omnipresent and all-powerful group to whom I would rather not be giving my money: the barras bravas.

***

For the uninitiated, the barras bravas are basically an Argentine club’s hardcore fans. Take Italian football’s ultras as a starting point, make them even crazier, and then throw in all the hallmarks of a serious organised crime operation. Most clubs’ barras have links to racketeering, arms-trafficking and drug-dealing, as well as a long history of violence. The number of deaths attributed to the barras bravas since the 1950s is too high to begin detailing.

Unfortunately, the barras are so fundamental to Argentine football culture that many clubs have come to depend on them, not only to organise vociferous and colourful support at home games but to protect senior management by crushing dissent in the stands by any means necessary. Troublingly, they also do their club’s dirty work. If the team is underperforming, the barras will invariably go to the home of the manager or a player and threaten to harm his family if he does not up his game.

In exchange for these services, the barras are granted certain privileges: free entry to the stadium, free travel to away games and free reign to take a share of club money whenever they feel entitled to it. In the case of Boca, it is impossible to tell where the barras’ influence ends and that of the official club hierarchy begins. The barras take cuts of all money made from merchandising, broadcasting deals and player sales. They even receive a percentage of the first team’s wages.

So long-standing and mutually beneficial is this relationship that many political organisations have muscled in on it, hiring the barras bravas to perform their duties outside of football. As recently as October 2013, the student elections at the University of Buenos Aires saw violent interference from the barras of Club Atlético Platense.

Student elections are the tip of the iceberg: the reality is that every group of barras bravas is in bed with one political organisation or another. Similarly, the police are routinely paid to turn a blind eye to their misdeeds. These links with Argentina’s political class and its crime-prevention force have added the final impenetrable layer to the barras’ armour. Simply put, although they are widely known to be murderers, gunrunners and drug-dealers, they are untouchable.

It often seems that there is almost no way to watch live football in Argentina – and certainly not at La Bombonera – without legitimising both their existence and their business methods. I arrived in Buenos Aires perfectly aware of this culture and steadfast in my refusal to co-operate with it. If I was going to see Riquelme, it was not going to happen immediately.

***

I focused on settling in Buenos Aires and trying to learn Spanish. At the weekends, I watched live games on TV whenever possible and paid particularly close attention to Riquelme’s performances. Like Argentine football, he was obviously a shadow of his former self – the languid stroll that characterised him at his peak was now more like a rickety stagger – and old age had brought with it an even greater level of belligerence and distrust of his teammates.

It made watching him quite uncomfortable. No matter how much one idolises their favourite player, it’s hard to enjoy watching him when he’s being a total dick. Whenever it seemed like his powers had been irretrievably lost, however, that he had gone over to the dark side once and for all, he would nonchalantly flick a sublime pass to a colleague and I would instantly forgive all of his faults.

Predictably, the itch to watch live football became too great to scratch before too long. One Friday night, my friend Chris and I were considering venturing down to Sarandí, a working-class area just south of the city border, to watch Arsenal take on All Boys. Through the magic of the internet we were put in touch with Santi, an Arsenal fan able to advise us on the best course of action.

Santi advised us that Sarandí was far from the type of neighbourhood two inexperienced westerners should be exploring on a Friday night. Displaying typical Porteño hospitality, he suggested that the two of us come over to his flat and watch the game there instead – an offer that was gratefully accepted.

A couple of weeks later, Santi extended another invite, this time to Arsenal’s next home game, which was against Boca. I was ecstatic: it may not be a world-famous cauldron of noise like La Bombonera, but what El Viaducto lacks in relative capacity and atmosphere it more than makes up for in intimacy and accessibility. Seeing Riquelme there would guarantee an unbeatable view of a genius at work, and I wouldn’t have to give Boca’s barras a penny.

As the days before the match vanished one by one, I often had to remind myself that I really was going to see Juan Román Riquelme in a live game in Argentina. After more than a decade spent dreaming of doing exactly that, the notion seemed so utterly ridiculous that I just assumed it wouldn’t happen. Generally speaking, if something seems too good to be true, it is.

Therefore, I was not at all surprised when, on the day of the game, I received a message from Santi saying that we could no longer go to the match. The guy who was supposed to be driving us could no longer make it, so we had no guaranteed way of getting there and back. While at the time this felt like the end of our story, it was actually the beginning.

