Quick Disclaimer: I don’t have a great memory, so I wrote this little episode as a way for me to remember the specifics of our Boca Juniors game saga. It might be a little detail-heavy for the casual reader compared with the rest of the blog, but I’m confident you can slog through it, and I’m definitely glad to have it written down. Here you go:
It was almost three o’clock in the afternoon and the game was starting in two hours. I had spent the entire day trying to get somebody to go with me, and it was beginning to look like a futile effort. Everyone was either hungover, still drunk, or asleep. After nearly five months in South America, I had yet to attend a soccer match and witness firsthand the spectacle of tens of thousands of idiots singing, dancing, and chanting in an effort to will their team to victory.
As time continued to dwindle, I decided that I would go by myself. Finally summoning the gusto to get off the couch and head out the door, I made one last offer to convince the others to join me. Struck by a sudden characteristic burst of enthusiasm, Peter and Ben resolved that they would come. Daniel and Hayley remained in their respective states of sleep and facebook as we headed out the door.
With no idea how to get to the stadium, how to get tickets, or how to not be completely and utterly clueless on how to do anything resembling attending a soccer match in Buenos Aires, we headed down trash-laden Calle Mexico toward the larger thoroughfare of Calle Santa Fe. Our internal compasses (Peter’s I-Phone) directed us south along Santa Fe. We walked for several minutes until we realized that there was less than an hour until game-time, and decided that we needed a faster means of transportation. As Peter is wont to do, he suggested that we take a taxi to the stadium. As I am wont to do, I looked for a cheaper option. We flagged down a bus with ‘Boca’ across the front of it, and asked the driver if he was going to the stadium. The sea of blue-and-yellow-clad Argentineans filling the bus was answer enough.
Four blocks later, we got off the bus at the sight of the colossal Boca Stadium, nicknamed The Bombonera (Chocolate Box). Painted bright blue and yellow, the stadium loomed in front of us. Peter immediately bought a five-foot-long Boca flag from a street vendor, and I snapped about 10 I-Phone photos as he enthusiastically waved the flag above his head with the stadium in the background. This photo shoot proved significant because we had decided to bring only a single camera (I-Phone) between the three of us, and the impressively short battery life of the I-Phone would ultimately fail at the most inopportune of moments, and in the most majestic of fashions (the screen went black – truly spectacular).
We crossed the empty lot that separated us from the stadium, slightly surprised at the small number of fans on their way to the game; it was now half an hour to game-time. A man approached us, offering to sell us tickets to the game that looked suspiciously like Argentinian bus passes, for 300 pesos a piece. We declined, and continued towards the group of security guards waiting at the outer stadium fence. We asked them where we could purchase tickets, and were surprised to find out that only season-passholders could attend the game.
As we stood outside the gate and looked hopefully for some divine intervention to help us, a scummy-looking Argentinian man approached and asked if we were looking for tickets. Unable to distinguish whether this was truly the divine intervention we had been waiting for, or simply a bus-pass-selling-hustler, we affirmed that we were looking for tickets and followed him around the outskirts of the stadium.
After several minutes we reached a security checkpoint where our newfound buddy spoke quickly and discreetly to the guards, who then parted to let us through. We passed through the next several security stops in similar fashion until we reached the final fence separating us from the stadium itself. The Argentinian talked with the guards again, but this time they refused to part. We shifted our weight nervously and waited. A few minutes went by, and the man was unable to weasel us into the stadium.
He motioned for us to move away from the entry queue and sit innocently on the curb. He said he would go try to get the tickets and that if he wasn’t back in half an hour, we should stop waiting. Thinking that we were getting into something shady, but not having a better option, we obliged and sat in wait. Before walking back through the numerous security checkpoints, he revealed that the game didn’t start until 7:10pm; we had about two hours to figure out a way to get in.
After waiting on the curb for about ten minutes, discussing every option from bum-rushing the security guards to climbing the 20-foot-tall fence, we decided that the man wasn’t coming back, and that even if he did it was unlikely that he would have legitimate tickets. We stood up and walked towards the security point from which we had come. As we were passing the guards, they stopped us and asked if we were the three guys looking for tickets. We guardedly responded that we were, and the security
guys told us to wait with them and that our tickets were on the way.
After several minutes, two new Argentinian men approached us and clandestinely asked if we were the three guys looking for tickets. We said yes, and they directed us away from the security guards. With their backs turned to the guards, they pulled out
three tickets that looked like bus passes that had been written on with a typewriter; we were not convinced, and asked them how much they wanted for the tickets. They were asking three hundred pesos each (about 70 US dollars, we had earlier agreed that we wouldn’t pay more than 100 dollars), and we started haggling. We finally got them down to 200 pesos each, and then to 150. At that price, it was a risk we were willing to take, but I decided to confirm with the security guards that they were in fact legitimate tickets.
