It was Opening Day and I was late to the stadium. I had spent the early afternoon with a textile impresario in the canyons outside of Bolivia’s administrative capital of La Paz, blasting clay disks with a 12 gauge, pump-action shotgun. We finished just in time for me to find a cab for the game. I settled into the backseat, mistakenly assuming the loudest, craziest part of my day was over.
Hernando Siles Olympic Stadium is located in the neighborhood of Miraflores, in the hills above central La Paz, surrounded by skyscrapers of bright green glass. At an elevation of close to 12,000 feet, it is one of the highest professional sporting venues in the world. The two-tiered stadium has a capacity of over 40,000, but only 5,000 people showed up for the Bolivian soccer league’s first game of the season.
The match featured one of the league’s best teams, The Strongest, against the reigning league champion, Real Potosi. Strongest, which is from La Paz, promptly scored the game’s first goal in the second minute. It was ignored by the crowd, which knew that the first minutes of a game are no time for goals. Fans busied themselves finding seats and vendors, who walked the aisles in white smocks selling empanadas, popcorn and cups of coffee from big plastic jugs.
Strongest scored again in the 24th minute. The team’s Paraguayan forward Pablo Escobar received a pass beyond midfield, and looked up. He saw teammate Roberto Galindo heading for the goal and sent a long pass that floated across the field like a balloon. Galindo waited for it patiently. He jumped and headed it in.
The crowd was born. Groups of shirtless men began dancing up and down in the concrete bleachers. A chant was started that never died. Drummers beat their drums, a trumpet sounded and flares and fireworks were lit. Crack. Crack-crack-CRACK!
The game continued. A Potosi player was hit – he fell as if shot and began clutching his shin, or maybe his thigh. When he didn’t get the call, he quit writhing in pain and stood up reluctantly. A few possessions later he went down again. This time he remained motionless on the ground. The stretcher-bearers lounging on the sidelines jumped up eagerly. A golf cart edged toward the field; on a signal from the referee, who had stopped play, it sped off at a few miles an hour across the grass, followed by the medical team. Players were gathered in a huddle over their fallen teammate.
As everyone waited to see what would happen someone in the stands beat an ominous drum roll. Would the injured player walk off the field of his own accord? Could he even stand? Then abruptly he was up, sitting in the golf cart and carted away. His recovery was cheered and the game resumed.
When the first half ended soon afterward, the players filed off the field and a group of cheerleaders ran on. They danced listlessly. They didn’t bother with full pyramids; two got on the ground on all fours and a third stood on their backs. She waved her pompoms and got off.
Domination continues
Fans were still arriving, and the crowd was still singing at the start of the second half. Offensively, Strongest continued its disciplined onslaught. With excellent player spacing and solid, unhurried passing it dominated possession of the ball. In the few chances Potosi had to score, it ran up against a formidable Strongest defense led by stopper Carmelo Angulo. Following another stifled drive, a frustrated Potosi player high-kicked his opponent in the groin. During the next run, Strongest’s Galindo was brutally slide-tackled in the penalty box. The referee’s whistle shrieked. Penalty kick. Escobar took it and scored, upper right corner, 3-0.
With 20 minutes remaining in the half, Potosi finally mounted a decent attack. But Strongest stopper Angulo stole the ball, controlled it, and passed it forward. The crowd cheered. Escobar received the ball at midfield and stopped short.
The ball sat as still as an egg in the grass.
Players on both teams stopped running. For an instant nobody moved, waiting to see what the great Escobar would do next. He could do anything at all, and everyone waited.
A pass. And Escobar was off, making a run down the center of the field. A midfielder delivered a perfect through-ball and suddenly Escobar was dribbling in the open field, the defense behind him. The goalie charged out to meet him. At the last possible second, before avoiding collision, Escobar flicked the ball over the goalie’s head. The chip looked wide, but no, Escobar curved it! He curved it! The ball spun perfectly and just missed the post on its way into the goal. The crowd went platanos, which means bananas in Spanish.
Poor Potosi. Four-nothing and all they could manage were a few errant shots on goal. Strongest went on to score another one. As younger fans partied, solitary old men in the stands listened to the game on handheld radios. They frowned and looked unimpressed. You don’t beat your opponent 5-0 in the season opener – it’s just not seemly.
With a few minutes left in the game I went down onto the field. I joined a surprising number of media people on the sidelines. The final whistle was followed by explosions in the stands. These were quickly drowned out by the PA system, which began playing Bolivian carnival music so loudly I wished for earmuffs.
The reporters, who had rushed the field in a frenzy, surrounded players in electronic cocoons of video cameras, cassette recorders, cell phones, even walkie-talkie devices. A wild, intense round of questioning began. “We played well,” Galindo screamed, to be heard over the music. “Thanks to God we’ve started the season well.”
Not to be outdone, the nearby Angulo praised his maker with even greater tenacity. “Thanks to God in the first minute we scored a goal,” Angulo bellowed. “And thanks to God that put us on our way to victory.” As I stood at midfield next to Angulo, I thought of a Joe Torre post-game press conference, which has all the excitement of a funeral.
Nearly one hour after the game ended, a loyal group of several hundred fans waited for their heroes to emerge from the stadium player’s gate. The crowd was cordoned off by a squad of national police. The Real Potosi players came out first, but nobody cared. They weren’t even heckled lightly. When the Strongest players began to emerge, and head for their homes in the La Paz area, the crowd broke the police line and poured forward to greet them. One player came out with a backpack over his shoulder, sucking on a lollipop. He looked like a high school student as he disappeared into the crowd. The goalie came next, with his girlfriend, who was catcalled politely.
Finally Escobar appeared. The crowd roared. But what was this? Escobar, his hair slicked back, dressed in a white jump suit, was carrying a baby in his arms. A baby. This development was completely unexpected and fans paused uncertainly. Then they engulfed him anyway and demanded autographs.
“I can’t,” Escobar yelled several times. “My hands are full.” His baby wore a Strongest hat and a plump, blank expression. Escobar was smiling but his eyes were filled with panic as he tried to force his way through the crowd. Just then, people began to chant. “Es-co-bar. Es-co-bar. Es-co-bar!”