Back to reality.
Lolo and I just returned from a much-needed reality sabbatical. A two-week blitzkrieg across Europe. Six countries. Fourteen days. My body and adrenals are feeling it.
I prepared for this to be a touristy trip. Go to the Coliseum. Summit the Eiffel Tour. Eat gelato. etc….Nothing interesting to write about. That is until we attended the Paris Saint Germaine vs. Maccabi Haifa soccer game.
In principle, I could give two shits about Futból.
I’ve joked that when Ambien can’t sleep, it takes soccer.
I didn’t fully appreciate the sport for a couple reasons.
First, I’m a proud American. Faking injuries, extra time, throw-ins, draws and penalty kicks are all sorry excuses for the swift violence and bloodthirsty action we American’s crave. Soccer will never be able replicate the brutality of Sheldon Brown decimating Reggie Bush or Nate Diaz strangling Conor McGregor.
Según, I lack the requisite attention span to truly appreciate the game. Spending two hours of my life to watch a nil nil game that ends in a draw lacks a certain finality I need in sport.
That said, I love cultural spectacles.
And there is nothing, I repeat nothing, that rivals the energy of a professional soccer game abroad..
Read my blog, I’ve been to just about every major and minor kind of sporting or cultural event in the world. Whether it’s big time college football, Muay Thai fights in Thailand, NFL and World Series Games, the Rugby World Cup, UFC fights, Ill Palio or the Running of the Bulls, I have never experienced anything close to the intensity of a professional soccer game outside the US.
Lolo and I had the choice between watching Bayern München vs. Barcelona or Paris St. Germain vs. Maccabi Haifa. It was a choice between watching the best team in the world (Bayern) or the best players in the world (Messi, Mbappe and Neymar of Paris St. Germaine)
In American terms, we could see the 85’ Bears or a Lebron-DWade super team play.
In the end, we chose Paris St. Germaine. Leo Messi is arguably the greatest player of all time and I thought it foolish to pass up an opportunity to see him play.
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Paris.
October 25, 2022.
20:30
Lolo and I arrived to the game after being packed like sardines on the Paris metro for the better part of an hour. We ascended a seemingly endless staircase of steps at the Porte de St. Cloud station and were greeted with cold stares from hundreds of Parisian SWAT Officers clad in riot gear. They looked like up armored like RoboCops.
The energy shifted palpably. I felt impending doom.
We entered the Parc des Princes Stadium. I took note that the snack bar poured beer, water or soda into paper cups before selling the liquid to the general populous. This prevents them from being turned into dangerous projectiles and hurled onto the field.
By the time we took our seats the chants already started. We were positioned two sections to the right of the Maccabi Haifa fan section, who sang songs, beat drums and clapped in aggressive Hebrew.
On the other side of stadium, diametrically opposed to the Maccabi Haifa cheering section, were four sections of Paris St. Germaine fanatics who sang their own respective war chants and Haka’s. I noticed all kinds of flags hoisted, but dismissed them as indecipherable French.
The game started with plenty of yelling and screaming, but two minutes in, all the fans in the arena took their seats except for the Maccabi Haifa and PSG cheering sections.
Five minutes into the first half, on cue, the entire Maccabi Haifa fan section lit off roadside flares and fireworks in unison. The section looked like it was on fire. Their fireworks bursted over the field, prompting the Paris St. Germaine fan section to explode with elevated shouting.
Some of the Maccabi Haifa fireworks were getting dangerously close to the players. I looked closer at the Parisian section and tried to understand the meaning of their flags and banners.
“Is that an Iraqi flag?” I thought. “Holy shit! Those are Palestinian flags.”
The PSG banners read “Courage Hamas!” and “Freedom to Gaza” in French.
I had forgotten that Maccabi Haifa is an Israeli team and Paris has an enormous Palestinian population.
I turned to Lorraine and said, “We’re not at a futból game. We’re at a political rally.”
To my surprise, the game continued despite the theatrics.
Fearing I had inadvertently showed up to some kind of uprising, I turned to an unfazed local sitting next to me.
“Does this happen often?” I ask
“All the time,” he responded.
In the US, lighting off weapons grade flares and shooting fireworks at the highest profile athletes in the world would land you a twenty-year prison sentence.
In Paris, it’s a bi-weekly occurrence.
I thought this was especially disconcerting because, “If the Israeli’s were able to smuggle fireworks and road flares past security, what did the Palestinians have?”
Wisely, I didn’t voice this concern to my wife.
The crowd settled once the first goal was scored. The mood shifted from dangerously political to sporting.
Watching Messi play was fascinating. He lurks in the back field, wandering. In terms of energy exertion, he is the stage actor who stands still and somehow commands more attention. His meandering is slow and methodical.
Messi is like Bill Clinton on the prowl. You know he is going to score, you just don’t know how. Will it be an Intern? Elizabeth Hurley? Will Epstein give him the assist? There is no age of consent on Little St. James.
Wait, what! I’m drifting…
Back to Messi.
Eventually, the ball comes to him and he explodes with energy. Dancing around defenders with surgical precision. The best description of Messi’s game comes from an Argentine footballer whose all time goal record Messi shattered:
“Did it annoy me that Messi took the record? A little, yes. You go around the world and people say, ‘he’s the top scorer for the Argentina national team.’ But the advantage I have is that I’m second to an extraterrestrial.” – Gabriel Batistuta on the consolation of Messi breaking his record.
Extra-terrestrial is the best way to explain him. He is other-worldly
Messi manifested two goals before the half. Remarkably diminutive in stature, at five seven, I felt like he is a 21st century Napoleon conquering France one goal at a time. His Napoleonic instincts give him the ability to see the field in an elevated way his earthly defenders can’t.
Half-play came. It was 4-1 PSG. The crowd calmed considerably. Lolo and I relaxed.
Massive sprinklers went off during the break. Why? I’m not sure, but I imagine the water settled the turf.
The PSG stampede continued throughout the second half. All the stars scored. Neymar had a goal. Mbappe laced a couple shots past the Israeli goalkeeper with laser precision.
At full time the score was 7-2 PSG. I’m no soccer expert, but Haifa was routed.
I was relieved. If the scores were reversed, a riot could’ve ensued.
Still wary of latent unrest, we tiptoed our way back to the Ponte de St. Cloud station with caution.
Never trust a crowd.