***

I tried to be philosophical about the news. The situation as it stood was spelled out: Sarandí becomes a different place when the sun goes down. Waiting around for a late bus home is less than advisable, particularly if you look like a Westerner or a relatively affluent Argentine. Such is the frequency with which taxi drivers have been robbed by passengers picked up in the barrio, they no longer stop there. Basically, if one has no way out, it’s best not to go there to begin with.

That was that, then. It wasn’t even worth getting angry over: the driver had a perfectly valid reason for dropping out and if going to Arsenal vs Boca was as good as smearing oneself in fresh blood and jumping into a shark tank, then it was by all means the right thing to do to give the match a wide berth. Logically, I could not argue. My gut feeling, however, told me to do everything possible to get to the game regardless of all of this. Somehow, it would all work out.

Thankfully, it didn’t take much to convince Santi to take the plunge. We agreed to take the Subte into the centre of town and then share a taxi from San Telmo to Sarandí. This would get us there and keep costs relatively low. As far as getting back went, we would take our chances with a pre-booked cab and hope that it showed up. If not, we were on our own.

It was a dangerous plan. While it would be cheap, the stakes would definitely be high. As a Caucasian with fair hair, I would apparently be a target, so preventative measures were needed. Santi would bring an Arsenal shirt for me to wear over my hoodie and a hat to hide my hair. We would arrive in the area with a couple hours to kill so as to avoid the potentially dangerous crowds nearer to kick-off. I was to dress down and leave all valuables at home.

Most importantly of all, it was forbidden to speak English once we reached our destination. For someone who had very little Spanish before arriving in the country and had only been taking lessons for a few weeks, this was as good as agreeing to remain silent for the entire evening. These were the conditions and we were only going to the game if they could be met.

So it was that a couple of hours later, I left the flat with only my keys, my SUBE and 300 pesos in my pocket. I walked to the corner of the street and met Santi. In town, we were joined by a Boca-supporting friend of Santi’s named Nico. We hailed a cab and, with that, there was no going back. We were going to Sarandí and I was going to see Riquelme.

As we sped out of the city, Santi passed me the Arsenal shirt. Once I had put it on, I asked him to pass me the hat as well.

“Shit, man. I forgot it,” he said.

It was a sign of things to come.

***

When we arrived in Sarandí, I decided it really isn’t that bad. It’s an enchanting barrio if you’re into the Kabul-circa-2004 aesthetic. We got out of the cab on the decaying main road and turned left down a dusty one-lane track which led to the ticket office. On our left, there was a modest and densely-populated low-rise residential area, typical of southern Buenos Aires. To our right, a railway bridge, under which several families lived in shacks of corrugated iron and wood.

Nearby, scores of children played in what was once a green space, long before their constant footfalls had turned the fertile ground to dust. Several groups of adults chatted among themselves and watched over their young. Two horses stood idly by, taking in the whole scene, their purpose to me unclear. They could have been family pets, tools of someone’s trade or tomorrow’s dinner for twenty. I was wary of thinking anything judgemental but nothing seemed out of the question.

As we passed this crowd, I was extremely aware that at any given moment I was being stared at by several locals. Despite the Arsenal shirt, it was patently obvious that I was a gringo on their turf, and while some seemed more bemused than anything else by my presence, there were others to whom it looked like my arrival was some kind of insult. I tried not to make eye contact, lest that be received as actual provocation.

The area in front of the ticket office was reassuringly full of police. If harm was to come to us anywhere, it would not be here. Given the level of security, we briefly lapsed into speaking English, albeit very quietly, to discuss our plan of action: we would buy the tickets, go to a nearby pizzeria on the theoretically safe main road, get some food and drink down us and come back just before kick-off.

As soon as we reached the front of the queue, that plan fell apart. Arsenal were not selling tickets to non-socios at any price. With Boca fans likely to show up in huge numbers for a game that was no distance for them to travel to, the home club’s president had, for one day only, adopted the ticketing policy of the visitors in order to maintain safety in and around the ground.

We pleaded with them to turn a blind eye and sell us – an Arsenal fan and two neutrals – three tickets at the regular admission price for non-socios, but their position was immovable: no socio card, no entry. We weighed up our options and found that we had none to speak of. Santi apologised and we began the walk back to the main road with heavy hearts.

I had gotten this far and fallen at the final hurdle. That was the reality and yet I couldn’t believe it. At no point during that day did I stop thinking that we would get into the ground and that I would see Riquelme. I didn’t have the first idea how we would do it, but where there is a will there is always a way – and there was indeed a way.