The security guard who had first stopped us to ask if we were the three guys looking for tickets responded “son buenos” (they are good), and we discreetly paid the scalpers 450 pesos for the tickets. I say discreetly, but in reality there is no chance that three gringos lifting up their shirts and reaching into bulging money belts is ever secretive, especially when one is wearing a giant Boca flag and Raiders cap.
Anyway, we kind of thanked everyone who had been involved in this covert series of events, and were directed around the stadium to the entrance we had first tried to enter. When we presented the tickets to the guard at the gate, he said we couldn’t enter there and that we needed to continue further around the outskirts of the stadium. Slightly unnerved by the wry smile the guard had worn after seeing our tickets, we walked across an empty field and through the downtrodden yet colorful (predominately blue and yellow – the Boca Juniors’ colors) slums.
After avoiding several scalpers and “bar owners” who invited us to drink in their bar (“es seguro” – it’s safe), we reached another potential entrance to the stadium. We presented our tickets with feigned confidence to the security guards – first Ben, then Peter, then me. Peter and Ben got in fine, and the security guard let me through the gate before saying “no es bueno” (“it’s not good”), referring to my ticket, which he then pocketed as he told us to keep moving with the queue to the next checkpoint. Bewildered, I followed Peter and Ben to another group of security guards at the next gate.
When Peter and Ben showed their tickets, the young guard said that we were at the wrong entrance, and that we had to leave this section of the fenced-in compound and enter at gate 11. He made no indication that the tickets were fake, and we realized that the security guard who had confiscated my ticket could have been in cahoots with the scalpers. We walked back out towards these first group of guards, and Ben said “robaste su boleto” (you stole his ticket), to which the guard responded that he didn’t know what we were talking about, but that if we needed tickets he had a friend nearby who could sell us some. The friend approached us and offered to sell us another bus pass ticket for three hundred pesos.
Increasingly frustrated with the questionable integrity of every single stadium employee, we appealed to a nearby uniformed policeman to help us determine what to do next. In broken Spanish we attempted to present the situation. After several minutes of observing our wild gesturing and spanglish spouting (it’s more difficult to speak Spanish when you’re excited or emotional… the same thing happens to me in English), the policeman revealed that he had seen the guard take my ticket, and that it had been unquestionably fake. Not wanting to forfeit Peter and Bens’ tickets by asking if they too were fake (it seemed unlikely that the scalpers sold us only one fake ticket), we sheepishly walked back through the gate and into the Boca ‘hood.
Someone with less fortitude might have taken this opportunity to reflect on their chances of getting into the game with two fake tickets for three people and conclude that it was time to throw in the towel. Luckily, we had maximum fortitude that day.
We walked around the stadium to the gate that the young security guard had directed us to, and squeezed through a hole in the fence to evade the first security checkpoint. We then walked to the next checkpoint, where they frisked us without even asking to see our tickets. Thinking our luck was changing, we reached the final security checkpoint; it was surrounded by several guards and a plethora of uniformed policemen. Ben and Peter showed their tickets to one of the security guards, who, without hesitation, said they were fake. He took Peter’s ticket. He then took Ben’s ticket, contemplated something, and handed Ben his ticket back.
Dazed and confused, we slowly backed away from the cop-cluster to assess our next move. Suddenly a roar erupted from inside the stadium, and a barrage of fireworks lit the sky above us with a deafening combination of Piccolo-Pete-style screaming and bottle-rocket explosions. The crowd roared again, and, checking our watches, we realized that it was 7:10 PM and the game had just begun. As we looked around, we noticed that there were no longer any fans entering the stadium; consequently, the 20-or-so uniformed police and hired security guards had nothing to do besides aggressively eyeball the three gringos who had just been banned from entering the stadium but had not yet left the premises and were clandestinely conspiring on how to get in.
A tall Argentiniam man wearing a green button-down shirt and slacks approached us and said “Que pasa muchachos?” (what happened boys?); we gave him a brief summary of our exploits thus far. He told us that there was no problem and that he would help us. We spent the next ten minutes intermittently making small-talk with him (he said that he had visited Florida once – thus earning his future nickname of Florida Guy) and telling him our slightly modified sob-story, featuring the three of us as poor volunteers who had spent nearly all our remaining money trying to fulfill our lifelong dream of attending a Boca Juniors game.
