Punks, Mullets, Anarchists, Drugs……. and football? Ah, it must be Rayo Vallecano January 26, 2010

Fine examples of the quality of haircuts on display at a Rayo game

El Estadio Teresa Rivero - missing a stand

During my year in Spain I escaped Pamplona for a long weekend and went to visit Madrid. As soon as I got off the coach and experienced the hustle and bustle and excitement of a city that breathes life (in contrast to Pamplona which exorcises it) I realised I wanted to live here.  So at the end of June I secured a teaching job in Madrid and  began looking forward to living in one of the most exciting cities in Europe.

And what of the football in Madrid? Who would I follow in a city which boasts three teams in La Liga? Well, it was never going to be Real Madrid, the biggest team in Europe, with their impatient and ever demanding fans, their fascist ultras and their belief that they have a divine right to the best players in the world and to win every trophy.

Atletico? Well, I’d have them over Madrid any day of the week but at the same time they’re a huge club and also have fascist ultras whose vile behaviour I witnessed with my own eyes at Athletic Bilbao last season.

Getafe? The team from the suburbs of Southern Madrid have only existed since the 70s on the back of recent large investment and although made headlines by getting to the semi finals of the UEFA cup and the final of the Copa Del Rey recently, they still don’t really have that much of a soul.

No, the team for me in Madrid would be the least obvious choice: Rayo Vallecano, The club hail from the ultra proud working class borough of Vallecas, only a few metro stops south of the city centre. Last season they courted controversy with the arrest of right back Carlos de la Vega in connection with a truck stopped by police containing 600kg of cocaine. While Mr de la Vaga was in custody Rayo brought in Jorge Andújar Moreno to fill in for the disgraced Spaniard. All of which would not be worth mentioning did his replacement not have his nickname – ‘Coke’ – on the back of his shirt.

Rayo might not play in La Liga or have a bulging trophy cabinet, but what they may lack in success they compensate for in soul and the dedication of their loyal fan base, which is the main thing that attracted them to me. And I’m not going to lie, their prices didn’t hurt either. A season ticket behind the goal was €90, and individual tickets in that section €15, so I worked out that if I went to more than six games it’d be worth my while buying a season ticket, so I did, and began a fortnightly tradition of getting the metro to Portazgo station, only a handful of stops from the city centre. As you walk out of the station you are literally next to the stadium. For a second I hilariously thought I was next to a Dia supermarket due to the Red and White diagnol stripe painted onto a wall, and then I looked up, saw the roof of the ground and realised I wouldn’t have to ask any locals for directions. My decision has provoked great surprise at every Spaniard I meet. ‘Oh my God’ was one student’s reply when I proudly showed him my season ticket, ‘Rayo Vallecano are like a school team’ was another response I heard, but I took inspiration from Millwall’s ‘no-one likes us, we don’t care’ attitude and looked forward to my first outing watching this unique team.

The first game of my season with Rayo is against Real Union, a club from the Basque/French border town of Irun, who made headlines last year after knocking Real Madrid out of the Copa Del Rey.  Me and three  fellow guiri (Spanish word for foreign tourists) Rayistas survey the local clientele in a  typically narrow Spanish bar (about three feet wide) which just wasn’t designed to cope with the demand that boozy football fans bring, and marvel at the fact that we get tapas with our tiny beers, an idea not yet filtered through to the pubs surrounding English grounds.

Once our shots of beer are consumed we spend an age scrummaging through the only entrance to our seats (although I still don’t know where my seat is, as the seats in the stand behind the goal don’t even have numbers – everyone stands wherever they want) and get to observe from the inside the stadium in all its glory. El Stadio Teresa Rivero, named after the club’s batty President, the first female president of an elite Spanish club is rather unique. It consists of two decent sized, two tiered stands on either side of the pitch, a roofless, smallish single tiered stand behind one of the goals – where the Ultras, nicknamed The Bucaneers gather, and a massive wall behind the other, advertising mattresses.

