Mad for it: From Blackpool to Barcelona: Football’s Greatest Rivalries

On leaving La Bombonera the evening before the game, having collected our tickets, a security guard calls us over; our pale skin, short trousers, and cameras are dead give-aways that we are not from round these parts. ‘Tell them to be careful,’ he says to Pablo. ‘There is a strange atmosphere around this week.’

So tense is the mood now that with the game imminent, Pablo says he feels uncomfortable being in enemy territory, even though he’s not wearing River colours. He’s in far less danger than one misfit we see ducking into a house, wearing River’s red and white replica shirt. ‘He’s a brave man,’ says Pablo, who has thus far been ferrying me around in his wife’s car. ‘Tomorrow I will bring my car to the game. It is not so good so it doesn’t matter as much if it gets vandalised.’

As we drive through the dusty streets of La Boca, with its mixture of crumbling, derelict buildings and bright pastel-coloured houses, we pull up outside San Salessiano, a Catholic school. On the wall outside is a magnificent mural, painted in 1969, depicting Buenos Aires at the time. On the left of the picture some workers stand beneath the industrial backdrop of La Boca and on the right stands a businessman and a tango dancer depicting the city’s middle classes. In the middle is a priest, stood next to two children, one wearing a Boca shirt, the other wearing a River shirt. This is the church’s ideal of Buenos Aires: harmonious. Tomorrow’s game will be anything but.

Within minutes of arriving at La Bombonera news filters through that the River team bus has been ambushed by Boca fans on the way to the ground. The windows were stoned, River’s club president took a blow to the head and two others were injured. At the ground a 1,200 strong, armed police unit (three times the usual size) prepare themselves for more outbreaks of violence. But security is tight, with every fan being searched and stripped of anything that might be deemed offensive, even empty plastic bottles. Apart from ticket-less fans trying to storm the gates there are few signs of serious trouble, but as an outsider, you still fear for your safety.

At the other end of the ground – the River end – however, there are knife fights breaking out and one Barra completely loses it with a concrete paving slab when it refuses to break under the pressure of him stamping on it (he wants to throw the broken pieces at Boca fans). Twice we hear the sound of gunfire. Whether the police or the fans are responsible nobody knows.

La Bombonera is a purpose-built football stadium – no athletics or dog-racing tracks here – so the crowd are very close to the pitch and almost on top of it. Three sides of the ground (one side and two ends) form an extremely steep concrete, three-tiered C-shape, with the area behind each goal standing only.

Away to our right, anything from coins to urine rains down on the Boca fans as River’s travelling support, fuelled by alcohol, marijuana, cocaine, and pure adrenalin, make their presence felt from the two tiers above. Strangest of all though, amid the sea of red and white many of the River mob are wearing handkerchiefs and surgical masks over their faces. This, Pablo informs me, is because River’s nickname for Boca and their fans is El Bosteros, roughly translated into English as ‘The Shits’, in reference to the unpleasant smell that wafts over La Boca, a remnant of the area’s industrial past. If you go down to the port and smell the water you’ll know what they’re on about.

To Boca’s fans, River are know as Las Gallinas (‘The Chickens’). This goes back to 1966 when River played Penarol of Uruguay in the final of the Intercontinental Cup in Montevideo. River were 2–0 up and cruising in the second half when their keeper caught the ball on his chest – puffed out like a chicken’s if you will – and proceeded to mock the opposition, who became so enraged that they lifted their game and ended up winning 4–2 after extra time. Boca have never let the River fans live it down.

Inside the ground the only people missing from the 52,000 crowds are the two sets of Barras. They prefer to make a late entrance so the other fans reserve a space for them at the centre of the middle tier. Once inside, the two sets of fans exchange taunts and sing songs – nothing new there then – but the real craze in Argentina is to jump up and down on the spot. And I mean everybody. Both sets of fans at the same time. Now Boca’s is not the most state-of-the-art ground and as the stadium shakes under the weight on 52,000 lunatics pogoing simultaneously, you wonder if it’s going to crash to the ground.

Amid the sea of yellow and blue away to our left are a surprising number of women and children, some of whom are so young they nestle in their dad’s arms as he screams his support, blood-vessels near to bursting in his forehead. As if the crowd is not fired up enough, the reserve teams of both clubs play their fixture immediately prior to the first team game. It keeps everybody entertained at least. Not that they need it.