(the source)

the story of englishman that loves riquelme, part 4:

Looking For Riquelme – Part IV: The Riquelmista Who Played With Fire
Posted on December 9, 2013by robbro7
The further we walked from El Viaducto, the more determined I was to get into Arsenal vs Boca at any cost. Aware that we were on potentially hostile territory, I refrained from articulating this thought to Santi and Nico, who spoke between themselves about our options. We didn’t have many.

On the way past Sarandí’s railway-bridge-cum-residential-estate-cum-children’s-playground, we spotted something decidedly out of place coming in the other direction. Forty or fifty very loud westerners were walking towards the stadium in a mixed gender group. Many of the men were shirtless and sunburned. It seemed that the majority were drunk. For all the sense the sight made, it might as well have been a gigantic wooden horse rolling down the street.

In stark contrast to our pair of city-bred Argentines plus one Englishman, they were making no secret of their origins: even from a distance, their accents gave the game away. They were obviously a group of Australians on holiday, all set on going to the game. I stopped one as our paths met and asked if they had tickets.

“Yes, mate,” he said, holding his up by way of proof, “all taken care of.”

“What? How?”

“Through the hostel.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Can’t you get in?”

“No, they’re not selling to non-socios.”

“Not my problem, mate. Better luck next time, eh?”

With that most sensitive of remarks, he was gone.

***

We arrived at the pizzeria with our disappointment now supplemented with a good helping of righteous indignation. While Santi and Nico ate their slices, I stood looking at the signed classic football shirts framed on the far wall. Eventually, Santi came over and echoed my less-than-magnanimous thoughts when he whispered: “Man, I can’t believe some ********ing drunk Australian girls are going to watch that game and we’re not.”

Rationally speaking, we should have left Sarandí at that moment. We should have called a cab and got back to the city in time to watch the match on television. Still, none of us could bring ourselves to make the first step of the journey home. We had so much time until the match began. Surely a solution would present itself if we searched for it.

Some Arsenal fans came in and sat at a nearby table. Sensing the possibility of salvation, Santi went over and asked if they knew anyone who could help us get tickets, either by selling to us or by buying them with their socio card. It was a long shot but we were getting desperate. After what seemed like an inordinately long discussion, Santi returned to me and Nico with a solution – albeit one that in any other circumstances we would never have considered.

As one of the Arsenal fans at the table had put it, our group had two options: number one, give up and go home; number two, find the barras bravas, wherever they were, pose as members of their group and sneak into the terrace behind the goal with them. We would not be asked for tickets, so the lack of a socio card would not be a problem. There was a pause while Nico and I waited for a punchline that never came. This really was our only way in.

“What do you think?” asked Santi.

“It’s very, very dangerous,” said Nico.

“Rob?”

“My heart says ‘yes’ but my head screams ‘no’.”

“Well, that proves they’re both working properly.”

After taking a couple of minutes to think it over, I again gave in to my gut feeling. There was no way I was going to have travelled seven thousand miles to Buenos Aires, arrived at a ground in which Juan Román Riquelme was playing football and then walked away.

We all knew that sneaking in with a gang of known violent criminals was just about the worst idea any of us had ever had, but at the same time it felt like our only acceptable course of action. With the appropriate levels of unease, we went back to the ground and tried to find the barras.

***

The situation outside the ground had changed markedly in the last hour. The sun had gone down and darkness had brought the whole neighbourhood out to play. Large clusters of fans were dotted all around, almost all of them singing and jumping in unison. While it was clear that their passion was primarily for football and not for bloody anti-gringo violence, as soon as we walked among them I was aware that many sets of eyes were reflexively trained on me.

While these groups were all making a considerable level of noise, the loudest of all came from a long, dark alleyway to our right. There was loud, co-ordinated chanting on another level to that in front of us, accompanied by the shattering of glass and firecrackers going off at regular intervals. The police were flagrantly turning a blind eye to events in that area, while strictly keeping tabs on the far less incendiary sets of fans out in the open. There was no doubt about it: we were heading down that alley.

I remember feeling quite calm as our trio made its way down the narrow, dusty passage. I was deliberately placing myself in a considerable level of jeopardy but I was confident nothing would happen to us. We would somehow blend in and then I would watch Riquelme play football. All I had to do was follow Santi and Nico, be totally silent and remain inconspicuous.

