Tales from Azteca - USA x Mexico

Look at these nice friends I made at a soccer game in Mexico City!

Ok, so it was much more than a friendly little match. Here's my story of a day I'll never forget.

Carlo, Chris, and I arrived in Mexico City the day before the match. We took it easy, knowing the following day would be quite an experience. We of course knew the stories of hostility by Mexican fans towards opposing fans. Hearing the stories of urine bags, batteries, trash, rocks, animal parts, feces and vomit getting tossed your way is nothing but legend until you experience it. For some reason we went to go support our Yanks, and experience it for ourselves.

On match day, we met up at the Sheraton (next to the American Embassy) with some fellow Angelenos who are members of our beloved LA Riot Squad. Anthony, Kevin, Scott, and Noemi had arranged for a van to take us from the hotel to the stadium, and that assured us the van would be there when we needed to leave. Amazingly, we had an extra ticket so our van driver, Oscar, got to watch the match too. Of course, he didn't sit close to us.

The drive to Azteca was filled with stop and go traffic through D.F's poorer neighborhoods. Oscar played early 90's hiphop on his in dash DVD player throughout the ride, which somehow eased a little bit of tension. As all American fans do, we had a little bit of anxiety that is typical before a huge match. If you add to that the fact that we were deep in enemy territory and the possibility of bodily harm was real, we were all a little bit tense. Eventually the stop and go traffic was mostly stopped traffic, and we started to see peddlers selling Mexican flags, wigs, and shirts.

Eventually we were close enough to see the top of the stadium, and we turned onto Estadio Azteca Drive to head up to the parking lot. The outer walls of the stadium fence were neatly painted with murals of momentous events that happened at the stadium. There were caricatures of Pele, Maradona, U2, Michael Jackson, among others. We slowly got to the parking lot, and I noticed that Mexican fans could see inside our tinted van windows. That's when I started hearing, the word of the day, "puto."

We got to the parking lot, got a good parking spot, and then had to make the 200 meter trip to the main gate. In retrospect, our walk through the parking lot was a dumb thing to do. The seven Yanks with USA jerseys, flags, and scarves could have been obliterated by a few bad Mexican apples.

We were very fortunate that most people simply yelled, "gringo fuck you," "chinga tu madre," "americano puto," or showed the finger from afar. We all had cool heads and kept mostly to ourselves for about the first quarter of the walk. About that moment, my favorite Mexican fan of the day approached me.

He was an elderly gentleman, probably about 70. He had his young grandson in hand as he slowly walked up to me with what looked like an outstretched hand, but as I was about to learn, he was just keeping his balance. He got right in my face and yelled "PUUUUUUUUUUUUUUTOOOOOO GRINGOOOO FUUUUUUUCK YOUR MOTHER IN USA. PUUUUUUUUUTOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO." His yelling took a lot out of him, because he broke a sweat, was breathing hard, and was shaking a little. Before I could even muster a smile of disbelief, he was on his way.

Our group quickly became a center of curiosity. The Mexican fans decided we were the perfect prop for a photo op, and the majority were quite nice about it. I'm obliged to clarify that it wasn't all bad words and malice towards us. A good number of people were shouting, "good luck" and "be careful." Many even shook our hands. I even ran into a guy with a Galaxy shirt, and gave him a high five. There was some playful chest thumping as we posed for picture after picture with the Mexicans.

This environment also became a little bit dangerous, because the Mexican fans had really surrounded us. There were a handful that did not want to play nice, and we really had nowhere to run. Amazingly, this is the moment when Mexican Riot Police descended upon us and lead us into the stadium. Our security started shoving and threatening anyone with a green shirt who came near us. It was awesome having our own little crew of bodyguards and I think it made the Mexicans detest us. We got to the gate and entered the stadium where we were lead to the upper, upper, upper deck.

Our area was sectioned off so that no one but American fans (or as we soon learned, American fans with Mexican girlfriends) could join us. We had our own bathroom which featured no toilet paper. Fortunately a kid outside the restroom handed you tissues as you entered so everyone kept "fresh."

We were in the stadium about two and a half hours before kickoff and that was enough time to take it all in. There is no right way to describe the gigantic confines of Estadio Azteca. It's simply bigger and more cavernous that any stadium you have ever been in (unless you go to Maracana in Rio de Janiero, or the National stadium of North Korea.) We estimated that at least four Home Depot Centers would fit inside of it. I'm pretty sure you could fit a fifth in their if you chop it up and mush it right. The place was so tremendous that the Mexico City smog could be seen at the other corner of the stadium.

The roof in the stadium makes the place unbelievably loud. The material looks to be made of cheap aluminum that echoes every noise you hear. If you watch a match on TV from Azteca, you hear a constant droning of horns. In the stadium, this droning is very loud, intimidating and foreboding. It almost sounds like a horror movie sound effect.

Every time we Yanks tried to start a U-S-A chant, it would quickly be drowned out by horns and then an opposing chant of Me-hee-co. I'm sure for those watching the match on TV, many of the times there was a Mexico chant, it was done to quench a U-S-A chant.

Azteca didn't have any concession stands in the upper deck. I don't know if there are any down below. Vendors walked through our section selling everything from beer and cigarettes to top ramen with lime slices on top. Rumor has it that beer in the rich gringo yanqui section we sat in paid $2.00 for each beer, as opposed to the 80 cents that Mexicans paid.