When the fist teams finally appear they do so through an inflated tunnel, which stretches out into the centre of the pitch to prevent the players, especially those of River, being pelted with whatever the fans can get their hands on. A few bottles make their way over the tall perimeter fencing but all of them miss their targets.

As ticker tape pours down from the sky, children appear on the pitch carrying two giant flags bearing the words no mas violencia: un mensaje de Dios (‘no more violence: a message from God’). ‘It won’t be enough,’ says Pablo, as the ‘boos’ reverberate around the ground, drowning out the sound of ‘We are the World’ and ‘Imagine’, which are playing over the stadium’s public address system.

An appalling, goalless first half is lifted only by the appearance of Maradona, a former Boca star, of course, who emerges on the balcony of his box to the delight of Boca’s fans and the derision of River’s. At half time he even puts on a juggling show using a ball thrown up to him by one of the cheerleaders.

In the second half the referee, who was the best performer on the pitch in the first half, loses control of the game under intense pressure from the home crowd. He’d agreed to meet me for an interview over breakfast tomorrow morning, depending on how the game went. Needless to say, we never get the phone call. Boca, who are the better side anyway, win 3–0 after River have two men sent off. After each goal, the Boca fans, Maradona included, take off their shirts and lasso them round their heads. They’ll be going home happy and will be able to hold their heads high. At least until the two teams meet again.

In the back of Pablo’s car another River fan – also called Pablo – and a friend of Los Barrochos (though not one himself) is inconsolable. ‘I am always without hope when I come to see River play Boca, because I always feel like we’re gonna get fucked,’ he says, unable to comprehend River’s recent poor record against Boca. ‘I don’t understand it. Against teams who play good football we play beautifully and win. Then we go and lose to Boca and their shitty, ugly football.’

Still, at least nobody was killed. And with only seventy-nine arrests at the stadium, today’s Buenos Aires derby was one of the quietest.

Buenos Aires – A tale of two teams

Boca Juniors

Boca were founded in La Boca district of Buenos Aires in 1905 by Irishman Paddy McCarthy, newly arrived Italian immigrants, Pedro and Juan Feranga, and three students from the National School of Commerce – hence the name ‘Juniors’. They chose to play in the colours on the flag of the next ship to sail into port. It was a Swedish vessel – hence the yellow and blue.

Their most successful periods were the early 1930s and the late 1970s and early 1980s, when, inspired by Diego Maradona, they reached the South America Club Championship final three years in a row. Controversially, though, no Boca players were included in Argentina’s 1978 World Cup-winning squad, because of their rugged style under then manager Juan Carlos Lorenzo.

Boca have a history of bigger, more robust players, such as Gabriel Batistuta and Argentina’s 1966 World Cup captain Antonio Rattin. Even Boca’s skilful players, such as ex-stars Diego Maradona and Juan Sebastian Veron and Barcelona-bound Juan Roman Riquelme are powerfully built.

River Plate

Also founded in 1905, River were formed in La Boca when two local English teams, Santa Rosa and Rosales, joined forces after playing against each other in a friendly. Both teams played in white, which caused confusion until River had the bright idea of sewing red patches on to their shirts to distinguish themselves – hence River’s colours.

The 1940s saw River and their famous forward line La Maquina (‘The Machine’) dominate the domestic game and this success continued into the 1950s with Alfredo Di Stefano to the fore. More great players followed, including Daniel Passarella and Mario Kempes.

In contrast to Boca, River have a reputation for producing stylish teams and players who fit within that framework. Current stars Ariel Ortega and Barcelona-bound starlet Javier Saviola as well as Valencia’s Pablo Aimar are classic River players.

The Ultimate Showdown Iran v Iraq, October 2001 (#ulink_03ab6461-952c-553a-a65c-e482ca1c603f)

More than a million people died when the two nations fought in the 1980s. Today, the only battle that counts lasts for just ninety minutes…

Tehran’s thoroughfares buzz with anticipation, the streets seeming to move as one in a westwards direction towards the Azadi national stadium. Here Iran will today take on their bitter rivals Iraq in a win-at-all-costs World Cup qualifier.

The pace is glacially slow, but there is a harmony that is rare in Iran these days. The atmosphere is charged, but the fans smile and salute each other. Flags are draped over every tree and lamp-post, and Iranians lose themselves in a nationalistic fervour which is usually denied them.