When we reached the barras, my tranquillity turned to trepidation and quickly morphed into full-on terror. Arsenal de Sarandí are famously poorly supported by Argentine standards, but the crowd in that alleyway seemed fit to fill the Nou Camp. It certainly made more noise than the usual Barcelona crowd and not much of it was particularly welcoming.

It seemed that everywhere I looked there were heavily-tattooed men with their battle scars on show. Many were under the influence of drugs and not the kind that make one mellow and sociable. Most worryingly, almost everyone in the alley seemed to be on first name terms with each other. Even the assorted groups of amphetamine-brained teenagers were familiar with the guys running the show. If anyone spotted our group and asked if anyone recognised us, we were done for.

We found a spot on the corner of the dirt track leading into the stand behind the goal and waited for events to unfold. There was definitely no turning back. The most conspicuous thing we could do, besides raising a British flag and shouting about the Falklands, was walk away. We would just have to be quiet and hope for the best. Santi smoked a few cigarettes in quick succession while pacing back and forth. Nico stood perfectly still. I tried not to involuntarily empty my bowels.

***

I didn’t get any more comfortable as time passed. I thought about keeping my eyes fixed on the floor but it was impossible. I was wary of failing to spot the guy who would brazenly walk up to me with a knife and tell me to hand over my dollars. I reminded myself that the people around me were here to watch football, not slaughter westerners, but the hardened, accusatory stares that I received served to continually undermine that notion.

In my mind, a BBC news item about my stupid, foolhardy death in Argentina was being read by an earnest female reporter. “His was arguably the most ill-advised gamble since Sven-Göran Eriksson took a seventeen year-old Theo Walcott to the 2006 World Cup. Six weeks after Brown’s disappearance, his body was found in a dumpster and identified using dental records,” she said. “Juan Román Riquelme was unavailable for comment.”

Suddenly, the volume went up a notch. We couldn’t see what had happened but the atmosphere had become noticeably more vitriolic and, nearby, someone was taking a lot of verbal abuse. I caught a glimpse of blue and yellow and realised that a Boca fan had somehow arrived among us wearing his team’s colours. He was, quite understandably, trying to flee.

The barras were obviously itching to lay their hands on him but something was stopping them from doing so. While never ceasing to hurl insults and denunciations his way, the mob parted and allowed him to leave, completely untouched. As he shuffled past us, I saw that he was carrying a baby. Two thoughts entered my mind in quick succession: firstly, what kind of person brings an infant to a football match and uses it as a shield? Secondly, why didn’t I think of doing that?

As if on cue, a huge, hulking skinhead walked through the crowd towards us. I prayed that he was just passing through but I strongly suspected that he had won that night’s game of Spot The Gringo and was on the way to collect his winnings. If that was the case, I wasn’t even going to fight back. While there was admittedly next to no chance of me fending off a group of drugged-up twenty-year-olds, my odds of survival against this guy were even lower: zero percent would’ve been a generous forecast in my favour.

As if reading my mind, said seven-foot-skinhead came past our group, turned on his heels and placed himself directly behind me. My blood ran cold. Despite the racket around us, it seemed like everything had gone silent. I waited for a fist the size of a fridge to take my head clean off of my body and send it bouncing down the street. Somehow, the blow never came. Eventually, he walked back around us and disappeared back into the throng.

***

After a few more tortuous minutes, the crowd quietened down to listen as their ringleader shouted instructions. I didn’t understand a single word he said but from the subsequent actions of those around me I gathered it was time for us to enter the stadium. With a surprisingly unquestioning level of compliance, the crowd became an orderly queue. The doors were opened and we began to file in.

Almost immediately, the queue stopped moving. Two of the barras controlling admission were conferring. I prayed that the topic of discussion wasn’t the fate of the only fair-haired, blue-eyed guy in the line. The ringleader yelled more orders to the crowd. Everyone around me reacted by putting their hands in their pockets and pulling out wads of cash.

Santi recognised my haplessness and took a big risk by whispering to me in English.

“They want 100 pesos off of everyone. No tickets so we have to pay them to get in.”

The two barras began talking again. The ringleader shouted a clarification.

“Now it’s 10 pesos.”

While wondering exactly which economics classes these barras had attended, I swapped the 100 peso bill in my hand for a 10 and waited for the line to move again. After a few sets of supporters had gone through, the line was once again stopped. The ringleader had realised that the price he had set was absurdly low. Again, he shouted a command, and again I didn’t understand.