Suddenly a troll-like policeman shoved Peter in the back, nearly knocking him to the ground, and started shouting at us to leave the area. We confusedly complied while several police aggressively ushered us towards the exit gate. As the police left, Florida Guy asked us how much money we really had. Stepping away from him for a minute, we conferred and determined that we had about 300 pesos left; we told him we had 200. He said that was fine, and told us to wait outside the exit gate behind a piece of plywood so that the police couldn’t see us. We hesitantly agreed, and exited past the security guards, through the fence, and into the Boca neighborhood.
Sitting on the curb behind the piece of plywood, we became increasingly aware that, while we had not been accountable for trying to enter the game with fake tickets, we most definitely would be accountable if we got caught doing whatever we were doing with 200 pesos and Florida Guy. Discussing the situation, we agreed that we could feign ignorance if we were to get caught, and that we had invested too much time, money, and emotion to quit now. After several minutes Florida Guy exited through the gate, told us that everything was fine and that we should prepare the money and follow him. Having never “prepared the money” before, we were a little unclear on the concept, but gleaned that one person should have the money located in a discreet, easy-to-access place, like a hand. At some point before we reached the entry gate, Ben gave Florida Guy the money; it was so quick that I didn’t even see it happen (I still suspect PayPal was involved…).
I started getting apprehensive as we approached the entry gate; it was the same gate and group of security guards that had confiscated my ticket half and hour earlier.Needless to say, I didn’t like our chances of fleecing our way past them again.
I was quickly proven wrong as Florida Guy exchanged a few quick words with the guards, then flashed something at them, and walked through the gate. We followed him through, trying not to acknowledge that we recognized the guards. As we came to the next security checkpoint, Florida Guy once again talked to the guards, showed them something, and was let through with us in tow, although these guards were more vigilant and confiscated the knife in my pocket. Approaching the final level of security, which consisted of electronic turnstiles with magnetic ticket-scanning and a huge group of police officers and security personnel, we could smell success. Florida Guy walked over to a man holding a clipboard and wearing a suit, and they talked for several minutes as we three gringos waited nervously.
Finally, Florida Guy indicated that we should enter the turnstile. All together now. Ben was pressed against the subway-style arm that blocked our entry, with Peter pressed behind him, me behind Peter, and Florida Guy behind me. The 20 police officers and security guards stared with interest, but made no indication that we couldn’t, as it appeared we were going to do, enter the game using a single ticket. Florida guy reached over to the turnstile scanner and held a game ticket up to it. He signaled for Ben to go through, and the turnstile revolved. Peter successfully followed Ben through, but as I pressed against the turnstile arm it refused to move. With a sinking sensation I realized that this would be as close as I would get to the game. I looked up and saw Peter and Ben waiting guardedly on the other side.
Helplessly standing in the turnstile, trying not to make eye contact with the myriad police officers staring at me, I turned to Florida Guy for guidance. He indicated that he would be back in a few minutes, and darted around a corner towards the exit of the stadium and out of sight. I assumed I would never see him again, and began using my laser-vision to burn an escape route into the ground below me (the guy from the X-Men who has laser-vision is also named Scott - maybe not a coincidence?). Just as I was beginning to burn through the ground to my salvation, Florida Guy returned. With a quick flick of the wrist, he flashed another ticket at the magnetic turnstile.
I bumped into the unyielding arm several times as he continued to spastically wave the ticket at the scanner. He eventually directed me to a different turnstile, scanned the card, and the arm moved to let me through. Without looking back at Florida Guy, Peter, Ben and I nervously tiptoed up a set of stairs, past several other police officers, and up to a sort of causeway.
We looked out over a sea of blue-and-yellow-clad, flag-waving, singing, jumping, dancing Argentinian fanatics; there wasn’t a police officer in sight. In unison, the three of us let out a triumphant roar of victory, exchanged exuberant high-fives, and marveled that we had finally bribed our way into the game. Then the I-Phone died.
Without exaggeration, it was the greatest sporting event I have ever attended. The pulsating energy and joyful abandon of the fans were contagious and inspiring, and our entrance odyssey made us that much more appreciative to be there. When Boca finally did score a goal in the 80th minute, we were surprised to notice that the festive chants and dances continued much as they had before. It was then that we realized that we were at more than a sporting event – we were at a celebration of life.
 |
| Scott approaches the stadium |
As time continued to dwindle, I decided that I would go by myself. Finally summoning the gusto to get off the couch and head out the door, I made one last offer to convince the others to join me. Struck by a sudden characteristic burst of enthusiasm, Peter and Ben resolved that they would come. Daniel and Hayley remained in their respective states of sleep and facebook as we headed out the door.
