There and back again – a Groundhopper's tale
I'm normaly not a groundhopper, a
football fan visiting the most exotic venues just for the love of
unintelligible languages, undisgestible food and hilarious tales
about getting lost on the way to a stadium. I
was born to follow and I follow my clubs, Mainz 05 and Paris
Saint-Germain plus the Brazilian national team (I never said I was
normal!) to some extent and to some places.
But
this time and last weekend in Paris I had an evening off and decided
to treat myself to a French Ligue 2 game and that's where my
groundhopper's tale begins.
Paris
FC, actually something like PSG's step-brother or maiden mother, did
me the favour to play local rival US Créteil in a tight battle
against relegation. Paris FC occupied the last place in the table,
Créteil the last but one.
I
emerged from the Métro to the view of a spindly legged concrete
bowl proudly sporting a banner in dark blue and black with a stylised
Eiffel Tower: Home of Paris FC.
This
suburban concrete charme prevailed on the inside of the stadium.
To
my surprise I wasn't the only foreigner wanting to see the mighty
Paris FC. Some young men joined me in trying to come by the
information where and how to get a ticket. There weren't that many
possibilities, really, but one of the boxes was obviously open only
for youth teams coming to see the match, another one only took credit
card ...Well, we made it inside and were told to pick a place, any
place in the stands. So I dived into the concrete bowl.
There
were children playing with some toys obviously put there for their
use. Like in Sunday School.
There
was one counter offering sandwiches, soft drinks, water and –
hoorray! - chips (glutenfree!)
There
was a stadium speaker, doing a carioca on the pitch and announcing
everything from the players to the flood lights going on like he was
at Parc de Princes or Stade de France, Paris' real big venues.
Football temples.
There
were Ultràs prepating for a tifo.
There
was everything football needs.
I'm a
secrete admirer of everything ultrà, so I occupied a seat at the
back of the block where the black and blue hoard mingled and were in
the process of inflating blue and white balloons. More than 99 of
them.
A
steward spotted me there and approached me, his brow signalling
worry. „Madame,“ he began and switched to English, when I
produced my best nondescript foreigner's face, „this is where the
Ultràs are.“
I'd
noticed.
„Are
you sure you want to stay here?“
I was.
I
reassured him that I was familiar with Ultràs, knew how to handle
them and would keep my distance. He was relieved. „Ah, you're a
football fan. Yes, keep safe, they can be … pushy.“
Yes,
they can.
I
thanked him for his concern and prepared myself for the game.
Before
the actual match a parade of youth teams marched in to triumphant
music. Obviously they had been doing very well, each team was
carrying trophies, and were to receive their well merited honours. I
marvelled at the many girl teams and among those at the obvious
number of Muslim girls, wearing elaborate headscarfs. In Black and
blue, of course.
It
were exactly those girls who climbed up into the stands next to me
when the game began and started supporting them with a fervour short
of nothing I was about to see the next day at Stade de France when
PSG played OSC Lille in the cup final. Come to that, I wouldn't see
many fans dancing on the seats at Stade de France.
The
support was all hand (or lungs) made. 100% passion. 100% percent
Paris. Unwaivering chants. Nonstop drums. Blue and white balloons
waved (and later popped to make up for the lack of explosives).And an
unmistakeable attitude.
Since
it was a derby of some sorts, several stands were mixed scenes, but
there was a large block of definite US Créteil Ultràs situated
right across the concrete bowl, as far away from the PFC Ultràs as
was strategically possible and advisable. They stripped their chests
bare as soon as the game began and when Ultràs striptease they mean
business.
Since
there was no alcohol sold at the stadium, the fans had to fuel their passion
simply on adrenaline and they managed to. When Créteil equalised and
thus doomed Paris FC to go back to the National League, France's
third tier, some guys to my left said something intensely displeasing
the PFC's capo. He threw them both bodily from the stands.
They
remained unharmed, but proceeded to pay back the attitude. Stewards
intervened and suddenly all the PFC's Ultràs left the block to join
the brawl rather than support their team.
Priorities!
USC Ultràs on the far side of the stadium gloated.
The
girls in the stands kept their agitated distance.
Somehow
the whole thing inflated. Stewards, Ultràs, rogue fans and Muslim
girls all returned to their seats. Meanwhile the attitude had
meandered to the pitch where the players staged a small brawl of their
own. The referee marched in and booked the contestants. Continue
playing, si'il-vous plait!
The
game was a typical 2nd
tier match. Some good football, some abysmal one, much mediocre
display, but all in all – what do you expect? Ten-a-side kicking a
ball, with their feet and heads, running and flying and passing and
diving for control of that round sphere that evaded and lured them
and gave itself over to them them again like a capricious Parisian
beauty. All you need to fall into poetry and song on a cold and windy
night in Paris. I sang „Allez, Paris FC!“ with the rest.
I left
the stadium with the vague feeling that, according to what my beloved
and spoiled and pampered PSG had shown me over the last weeks, this
may very well turn out to have been the more entertaining event of
the weekend.
(It
wasn't. But that's a different story)
When
I left the stadium, fate caught up with me in the form of a French
lady, maybe some years my senior, who asked what had been going on in
the stadium and was aghast when I explained her with radiant eyes
that a football game had taken place and I had actually been there.
She couldn't believe it.
„You?
A Woman? A woman YOUR age?!“
Merci
beaucoup, sister!
She
offered to pray for me and earnestly begged me to wear a Wondrous
Miraculous Medal in future when visiting such dark and demonically
infested places.
She
was quite charming, actually, after an hour's talk, so I might. I
have such a medal at home.
While
I was telling her that I indeed am every bit as catholic as her,
police escorted USC fans home long after the match had ended and PFC
fans had dispersed.
„They
are good lads, really“ I told her.
Madame
the French lady looked unconvinced.
I went
back to my hotel. It was freezing cold and my fingers were numb, the
cold part of my body. It hadn't felt that cold in the stands. I had
been watching a game in which I didn't know any player or much about
the teams save for what I had checked with wikipedia right before the
match. I had thoroughly enjoyed it. I really must love football.