“20 pesos,” came Santi’s prompt translation.

By this point, Santi, Nico and I must have been the fourth, fifth and sixth in line. If the barras nearest to us had heard Santi whispering or simply took note of my appearance, we would again have been finished. Thankfully, they had eyes only for the paper in our hands. We inched forward, dropped the money into their bags and passed through the cordon. I had directly paid the thugs to whom I had sworn not to give my cash, but I didn’t care: we were alive and we were in.

As soon as we entered El Viaducto, we headed right and exited the terrace behind the goal, where the chief barras would soon take their place among the rest of the gang. A small walkway between the two stands allowed us to get into the terrace along the side of the pitch. Still surrounded by people, this was far from the safest place in the world, but we had increased our chances of survival markedly. For now, we were safe.

“********, man, that was intense,” said Santi.
“Sí,” was all I could say in response. My nerves were too shredded for my brain to recall any more Spanish vocabulary.

We soon spotted the Australian group across from us in the main stand, a group of fifty blond heads in a fenced-off section of seats, segregated from the locals at all costs. They must have been waiting in the stadium for an hour already and there was still over another hour to go until kick-off. They looked extremely bored and I felt glad.

It took a while for me to get past the fact that we had just played with fire and escaped without the slightest burn – at least externally – and remember what had made us risk everything in the first place. When I realised how close we were to the pitch on which Riquelme would shortly be nonchalantly playing flair-soaked killer passes, I knew it had all been worth it.

***

In the Hollywood version of this story, we will be treated to a Riquelme masterclass. Boca will win 5-0 playing the kind of football that would turn Xavi Hernández, Andrés Iniesta and Sergio Busquets green with envy. With five minutes to go, Riquelme will spot me in the crowd and tell Carlos Bianchi to sub me on, before setting me up for a glorious final goal. Real life wasn’t quite so satisfying.

The match itself was very entertaining: Arsenal’s 3-2 victory was a rollercoaster ride which went from the sublime to the ludicrous and back again via the barely believable. Each Arsenal goal was a work of art, while Boca’s were perfectly timed to ensure that the hosts never felt safe. When, in the dying minutes, Boca twice hit the woodwork, I thought Santi was going to pass out due to the tension.

Sadly, there was no denying that Boca’s number ten was at least partly responsible for his side’s defeat. When his teammates needed his encouragement, he responded by berating them. Whenever he was dispossessed, he put his hands on his hips and turned his back on the game. When he gave the ball away very cheaply, allowing Arsenal to counter and score their decisive third goal, he singled out a colleague and scolded him instead of holding his hands up and apologising.

I was not exactly surprised: these are hardly new additions to Riquelme’s inexhaustible repertoire of strops. It was more that these flaws were highlighted because, when once he would have been the game’s central figure, he was now unable to be anything more than supplementary.

It seemed to me illogical that Boca depended on a player who was so obviously over the hill. While they put the ball through him constantly, his body obviously couldn’t keep up with his mind. He was fine at retaining possession in midfield but when it came to creating chances, he was ineffectual.

It was, to coin a phrase, King Of Limbs-era Riquelme: all the hallmarks of the brilliance that made him my hero were there to see but they were accompanied by such obvious flaws that it was impossible to give anything but qualified praise. Given that he had once been greatness personified, it was hard to be moved seeing him as merely good.

I tried to ignore the drawbacks and focus on the intelligence and languid flair that were still present in abundance. Every time he received the ball in midfield, played a perfectly-weighted pass to a teammate and showed for the return, I was giddy with delight. Some of his first touches were so obscenely good that I was surprised that the referee didn’t stop the game and book him for making everyone else look inadequate. When he effortlessly pulled off a low, swerving, crossfield switch with the outside of his boot, it was all I could do not to burst out laughing.

By the end I desperately wanted a Riquelme goal, but whenever he carried the ball forward and the opportunity arose for him to shoot, I found myself suddenly ambivalent: on one hand, it would’ve fulfilled a lifelong dream to see him score an absolute screamer; on the other, I would inevitably have celebrated and found myself in all kinds of trouble. The best case scenario would probably have been waking up in hospital with no memory of the goal. Thankfully, he never threatened to find the net.