With no idea how to get to the stadium, how to get tickets, or how to not be completely and utterly clueless on how to do anything resembling attending a soccer match in Buenos Aires, we headed down trash-laden Calle Mexico toward the larger thoroughfare of Calle Santa Fe. Our internal compasses (Peter’s I-Phone) directed us south along Santa Fe. We walked for several minutes until we realized that there was less than an hour until game-time, and decided that we needed a faster means of transportation. As Peter is wont to do, he suggested that we take a taxi to the stadium. As I am wont to do, I looked for a cheaper option. We flagged down a bus with ‘Boca’ across the front of it, and asked the driver if he was going to the stadium. The sea of blue-and-yellow-clad Argentineans filling the bus was answer enough.
 |
| Peter, proud of his Boca flag |
We crossed the empty lot that separated us from the stadium, slightly surprised at the small number of fans on their way to the game; it was now half an hour to game-time. A man approached us, offering to sell us tickets to the game that looked suspiciously like Argentinian bus passes, for 300 pesos a piece. We declined, and continued towards the group of security guards waiting at the outer stadium fence. We asked them where we could purchase tickets, and were surprised to find out that only season-passholders could attend the game.
As we stood outside the gate and looked hopefully for some divine intervention to help us, a scummy-looking Argentinian man approached and asked if we were looking for tickets. Unable to distinguish whether this was truly the divine intervention we had been waiting for, or simply a bus-pass-selling-hustler, we affirmed that we were looking for tickets and followed him around the outskirts of the stadium.
 |
| Scott and Ben follow the scalper |
He motioned for us to move away from the entry queue and sit innocently on the curb. He said he would go try to get the tickets and that if he wasn’t back in half an hour, we should stop waiting. Thinking that we were getting into something shady, but not having a better option, we obliged and sat in wait. Before walking back through the numerous security checkpoints, he revealed that the game didn’t start until 7:10pm; we had about two hours to figure out a way to get in.
After waiting on the curb for about ten minutes, discussing every option from bum-rushing the security guards to climbing the 20-foot-tall fence, we decided that the man wasn’t coming back, and that even if he did it was unlikely that he would have legitimate tickets. We stood up and walked towards the security point from which we had come. As we were passing the guards, they stopped us and asked if we were the three guys looking for tickets. We guardedly responded that we were, and the security
guys told us to wait with them and that our tickets were on the way.
After several minutes, two new Argentinian men approached us and clandestinely asked if we were the three guys looking for tickets. We said yes, and they directed us away from the security guards. With their backs turned to the guards, they pulled out
 |
| Ben and Scott, unclear on what they were doing |
The security guard who had first stopped us to ask if we were the three guys looking for tickets responded “son buenos” (they are good), and we discreetly paid the scalpers 450 pesos for the tickets. I say discreetly, but in reality there is no chance that three gringos lifting up their shirts and reaching into bulging money belts is ever secretive, especially when one is wearing a giant Boca flag and Raiders cap.
Anyway, we kind of thanked everyone who had been involved in this covert series of events, and were directed around the stadium to the entrance we had first tried to enter. When we presented the tickets to the guard at the gate, he said we couldn’t enter there and that we needed to continue further around the outskirts of the stadium. Slightly unnerved by the wry smile the guard had worn after seeing our tickets, we walked across an empty field and through the downtrodden yet colorful (predominately blue and yellow – the Boca Juniors’ colors) slums.
After avoiding several scalpers and “bar owners” who invited us to drink in their bar (“es seguro” – it’s safe), we reached another potential entrance to the stadium. We presented our tickets with feigned confidence to the security guards – first Ben, then Peter, then me. Peter and Ben got in fine, and the security guard let me through the gate before saying “no es bueno” (“it’s not good”), referring to my ticket, which he then pocketed as he told us to keep moving with the queue to the next checkpoint. Bewildered, I followed Peter and Ben to another group of security guards at the next gate.
When Peter and Ben showed their tickets, the young guard said that we were at the wrong entrance, and that we had to leave this section of the fenced-in compound and enter at gate 11. He made no indication that the tickets were fake, and we realized that the security guard who had confiscated my ticket could have been in cahoots with the scalpers. We walked back out towards these first group of guards, and Ben said “robaste su boleto” (you stole his ticket), to which the guard responded that he didn’t know what we were talking about, but that if we needed tickets he had a friend nearby who could sell us some. The friend approached us and offered to sell us another bus pass ticket for three hundred pesos.
 |
| Florida Guy at the checkpoint |
Someone with less fortitude might have taken this opportunity to reflect on their chances of getting into the game with two fake tickets for three people and conclude that it was time to throw in the towel. Luckily, we had maximum fortitude that day.
