Futbol is Life

Jugarias en el cieolo - Moriria por verte. If you play [soccer] in heaven, I will die to watch you.


That was the message on one of the signs at the end of Wilsterman Stadium. And today all Cochabamba was rapt with concern for Wilsterman, the home team. A loss would mean dropping down a division, the equivalent of The Phillies (or more likely, The Pirates) bumping down to the minors.

Yesterday and this morning was a frenzy over tickets: who had them, how to get them, whether they'd be available. We secured seats in La Preferencia, the nicer section, and entered the stadium about 4:30 for the 6:00 game. Wilsterman wears red. Our two-thirds of the stadium was blazoned with their red jerseys, the track was red, and - as the day broke into evening, the sky went red and the mountains glowed in favor of Wilsterman.

Both ends of the stadium were filled with los fanaticos. They drummed, chanted, and moved the rest of us to swaying and rocking. Wilster. Wilster. Wilster.

When the team entered for the game, the place went raucous. Our songs repeated. We now knew them too. We chanted. Each end of the stadium shot fireworks into the air. Confetti dropped, smoke bombs exploded. And then we settled into the steady tension that is soccer. Wilsterman had more shots on goal. The first half ended scoreless.

At half-time the vendors reappeared. The game is too important to interrupt. Early in the second half one of our strikers was cut down by Oruru's goalkeeper. We had a penalty kick. Oruru contested it for five solid minutes. They placed and replaced the ball. Finally, our player moved forward, shot, block. Oruru's fans went wild. Fireworks from their side. Chanting - a sea, one-third of the stadium, all blue and white.

Ten minutes later though, our moment came: a shot to the left side of the goal, past the keeper's dive, into the back of the net. New songs, more chanting. We are incredible. We are euphoric. We are Wilsterman.