‘This is what it used to be like, when the Shah was in charge,’ a 73-year-old university lecturer turned shoe-shiner tells me. ‘Then we were told it was all right to be proud of being Iranian. Now we are told that our nationality doesn’t matter, that Islam is all that matters. But whoever says that should go and look at all the historical sites that litter Iran. We are an ancient land and our spirit is strong. We will prevail over anyone who tries to dampen our national spirit.’

Inside the stadium, their team emerges to the thunderous acclaim of 110,000 Iranians packed like pilchards in a tin. There are no Iraqi fans here, only the few officials who have travelled with the team. The Iraqi national anthem is played out to a stony silence but there are no jeers. When the Iranian anthem begins, though, the mood changes; the crowd boos, and the players, who mouth the words, look embarrassed. ‘They hate anything that reminds them of the State,’ a photographer from one of Iran’s leading daily newspapers tells me. ‘This isn’t their national anthem, this is the State’s…’

In 1979, a year after reaching their first World Cup finals in Argentina, Iran underwent a dramatic change. The Shah, an absolute monarch who favoured Western values, was overthrown. By nature protective of their culture, Iranians had felt increasingly threatened by the Shah’s policies. In his place, the Mullahs (Muslim clerics), led by Ayatollah Khomeini, came to power. The Islamic Revolution of that year transformed Iran from one of the most cosmopolitan and diverse cultures in the Middle East into the most introspective.

Ironically, those same Iranians who wanted to preserve their national identity now found their country dominated by Islam, a religion that does not recognise borders. Far from being encouraged to be proud Iranians, they found themselves pushed, first and foremost, to be dutiful, obedient Muslims.

Worse still, a year later, in 1980, Iran and Iraq went to war. The first Gulf War, actually a dispute over territorial control of the shipping lanes of the Shatt-al-Arab waterways, lasted for eight years. In Iran, it was given the spin variously of Jihad (or Holy War) and ‘The Imposed War’ and proved a useful propaganda tool for Khomeini. According to the Islamic Republic of Iran, Iraq was the pawn of Western influence, armed by the USA and France. Those who died fighting them were exalted as martyrs. It became one of the bloodiest conflicts on record. In the second year of the war, Iraq made moves towards a peace settlement, but Khomeini rejected them, saying that Iran would ‘fight until the last drop of blood’. An estimated 1.2 million people died on both sides, yet thirteen years after the final drop of blood was spilled the government still celebrates the beginning of the fighting, with ‘Holy Defence Week’.

The young (under-30s) who form 70 per cent of the population don’t remember much about the war. They care little either, brushing it aside and trying to keep themselves entertained. In Iran today, entertainment is mostly of the home variety. Although banned, many homes have satellites. The Internet, which is not banned but under heavy surveillance, allows the young another entry point to the outside world.

They see what the world has to offer, but can rarely interact. Football offers an outlet to vent their frustration at this debilitating state of affairs. The fact that Iran has a strong team helps. ‘We want the sort of freedom that young people have everywhere else; the freedom to laugh, the freedom to dance, the freedom to celebrate our successes. When we watch Iran play football we feel these freedoms,’ says Amir Mahdian, a 21-year old receptionist and devoted follower of the national side.

The passion that this has generated means football personalities in Iran are bigger than pop stars elsewhere. Ali Daei, the national team captain is a UNICEF ambassador like Geri Halliwell. ‘Daei is a legend to us; he has achieved what every Iranian dreams of, he has accomplished success abroad [with Bayern Munich and Hertha Berlin in the Bundesliga], and he represents his country with pride,’ says Mohammad Heydari, 15, from Tehransar.

Reaching the World Cup finals in 1998 meant that Iran came into contact not only with host nation France, but with the rest of the world. Much more than the chance to score a political point by beating the USA (or rather ‘The Great Satan’), this was an opportunity, and one which the nation and national team grabbed with both hands.

Qualifying for Korea and Japan in 2002 and renewing those tentative contacts with the outside world quickly became an obsession for Iranians. ‘Iran must go to the World Cup, it is necessary; no one can imagine anything else,’ Dariush Kabiri told me in the days leading up to the first qualifier against Saudi Arabia, a game that would give me my first taste of football in Iran.

