Pendulum Swings

Super Clásico of 2006: River Plate upsets first place Boca Juniors on a myriad of unimpressive goals 3-2.

Cantankerous old men jostle for position in the limited accommodations of the local watering hole. Younger, more virile, locals know that their place is in the street; that as long as there is a view, they can drink, standing, in peace. Then there's the table with the beaming bright faces of four drunk Americans ordering pasta that may or may not have been microwaved minutes before it was brought to them with their liter bottle beers.

Malouva was a stones throw from the dormitory's door, so I knew it wouldn't matter when I rose from my chambers. The clamoring was feverish; almost every passing torso was painted in white with a red strpe or a blueish yellow, quickly it began blurring together and coalesced in to a tornado of Camel blue cigarette smoke and incessant chanting. No, I don't recall the songs they sang, there was no clear way to be prepared for this event.

Each time the ball crossed the goal-line, an eruption on each adjacent corner flowed up to the sky. When one looks at the flags of Uruguay and Argentina, you get to know sky blue; same goes for city living in Buenos Aires, when the dull, greyness of the July wintertime fades, the sky somehow feels closer to the ground. With that blue comes so many other beautiful colors; the jacaranda flowers in Plaza de Mayo, the brilliant ebullience of rose bushes, the savory insides of a fresh empanada, even the projectile vomit of an oversized half-Asian American student has a certain freshness to it.

Like all great man-made inventions, the first division of Argentine professional football was ingrained in to the Sunday of seemingly every citizen. While standing and staring at the screen through the window, I found myself losing ground to the booze hounds who were sniffing around for a better view. Frankly, my disinterest grew as it became revealed to me that there couldn't be less at stake for me other than the overdue work that I had neglected like a tamagochi pet in the corner of the den of filth that I farted and fucked around in a little too much.

There was no time for dialogue amongst these men, women and children; songs were sang, glasses were chimed, but minds eyes' were fixed on one thing alone. Maybe that's why I was happy to walk away with plenty of time for some late game heroics and contemplate how to best enjoy the weather, knowing damn well that Ohio was not going to change it's ways come January's wintry term. As the throng of fanatics again crescendoed their discontentment, a failed opportunity in football is a passing thing it seems, the now growing distance brought a certain warmth back.