***

As soon as the final whistle went, we left the stadium and went back out into the alley. It was already heaving – a far greater number of people were there than there had been before the game. Thankfully, the barras bravas were still in the stadium, celebrating their victory. We passed through safely, returning to Sarandí’s main road and waiting for the taxi home.

Santi had phoned the cab company at half-time and made the necessary arrangements: we were to wait outside the pizzeria for a brand new black Fiat. The driver was on his way, they said. Ninety nervy minutes and several phone calls later, a battered blue non-Fiat with no wing mirrors arrived and picked us up. Half an hour later we were back in central Buenos Aires and, mercifully, it was all over.

I returned the Arsenal shirt to Santi and thanked him for organising the adventure and realising my dream. I did a quick mental calculation and realised that we had done so at an incredible price: the two cab fares combined with the pay-off to Arsenal’s barras amounted to a total of roughly £4.34. What I saved in pocket change I will undoubtedly lose in years of my life, but it was worth it.

I will never be able to say that I saw Juan Román Riquelme at his best, but I definitely saw the real thing: an inimitable paradox of irresistible footballing class and infuriating personal classlessness. While I was sad to find the latter so evident, I will always forgive him and be glad that such an artist worked in the medium of football to begin with. For all his flaws, he’s still the only player I’d have considered risking everything to see – and, given the chance, I’d do it all over again.

(the source)

by your logic, stéphane guivarc'h was better than cristiano ronaldo
guivarc'h's world cup title: 1 title (1998)
cronaldo's world cup title: ZERO

let me remind you, team won you the trophy, best player only just a part of it, not the sole reason

by mohdpuskas logic, his idol was a loser because in the end, no title to be proud of in the national level

This post has been edited by dearhypocrite: Jul 29 2015, 04:04 PM

no award or title means that player average at best?

sorry, i don't want to waste my time argue with immature people

This post has been edited by dearhypocrite: Jul 30 2015, 11:46 AM

you know little about riquelme but talk like you know him like you know messi or cristiano ronaldo

that is laughable

that is why i call you immature

This post has been edited by dearhypocrite: Jul 29 2015, 06:19 PM

thanks for the praising (on my footballer idol), skystrike

considering all his talents & achievements, riquelme to me was one of the most underrated player in the football history

yes, he had admit it, FaezFarhan

he always stick to his philosophy which also undermined his legacy

alex ferguson quote on riquelme:



the source:
the Webpage


riquelme quote on alex ferguson offer:



the source:
the Webpage

have you seen all riquelme's video here, Belphegor?

riquelme play style was like a hybrid of xavi+iniesta+messi

This post has been edited by dearhypocrite: Jul 30 2015, 12:12 PM

but still he had been voted as best player in all time in 2 different clubs, boca juniors & villarreal

neither zidane, figo, ronaldinho, ronaldo, gerrard or terry have achieve

this is not just "another ordinary player who has a set of really good skills"

This post has been edited by dearhypocrite: Jul 30 2015, 12:35 PM

guti, the inconsistent guy

ok, maybe consistency is not one of the criteria that you apply in judging the footballer

you judge player based on 1 month tournament (world cup) (7 matches maximum) over 40+ matches (1 season for club)?

ballon d'or is just a popularity contest to me

people voted the player that they like

This post has been edited by dearhypocrite: Jul 30 2015, 02:28 PM

you think people voted him as the best player in all time at boca juniors because they like him over diego maradona?

do you know maradona fan created 1 religion based on maradona called Iglesia Maradoniana?

the source:
the Webpage

This post has been edited by dearhypocrite: Jul 30 2015, 02:16 PM

that is your opinion

from my perspective, i rated player that "played superbly with average to good teammates" above player that "played superbly with very good to world class teammates"

This post has been edited by dearhypocrite: Jul 30 2015, 02:43 PM

i ranked pirlo among one of the best playmaker in this era but below riquelme because he played with more organized or stack team like italy, ac milan, juventus which it made pirlo work a lot easier

This post has been edited by dearhypocrite: Jul 30 2015, 02:54 PM

but the difference between that villarreal team & (real & barca) at that time is like comparing earth with the sky

This post has been edited by dearhypocrite: Jul 30 2015, 04:10 PM

meaning they don't vote him because of popularity

maradona is about 2 times (my estimate) more popular than riquelme

This post has been edited by dearhypocrite: Jul 30 2015, 04:14 PM

meaning here only team allow?

can you give me a link where the rule stated that?

other poster did the mess in the thread, the original poster thread get the penalty, is it fair?