So the game kicks off, our new favourite team wearing white shirts with a red diagnol stripe across the middle – earning them the nickname ‘The Red Stripes’.

Three players grab our attention – Ruben Castro,  the striker on loan from Deportivo who gets the first goal of the game; Movilla, the slaphead midfield anchorman who pulls all the strings, and winger Quero, although the latter doesn’t stand out for his talents, but more for the way he looks: he’s absolutely tiny,  measuring up at just 5ft 3in. The pint sized winger shows potential due to his pace but every time he seems to beat a man for pace he is shoved off the ball moments later and appears to be just too lightweight, as his sporadic appearance in the team as the season goes on will prove.

After ten or so minutes of one of the dullest halves I’ve witnessed in a while, our attention soon turns to our new fellow supporters, and what a weird and interesting bunch they are. On looking at the average Rayo Vallecano supporter you’d be forgiven for thinking you were actually at a heavy metal concert, such is the array of mullets, perms, leather jackets and Metallica t shirts on display. n fourteen years of going to football in England I can count the number of punks and metalheads I’ve seen on one hand, but in my first Rayo game I need a calculator to take stock of all the alternative looking people around me.  Whoever said mullets are a thing of the past forgot to tell Rayo’s fans, as almost one in three men has a ‘business at the front, party at the back’ approach to their hairdo, and the crimes against fashion don’t stop there, with bum bags and double denim being sported by more than a few supporters. All this  proves a bit too much for my English companions, who presume that no-one in the ground  understands their language, and are loudly discussing and laughing at a mulletted man in front of them during half time. ‘Stop taking the piss out of my mate’, shouts his permed companion. ‘No, we’re not laughing at him, we’re laughing at the substitutes, I swear’ is my friend’s quick and admirable response but it fails to convince two rather pissed off men who look like members of Iron Maiden rather than stereotypical football fans. 45 minutes into the season, and we’ve already made enemies.

Like FC St Pauli in Hamburg, following Rayo for many people is more than just watching a team kick a ball around, it’s a political statement. A giant Che Guevara flag is waved at every game and the ultras have strong ties to the anti-fascist movement.

And it’s not just that Rayo’s fans are punks, but that punks are also Rayo fans,: Vallecas ska punk band Ska – P have written two songs about their local team, one of which is sung at most games, with the defiant words:

“We are anarchists, drunks, antifascists and revolutionaries.  Fascists, get the fuck out of town’.

And this isn’t even telling half the story of how great Rayo’s fans are. The Ultras behind the goal have two men with microphones who barely watch the game and spend the whole time directing the crowd to sing, sometimes forcing everyone to get down on their hands and knees and then jump up and pogo on the count of three, shouting ‘all the stadium has to go crazy’ and singling out those who do not sing. And let’s not forget flagman, who spends the whole game waving a giant red and white flag, often smoking a joint, and always topless, come rain or shine. Nor the moment when one eager fan, intent on not paying to watch the game, ascends the wall behind the goal opposite us and climbs into the West stand. The stewards must have seen him but rather than apprehend him, they turn a blind eye to it, clearly impressed by his guile.

With all this excitement of the terraces, it’s easy to forget that there’s a match of football going on today, such is the poor quality of the game. Eventually Rayo comfortably win 2-0, with each goal greeted by Europe’s ‘The Final Countdown’. The victory sees Rayo continue their promising start to the season in which they will be aiming for promotion to the Primera Liga for the first time since 2003, which if it occurs, would inject a lot of character into Spain’s top division.

El Derbi Madrileño – White Masters, Red and White Disasters. December 25, 2009

Sergio Ramos sends Aguero tumbling

It’s been a captivating start to the season for the Spanish capital’s principal sides, so what better time then, for the Madrid derby?

