FUTBOL

Soccer is still in its infancy here in America. That’s one European trend we haven’t followed suit on. In order to build a strong American team for the world cup, we need to be able to pick from the most elite pool. And though I love the American national team, and am excited for us to play in south Africa this year in the world cup, the reason that Brazil, Spain, and England, for example, have such strong teams is that young people grow up immersed in a culture where football (as it is better known in every other country in the world outside of the US) is mainstream. It’s accessible, all you need is a ball and your feet.

This time last year, when the Champions League was coming to the height of competition, I was living in Barcelona, Spain. I’ll spoil the story and for those who don’t follow soccer, Futbol Club Barcelona won every single competition for the year, a triplet of Champions League, King’s Cup (Copa del Rey) and Spanish League (La Liga).

After each round: Quarterfinals, Semifinals, big Liga games in between, the city banded together on the street, in bars, in their homes on their balconies in support of the home team. Flags draped the balconies, blue and red jerseys colored locals and tourists alike.

The night Midfielder Andres Iniesta scored in the last minute of a 0-0 game taking us into Champions League finals Barcelona's fate was sealed in history. After the game, everyone rushes to the streets. Cars are driving past honking to the rhythm of the team’s anthem, flags and horns flying out the windows. Crowds rush towards the jam that is the center of town, Plaza Catalunya, first 100.000, then 150,000, soon almost 200,000 people crowd to Canaletas the famous fountain at the top of the famous Ramblas promenade.

I squeeze my small frame in between hoards of screaming, jumping, dancing, smiling, crying, singing fans, Cule (followers) they call themselves. The air is red from all the fireworks and sparklers being legally set off. The magazine stands, metro signs, traffic lights, fountains, and lampposts are branches where perched fans call out to their fellow football lovers.

I magically find myself dead center of it all, and see no better place to experience the thrill of this win then climbing the closest lamp post at the top of La Rambla. My black satin mini dress does not stop me from hiking myself higher and higher to reach the 4 people already posted above the sea of painted, effervescent faces. I start singing the Hymno del Barca, in Catalan. Everyone claps along with me at the right moments, fists pumping in the air as we come to the end of the song, Barca Barca Baaaaarca! The adrenaline I imagine comparable to the players on the field of the 110.000 person stadium.

Now maybe I joined the bandwagon when I became a fan of one of the best club teams in the world. It is the inescapable energy of the Barca fans, the die hard “Sang Cule” (Those whose love of the team runs through the blood in their veins), and how the players are all so humble and feel the fans are the 12th player on their team, without which they cannot be Barca. How could I ever have resisted?