We walked around the stadium to the gate that the young security guard had directed us to, and squeezed through a hole in the fence to evade the first security checkpoint. We then walked to the next checkpoint, where they frisked us without even asking to see our tickets. Thinking our luck was changing, we reached the final security checkpoint; it was surrounded by several guards and a plethora of uniformed policemen. Ben and Peter showed their tickets to one of the security guards, who, without hesitation, said they were fake. He took Peter’s ticket. He then took Ben’s ticket, contemplated something, and handed Ben his ticket back.
Dazed and confused, we slowly backed away from the cop-cluster to assess our next move. Suddenly a roar erupted from inside the stadium, and a barrage of fireworks lit the sky above us with a deafening combination of Piccolo-Pete-style screaming and bottle-rocket explosions. The crowd roared again, and, checking our watches, we realized that it was 7:10 PM and the game had just begun. As we looked around, we noticed that there were no longer any fans entering the stadium; consequently, the 20-or-so uniformed police and hired security guards had nothing to do besides aggressively eyeball the three gringos who had just been banned from entering the stadium but had not yet left the premises and were clandestinely conspiring on how to get in.
 |
| Peter and Ben, hoping their luck is changing |
Suddenly a troll-like policeman shoved Peter in the back, nearly knocking him to the ground, and started shouting at us to leave the area. We confusedly complied while several police aggressively ushered us towards the exit gate. As the police left, Florida Guy asked us how much money we really had. Stepping away from him for a minute, we conferred and determined that we had about 300 pesos left; we told him we had 200. He said that was fine, and told us to wait outside the exit gate behind a piece of plywood so that the police couldn’t see us. We hesitantly agreed, and exited past the security guards, through the fence, and into the Boca neighborhood.
Sitting on the curb behind the piece of plywood, we became increasingly aware that, while we had not been accountable for trying to enter the game with fake tickets, we most definitely would be accountable if we got caught doing whatever we were doing with 200 pesos and Florida Guy. Discussing the situation, we agreed that we could feign ignorance if we were to get caught, and that we had invested too much time, money, and emotion to quit now. After several minutes Florida Guy exited through the gate, told us that everything was fine and that we should prepare the money and follow him. Having never “prepared the money” before, we were a little unclear on the concept, but gleaned that one person should have the money located in a discreet, easy-to-access place, like a hand. At some point before we reached the entry gate, Ben gave Florida Guy the money; it was so quick that I didn’t even see it happen (I still suspect PayPal was involved…).
I started getting apprehensive as we approached the entry gate; it was the same gate and group of security guards that had confiscated my ticket half and hour earlier.Needless to say, I didn’t like our chances of fleecing our way past them again.
 |
| Inside the Boca Stadium |
Finally, Florida Guy indicated that we should enter the turnstile. All together now. Ben was pressed against the subway-style arm that blocked our entry, with Peter pressed behind him, me behind Peter, and Florida Guy behind me. The 20 police officers and security guards stared with interest, but made no indication that we couldn’t, as it appeared we were going to do, enter the game using a single ticket. Florida guy reached over to the turnstile scanner and held a game ticket up to it. He signaled for Ben to go through, and the turnstile revolved. Peter successfully followed Ben through, but as I pressed against the turnstile arm it refused to move. With a sinking sensation I realized that this would be as close as I would get to the game. I looked up and saw Peter and Ben waiting guardedly on the other side.
Helplessly standing in the turnstile, trying not to make eye contact with the myriad police officers staring at me, I turned to Florida Guy for guidance. He indicated that he would be back in a few minutes, and darted around a corner towards the exit of the stadium and out of sight. I assumed I would never see him again, and began using my laser-vision to burn an escape route into the ground below me (the guy from the X-Men who has laser-vision is also named Scott - maybe not a coincidence?). Just as I was beginning to burn through the ground to my salvation, Florida Guy returned. With a quick flick of the wrist, he flashed another ticket at the magnetic turnstile.
 |
| Peter celebrates with Boca fans |
We looked out over a sea of blue-and-yellow-clad, flag-waving, singing, jumping, dancing Argentinian fanatics; there wasn’t a police officer in sight. In unison, the three of us let out a triumphant roar of victory, exchanged exuberant high-fives, and marveled that we had finally bribed our way into the game. Then the I-Phone died.
Without exaggeration, it was the greatest sporting event I have ever attended. The pulsating energy and joyful abandon of the fans were contagious and inspiring, and our entrance odyssey made us that much more appreciative to be there. When Boca finally did score a goal in the 80th minute, we were surprised to notice that the festive chants and dances continued much as they had before. It was then that we realized that we were at more than a sporting event – we were at a celebration of life.
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