So here I am. Aqu¡ estoy. In Spain for an entire semester combating culture shock, the seven-hour waiting period between meals, and a severe dearth of American sports. I have discovered rather quickly, though, that there are few things more rewarding in life than my post-lunch siesta every day, serving as my chief panacea here in Granada, the beautiful, Islamic-influenced Andalusian city that was once inhabited by the Moors...or was it the Moops? All that aside, I have still managed to keep pace somewhat with baseball's pennant races and football's introductory couple of weeks, and I've got to be honest: I still think the Yankees will make the playoffs and the Jets go undefeated.
I cannot think of a more perfect time to be abroad. Being six hours ahead of Bowdoin, it is a relief to know that I won't have to sacrifice an entire night's worth of sleep just to watch the $275 Million Man ground into inning-ending double plays in crucial situations. To be sure, I'm not at all happy about New York's failure to reach the postseason for the first time since K'Nex engineering was on my career list, but if I could have chosen any season in which the Bronx Bombers were left out in October, it would have easily been this one.
As far as Gang Green goes, while I may not have unlimited access to ESPN over here, let's just say that we all felt the aftershock of Tom Brady's serendip?I mean, unfortunate injury. And while I knew the Bretts should have knocked off the Patriots this past Sunday without the best quarterback of my generation in the lineup, Matt Cassel did his best Trent Dilfer impression and played well enough to beat New York. Like the Joker says, "It's all part of the plan." The Pats were supposed to win anyway.
The Jets still have a much better chance of making the playoffs now than before Brady's downfall, and once Eric Mangini realizes that Favre is one of the best quarterbacks of all time, that Ocho Nueve is a premier receiving weapon, and that Thomas Jones is perhaps the most average running back in NFL history, he will learn how to play-call for this team, and seal at least a wild card spot. So until I return in December at the end of the regular season, Hakuna Matata. Nothing could have distracted me from what I experienced on Sunday anyway.
Our study abroad group had the privilege of going on an excursion to the neighboring cities of Ronda and Sevilla last weekend to soak in some more vibrant Spanish culture.
We spent a few hours in Ronda absorbing the spectacular bucolic scenery atop a bridge that overlooked the entire countryside, and then made our way to Sevilla where we would spend the next two nights. After an evening stroll along the river Guadalquivir, a visit to the Alcázar of Sevilla gardens the next day, as well as our first flamenco show, we were just getting started.
On Saturday night, the vast majority of our 81-person group rushed out of the flamenco hall and into the bustling streets of southern Spain. Our destination? El Estadio Ramón Sánchez Pizjuán to watch a European soccer game.
Sevilla FC, Andalusia's most storied club, was to square off against newly promoted Sporting de Gijón, and we were to be a part of it. Finishing fifth in La Liga?Spain's first division?last year, as well as advancing to the knockout stages of the Champions League, where they crashed out at home on penalties, Sevilla had the opportunity to leapfrog domestic foes Real Madrid and Barcelona into first place. And believe me, I was pumped.
The clamor of fans eager to get inside grew exponentially with each step towards El Estadio. It was nearing 10 o'clock?kick-off time, believe it or not; not even World Series games start later than 9:20 ET. The fans were chanting their songs and belting their cheers as we moved closer, and we couldn't even yet see the stadium. As Paul Simon once wrote, "It was late in the evening, and all the music's seeping through."
Suddenly, we turned a corner, and the majestic structure stood before us like a colossal oasis, beckoning us to enter its portal and have a taste of real fútbol. Thinking like any average American sports fan, we knew that ice cold beer had to be part of our equation for an epic night at the stadium. So we all took part in one of the fastest botellón experiences on record to get the blood flowing a little bit (I could probably dedicate an entire article to the art of the botellón here in Spain, but for this article's sake, you'll just have to use your imagination). We figured everyone else around us must have been doing it, so why not us? This was supposed to be an indulgent cultural experience, right?
After the numerous burps that would temporarily settle our stomachs, we began the march toward our gate. The streets were packed now, and from inside the walls the chants could be heard loud and clear. We flashed our tickets at the ushers, and climbed the stairs in rapid anticipation. On my way up the cement levels in front of me, I caught a glimpse inside: lights shimmering, fans stirring, pitch gleaming. I ran to the summit and made a beeline for the balcony entrance, and finally stepped out into the arena where an indescribable sensation captivated me for the rest of the evening.
I remember my first visits to Fenway Park and Yankee Stadium. To Madison Square Garden and even the TD Banknorth Garden. I remember feeling overwhelmed, struggling to register the almost ethereal (well, maybe not at TD Banknorth; you go on the Finals though, guys. Relax.) scenery before me, while at the same time trying helplessly to process the emotions they evoked. Maybe it was because I was much younger when I made the first historic visits. Maybe it was because there is something magical about being inside a European stadium. Heck, it might have been the botellón. Whatever it was though, this moment was special. Different. Quite simply, it was unparalleled.
The rest of the night went by more quickly than any of us would have liked. We found our seats that, contrary to popular belief, were not in fact in the upper deck but front row on the bottom deck. We made friends with the native diehard fans behind us.
We joined in the cheers with the fans behind the net to our right who never once ceased standing or waving their giant flags, even when Sevilla fell behind early 2-0, only to watch them orchestrate a comeback with a couple goals from reigning African Football Player of the Year, Freddie Kanouté. Six goals in the first half; seven total, as Sevilla eventually took it 4-3. There was a successful penalty kick taken by Sporting de Gijón. A yellow card was given. A goal was scored from outside the box. This match had it all. When we wanted to refill our spirits at halftime, we quickly discovered that the stadium only sold non-alcoholic beer. But it didn't matter. We didn't need it. Neither did everyone else around us. It was pure fanhood to the max; something I wonder if I'll ever see again.
And there we were: the Americans, coming from all over our great country, congregating for what seemed like a mere instant in sporting bliss. We were with the crowd, and we were in the moment, taking part in something fantastically beautiful.
Next week I will head even further south of Granada to embark on a five-day excursion through the North African country of Morocco, and I can only pray that my journey turns out a little better than Cate Blanchett's in Babel. But even if it doesn't, I can be forever grateful knowing that I had the opportunity of witnessing what is perhaps the greatest show on Earth.