Madrid's players congratulate Kaka on his golazo

If I’ve learnt one thing from reading the Spanish press, both sport and political, it’s that the best loved headline is ‘CRISIS’. Whether it be economic, political, football or non-existant, the Iberian press lap it up. It’s been locked on the front pages for the best part of the year in relation to the Spanish economy, and it’s been getting just as much attention in the Madrid Sports dailies in the last few weeks, aimed at the capitals two biggest teams, who face each other tonight.

With Atletico the word, although used a little too frequently, couldn’t be more appropriate. The club are ridden with debt, didn’t buy anyone new in the summer, have only won one league game all season, are already out of the Champions League and are currently in the relegation zone, with the worst defence in the league to boot.  Oh, and they’ve just sacked their manager, but so imminent was the departure of Abel Resino that it’s almost not worth mentioning. However ,with Real Madrid the sports press are doing what they do best: exaggerating a small blip to look like a disaster and piling pressure on the manager.

Real had a cracking start to the season, their €220m summer spending spree paying off handsomely, winning their first six league games, with world record signing Cristiano Ronaldo scoring in each. Then came what everyone connected with the club feared – and everyone else was hoping for – an injury to their Portugese galactico. Madrid then lost to title rivals Seville away from home which in reality wasn’t a disastrous result ,and then drew nil-nil at Sporting Gijon. If the knives were being sharpened after a defeat to AC Milan at home in the Champions League then they were well and truly being aimed at new coach Manuel Pelligrini’s back when the Spanish giants were embarrassingly thumped 4-0 in the first round of the Copa Del Rey by lowly Alcorcon, who play two tiers below Real Madrid, in same league as their youth team.

Never mind the fact that as harrowing as the defeat was, the Copa Del Rey was always a third priority, nor that Madrid are still only a point behind Barcelona, as well as in a good position to qualify for the Champions League – this is the club that sacked Fabio Capello after he delivered the first title for four years because he didn’t win it beautifully, and which gave Vicente Del Bosque his marching orders just months after winning the Champions League because he ‘wasn’t a big name’.  Then again, when there are two football papers which write around fifteen pages a day solely about Real Madrid, the position of the manager is always going to be talked about.

In terms of historical success, the two clubs are pretty close when compared with the rest of Spain – both clubs are among the top four most successful sides alongside Athletic Bilbao and Barcelona. However when you put them alongside each other, they’re world’s apart. Atleti have won nine league titles (most recently in 1995-96) compared to Real’s colossal thirty one, and can boast just one European trophy, while el equipo blanco have eleven.

In terms of support, the whites outnumber the red and whites in the  capital and all over the country, not to mention the world. In Spain, however, it’s very common to support your local team and then to support either Madrid or Barcelona as well, so Atletico can claim to have more genuine fans than Real, and certainly have a greater percentage of local fans. They could also claim to be more loyal – they travel to away games in greater numbers than Real do (although you’ll find the home end of any stadium that Real are playing in awash with local Madridistas) and in my experience, make a lot more noise, and don’t boo their side nearly as much, despite having ample reason to do so. It’s quite common for fans at the Bernabeu to boo their side even when they’re winning, and the stadium has its fair share of tourists and day trippers who don’t really have a clue. But make no mistake, Atletico, like the inferior teams of most big city derbies, are still a colossal club which have their fair share of foreign fans and supporters from outside of their locality, and with waning levels of loyalty, while Real no doubt have a vast number of clued up, loyal fans too.

The champions league games in the week before El Derbi has raised expectations in both camps: Madrid played their best football for several weeks in their 1-1 draw in Milan, while Atletico fought back to get a late 2-2 draw against Premiership leaders Chelsea. Although it wasn’t enough to prevent their exit from the competition, at least they did so with dignity.

