"Lissie, que vas a hacer esta noche?" Marcela strolled into the kitchen, where I was enjoying watery argentine coffee.
"Uhh, nada." It was a Sunday night. It was Mother's day. The only thing I'd done all day was walk around Rosario taking pictures, reading my book and thinking romantic thoughts.
"Vamos a el partido de Newell's ahora. Vas a cambiar tu ropa, hace frio." My jaw dropped. Newell's game? Tonight?! Me??
Newells Old Boys is one of Rosario's biggest soccer clubs. The other, Central, is the heated rival of Newell's. Why is Newell's Old Boys in English? I have no idea. The only thing I know is that my house is a Newell's house. I've been dropping hints that I wanted to go for a while, but I didn't actually think it was going to happen.
La cancha (the stadium) hold 42,000 screaming bocas sucias (dirty mouthed) Rosarinos. Marcela, her friend, Fermin, his friend and I walked into the stadium and I gasped in delight. The NOB players were decked in red and black and flying down the field, and as the ran the crowd chanted song, after song after song. Newell´s won on a penalty kick, and fireworks erupted from all corners of the stadium. As the game ended, Marcela grabbed my hand and dragged me out of la cancha and out towards the car.
We were stopped 100 feet out of the stadium by a huge row of cops. Cops with rottweilers, cops with guns, cops on horses, cops with plexi glass shields, all of them in bullet proof jackets. Marcela pulled out a cigarrette and started smoking, as if being stopped by the riot police was normal, which of course, it is. Fermin helped me out on the misunderstanding, explaining that if the police weren´t there, violent fights would break out between Newell´s fans and the other team.
Finally we were allowed to pass through. A muzzled german shephard lunged at me and I cursed so loudly in English that Fermin looked at me jokingly and said, ¨You scared?¨
After we passed through the line of police, we stopped at a cart and all ate my favorite argentine dish: churipan. Huge, salty pieces of choriza, drenched in chimichuri sauce and piled on a sweet roll.
When we finally got home that night, and I was tucked into my little bed I couldnt get the song out of my head:
Dale, dale, dale Newells.
"Uhh, nada." It was a Sunday night. It was Mother's day. The only thing I'd done all day was walk around Rosario taking pictures, reading my book and thinking romantic thoughts.
"Vamos a el partido de Newell's ahora. Vas a cambiar tu ropa, hace frio." My jaw dropped. Newell's game? Tonight?! Me??
Newells Old Boys is one of Rosario's biggest soccer clubs. The other, Central, is the heated rival of Newell's. Why is Newell's Old Boys in English? I have no idea. The only thing I know is that my house is a Newell's house. I've been dropping hints that I wanted to go for a while, but I didn't actually think it was going to happen.
La cancha (the stadium) hold 42,000 screaming bocas sucias (dirty mouthed) Rosarinos. Marcela, her friend, Fermin, his friend and I walked into the stadium and I gasped in delight. The NOB players were decked in red and black and flying down the field, and as the ran the crowd chanted song, after song after song. Newell´s won on a penalty kick, and fireworks erupted from all corners of the stadium. As the game ended, Marcela grabbed my hand and dragged me out of la cancha and out towards the car.
We were stopped 100 feet out of the stadium by a huge row of cops. Cops with rottweilers, cops with guns, cops on horses, cops with plexi glass shields, all of them in bullet proof jackets. Marcela pulled out a cigarrette and started smoking, as if being stopped by the riot police was normal, which of course, it is. Fermin helped me out on the misunderstanding, explaining that if the police weren´t there, violent fights would break out between Newell´s fans and the other team.
Finally we were allowed to pass through. A muzzled german shephard lunged at me and I cursed so loudly in English that Fermin looked at me jokingly and said, ¨You scared?¨
After we passed through the line of police, we stopped at a cart and all ate my favorite argentine dish: churipan. Huge, salty pieces of choriza, drenched in chimichuri sauce and piled on a sweet roll.
When we finally got home that night, and I was tucked into my little bed I couldnt get the song out of my head:
Dale, dale, dale Newells.
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