Walking away from the stadium after that match, I felt a glow of satisfaction I had never felt anywhere else. It was strange, because the Azadi is not a glorious venue, but there was something there. It wasn’t the huge crowd – officially 100,000, but probably closer to 115,000 with all the standing tickets that are illegally sold at the turnstiles – or the propaganda slogans that are plastered between the upper and lower tiers. I just felt proud of ‘our’ boys, and their 2–0 win over a team they had not beaten for five years. Suddenly I, like so many other football fans before, had become absorbed into the throng.

Dreaming in that schoolboy kind of way, about all the possible permutations involved, the one name that kept cropping up was Iraq. Iraq, our most bitter rivals, Iraq the perennial party poopers, Iraq our foe. What surprised me was how laid back most Iranians were about the Iraqis. I thought I’d hear frenzied bouts of expletives and censure. Instead, to a man and woman I heard that ‘the war is the past’, that ‘the Iraqis aren’t so bad’, and that ‘it is only a game after all’. Still, they didn’t hide the fact that beating the Iraqis would be sweeter than beating most other opponents.

Iraq is an Arab country. Iraqis speak Arabic, a language with its roots in Hebrew. Iranians are not Arabs and most do not want to be. Their language is Farsi, derived from northern India over 7,000 years ago. Now, though, twenty-two years after the Shah was overthrown, many Iranians again fear that their national identity is being eroded. This time the threat comes not from the west, but from the Arabisation of Iran favoured by its religious leaders.

Those leaders have become increasingly aware of the strength of feeling the country’s football team generates. When Iran visited Iraq to play the first of the two World Cup qualifiers between the countries, the Islamic Republic of Iran saw an opportunity. These are heroes representing Islam, they wanted to say, figureheads not for Iran, but for Islam.

Because, ironically, the most significant shrines to Shia Muslim (the dominant religion in Iran) are in Iraq, the Iranian national team were sent to visit them – and state TV barely stopped showing the footage. So far as the regime in Tehran was concerned, football was of secondary concern – this was a propaganda tour. So when the team came back with a 2–1 win, having gone a goal down, it was all down to providence. On their return, the players were treated like heroes. They appeared on chat shows, and were asked what it felt like to have ‘conquered’ Iraq.

The process of qualification ticked on. The win against Iraq had given Iran a comfortable three-point cushion over second-placed Bahrain, and four over Saudi Arabia, who were beginning to show some form. Indifferent performances against Thailand and Bahrain resulted in a pair of draws though, and with the Saudis registering significant wins against the same opponents, Iran suddenly trailed by two points. The saving grace was that they had a game in hand.

A heroic display in Jeddah against the Saudis earned Iran a 2–2 draw and kept them on course for automatic qualification, but the return game against the Iraqis now took on a completely new dimension and importance. It was make or break, ninety minutes in which Iran’s fate might be decided. A defeat or a draw and the Saudis would be in the driving seat. The game in hand would be wasted and the two-point deficit might not be bridgeable.

Suddenly the level of rhetoric increased. True the Iraqis had lost to the Saudis the previous week and would now only be playing for pride, but most Iranians felt this would make them even more dangerous. The ambivalence of previous weeks turned into a tangible hostility. Iran has no fewer than eight dedicated sports dailies and their polemic tone put into shade anything the tabloids in England have ever been guilty of. No ‘Achtung, For You Ze War Is Over’; instead, ‘Now the War Begins in Earnest’ was the calmest headline any of the papers managed in the days leading up to this crucial match.

The fans were no less reluctant about letting their feelings be known. Masood Zamani, a farmer, had left his land two days prior to the game to come to Tehran and soak up the atmosphere. ‘I have been watching them for a long time. This is the best team we’ve had since the one that went to Argentina [in 1978]. When I watch them I feel proud to be Iranian. It is important for us to be successful, because we need to find a place for ourselves in the world. Most other ways are closed to us.’

Women are not allowed to attend football matches but Saeedeh and Samira Shojaiepour, students from the city of Karaj, just outside Tehran, would be there in spirit. ‘We will pray for a good game and we will pray that the manager makes good choices and most of all we will pray that Iran win and go to the World Cup.’

Again and again I heard how essential Iran reaching the World Cup finals was, how young people loved football so passionately because it allowed them to express feelings about their national identity that in so many other walks of life had become taboo. ‘The older generation do not understand our need to be different from them,’ said Saeedeh and Samira. If we hate the Iraqis it’s only because they can stop us from getting to Japan, not because our parents fought a war against them.’