Going into the tie Real are the clear favourites. Although they haven’t been as perfect as their fan base demands, they’re fifteen points ahead of their cross town rivals and haven’t lost a derby for over ten years. Nonetheless, there is belief that under new manager Quique Sanchez Flores (incidentally a former Real player) Atletico have improved and some believe the stage is set for an end to the ten year wait. What better inspiration to escape the lows of recent weeks than to beat Madrid, as Kun Aguero so eloquently put it: “it’s an ideal way to get out of our fucked situation”.

So, the stage is set for a partidazo, a great game. I set off early on this cold Saturday night for the Vicente Calderon, home of Atleti, to get a feel for the atmosphere and see if any ticket turns up for reasonable money. Strangely, the derby hadn’t sold out the day before the game. With the cheapest ticket priced at €70 perhaps a lot of Atleti fans thought that it was a lot of money to pay to see their bitter rivals  more than likely rub salt into their already seething wounds. In spite of this, the atmosphere leading up to the awfully located stadium doesn’t appear to be tainted at all.

Large groups of fans gathering around the nearby bars are in jovial mood, and whoever thought of selling Alcorcon (the lower division minnows who battered Real last week) scarves is counting his money gleefully, with many home fans adding the village team’s yellow colours to the red and white of their main team.

Closer to the ground the atmosphere has reached fever pitch. Thousands of Atletico fans have been gathered in a square doing ‘botellon’ – binge drinking in the street – for some hours and now the chants of ‘Madridistas, hijos de puta’ (Madrid, sons of whores) are being belted out with some gusto, along with flares and firecrackers. A line of riot police are watching with interest, but there’s no Madridistas to be found round here.

A quick look at the two teams’ stadia and their corresponding surrounding areas speaks volumes about the clientele of each team’s support. Madrid’s Santiago Bernabeu stadium is located in the financial district of the city and is surrounded by high rise corporate headquarters and frequented during the week by smartly dressed business people. Atletico’s Vicente Calderon on the other hand is slap bang in the middle of an industrial estate on one side and a motorway on the other.  Subsequently the stereotype goes that los pijos – the posh and trendy people of Madrid  – follow Real, while los obreros, the workers, support Atleti.

Back outside the ground I do a lap of the stadium and catch the glance of a tout.  ‘entrada?’ he whispers. ‘mmm, maybe’ I reply. €100s his offer, and ‘Fuck that’ is my response. He quickly knocks his asking price down to €50,  €20 below the face value of the cheapest ticket, and now I’m tempted. Not completely trusting the validity of the ticket I insist he walks round to the entrance with me, and right in front of the security guard he scans the ticket at the turnstyle and takes my money. I’m about to watch one of the biggest footballing derbies in Europe for under the normal price – result.

Despite its hideous surroundings, there’s something rather special about El Calderon. It’s got a simple design of two tiers the whole way round and although it lacks a roof it’s very susceptible to a good atmosphere. This is thanks to the noise made by the boisterous fans behind the goal at the north side of the stadium, Fondo Norte, home to the ‘Frente Atleti’ ultras. The stand is covered with red and white flags and as the game kicks off everyone is on their feet, willing their team on to beat their arrogant neighbours, whose 1000 or so ‘Ultra Sur’ supporters are located at the top of the South Stand. The game begins pretty evenly but soon enough the difference in class shows as Atleti’s defence gets mugged  outside their own box by the colossal Diarra and the ball falls into the path of Kaka who quickly dispatches it beautifully into the corner of Atleti’s net.  We’re five minutes in and Atleti are already a goal down. It could be a long night.

For all the talk of the hatred between the two sides, a fair few Real fans sitting in the home end erupt when their team scores and seem to get away with it. You can’t do that in many English derbies and although the atmosphere here is pretty good it does lack the bile of other derbies I have been to. The venom however is soon turned up when Real score again, a neat interchange between Benzema and Marcelo fooling the rojiblanco defence before the latter rifles into the roof of the goal. The cocky Brazilian celebrates with a jig and then sticks his tongue out to the home supporters who greet this act of arrogance with a volley of verbal abuse.