As we absorbed all of this, Mexican fans slowly filled the stadium, and the ones sitting near us were definitely not happy. There were a lot of middle fingers, crotch grabbing, and nasty words aimed at us. Protected by a line of Riot Police, we replied with some of our own words and mannerisms. It was mean spirited fun at that point.

Eventually the USA goalkeepers took the field to a chorus of boos, followed by the Mexican goalkeepers, and then both teams. The Mexican chants and songs were getting very loud, and the experience was getting very intense. Both teams completed their warm-ups and I think every single person in the stadium had some butterflies in their stomach. Well, either that or diarrhea. Either way, it was tense. The anthems played, and the Mexicans booed so loudly during the USA anthem, it was impossible to hear it. The USA fans just sang where we thought the song was and were mostly on track.

I couldn't believe we scored first. No one could. Bedlam in the USA section reached maximum levels as the Mexican fans sat stunned. Apparently our chants of USA reached the press box which was shocking to the Mexican media.

Unfortunately after we scored, we played horribly. Mexico dominated the rest of the half. Three of our four backs were shown cautions. Mexico had all the possession while we found it impossible to string more than two passes together. Eventually Mexico scored and we got to experience our first real shower of the day. Cups full of beer, piss, and whatever fluid the Mexicans could find were hurled our way. So were rocks and batteries that were mostly shielded away by our brave riot police.

Eventually half-time arrived and the USA supporters felt relief. Our team was getting pounded all half and our guys needed a break to readjust.

The second half began and the Yanks had a little more fight. The match looked like it could possibly end in a draw, which would be monumental for us.

Around the 70th minute, there was a little skirmish on the field between the teams. This incited a skirmish in the stands as the Mexican fans imitated their classless players by throwing everything they could at us for about five minutes. I used my American flag to block most of the fluids coming my way. Carlo was not so lucky. He got pelted by something unknown that busted open his cheek. His reward was a visit to the beautiful Azteca medical center which could only be described as a "shithole." We didn't see him again until after the match.

The Mexican fans were getting feisty at this point, because the game was coming close to an end and they weren't winning. They didn't need to worry for much longer, as they got a second goal that meant they could throw more crap at us. I hung my head for a second, and then turned to the side so I could watch out for debris. It was sad, but Mexico did deserve the lead.

The remaining USA efforts were futile, and I didn't even get to see the rest of the match. The police started forcing us to leave around the 85th minute. My last glimpse inside Azteca was Landon Donovan getting pelted with cups and trash as he went to take a corner kick.

Carlo somehow found us as we were getting escorted down to the parking lot by Riot Police. The Mexican fans were exhilarated as they continued to bomb us with beverages and other organic material. The parking lot was intense because it seemed like the Mexicans wanted to beat the crap out of us outside of the stadium after they beat us on the inside. It was very intimidating. As the police marched the USA supporters (watch the videos in my last post) to the buses, the Mexican supporters let us know how they really felt. I was walking behind a black USA supporter was barraged with spit, (much of which also hit me) and the shouts of, "neeeeeger." He wasn't bothered as he shifted his position to a more central part of the pack. I'm not 100% sure but I don't think there was any actual violence.

Somehow Chris and I got pinched away from the rest of our group who amazingly made it back to the van without any security. I sent some Blackberry messages to Anthony to figure out where our van-mates were and eventually worked up enough courage to escape from our pen of riot police to cross the lot. Chris followed, and we took our shirts and flags off our bodies to appear neutral. Of course our pasty white gringo skin gave us away as threatening shouts were aimed at us. We started to pick up the pace when we turned around and saw three riot police escorting us. I was amused and grateful.

We got to the van, where Oscar and the gang were waiting to drive us home.

The mood in the van was somber at first. Carlo had been bloodied. We were drenched in who knows what. We were still in enemy territory, where some daring opposing fans could easily assault our van. Also, we had lost the match. All the roads out of stadium were fairly narrow and inescapable. Fortunately nothing happened as we moved on. Our brilliant van driver Oscar stopped to buy some beer (Modelo) for the ride back. He himself enjoyed a few cans while we drove.

In fact, Oscar probably enjoyed too much beer for someone driving a van with 9 passengers (we invited two Chicagoans to ride with us on the way back.) For some reason he decided it would be a good idea to hang an American flag outside the window while we drove, and then draw attention by honking his horn consistently for the remainder of the drive. He also decided to tell jokes in Spanish about his penis. Yeah.

We eventually made it back to the Sheraton, but the fun wasn't over. The main plaza of Insurgentes is where Mexican fans celebrate big victories. The Sheraton happened to be right across from this spot so we got to witness the celebrations. Chris, being either brave or unaware of the danger, lit up a cigarette and stood amongst the Mexicans as they celebrated. Of course they were friendly at first but a few bad apples made things nasty. Chris started running back towards the hotel as a mob of Mexicans chased after him. Riot Police blocked them, as we all scurried into the lobby. The concierge and her assistants ran with big fat chains to lock the doors. Chris had started a riot.

Eventually we left the hotel for the short walk back to our place. Carlo, Chris and I were drained so we stopped at an Argentine restaurant for dinner. It was mostly quiet as we reflected on the day. We left, assuming we were done with anything soccer related for the day, but we had one last encounter. A group of about five girls aged 14-16 spotted us and asked for a picture with the, "Loser Gringos." We obliged in good fun.

Many more pictures are here.