The second goal should have come earlier and would have done had it not been for some smart saves from ‘keeper Asenjo who kept out long range efforts from Pepe and Sergio Ramos. Atleti can only muster a couple of poor efforts on goal before the break and as the two teams go into their dressing rooms various scuffles can be seen around the stadium, whether they are between some invasive Madridistas and home fans or just home fans in-fighting isn’t clear, the latter scenario being just as likely in these desperate times.

The home side look slightly better in the second half but then collapse again and hand their rivals a goal on a plate. Centre back Perea collects the ball from his keeper, takes far too many touches and then finds Madrid striker Higuain on his case, who easily dispossesses him and then slots the ball past Asenjo’s legs, piling yet more misery onto Atleti. Moments later the game is stopped as Manuel Pellegrini is seen clutching his face after being hit by an unknown object. He looks more shocked than injured and soon the match restarts with the Chilean still on his feet, shouting orders at his players.

A faint glimmer hope for Atleti arrives in the form of Aguero – said to be slightly injured – from the bench, and his impact is immediate, racing through the Madrid defence only to be stopped by a lunging tackle from Sergio Ramos, who is sent off for his troubles. Moments later a rejuvenated Atleti get a goal when Forlan, so far having a poor game, slots in from close range to give his team a chance. And then a minute later, Atleti get another goal, Aguero racing through the defence again and brushing Pepe off him like a fly and beating Casillas. From 0-3 down to 2-3 in a flash, it’s game on. They’ve got two goals in a minute, surely getting one in the remaining ten is doable?

The crowd roars on its encouragement and the excitement is tangible, if Atleti can get an equalizer it will go down in history as one of the greatest derby comebacks ever. They throw all they have at a worn out Madrid and get a goal, but it’s flagged offside, killing the momentary jubilation. Moments later Simao squanders a close range volley and then Iker Casillas uses his legs to deny Forlan at the death.  A minute later the ref’s final whistle brings a familiar sound to the ears of Atleti fans, that of defeat, once again, to their neighbours from the North. The day after the game, Marca’s headline screams ‘Saint Iker saves Pelligrini’ underlining the pressure at this club that demands that only winning is good enough, and even then, sometimes it isn’t.

The ups and downs of this scintillating game paints a perfect portrait of the two teams. In the case of Atletico, at times catastrophic, at times heroic, but, ultimately, a failure. For Real Madrid, the game highlighted the glimmers of brilliance they are capable of,  yet warned them of their vulnerability to disaster, yet their ability to take three points out of a testing game. As the sides leave El Calderon, Real are just a point off league leaders Barca, while Atletico remain in the drop zone. How the rest of the season pans out for both sides in their drastically different positions will be fascinating.

Pamplona, Pigs and Pandiani – A Season with Osasuna October 11, 2009

 

Walter 'El Rifle' Pandiani, who's 20 League Goals were an inspiration

Patxi Puñal with his future dinner

Before I accepted a job teaching English in Pamplona, I had to find something out. Did they have a football team? I hadn’t heard of CF Pamplona before, but I found out that Osasuna was the team of Pamplona, which rang a few bells, and gave me the assurance that, if Pamplona turned out to be an awful city (it did, for the record) I would at least have a football team to follow. As it turned out, Osasuna would be a good metaphor for my year in Pamplona – not a very good one, but with a happy ending.

 

The team’s name has no relation to its locality. Osasuna simply means ‘health’ in Basque, all the more confusing when the club isn’t officially in the Basque country, but let’s stray away from that can of worms for now.

Given the size of Pamplona (200,000 inhabitants) it’s not surprising that Osasuna are a pretty small club. They’ve spent the majority of their history in between the Premier and second divisions of Spain, yet haven’t been outside the top flight since getting promoted in 2000. Their golden period was season 2005/06 when they achieved fourth spot and qualification for the Champions league, an incredible achievement for a club of their size and stature. They didn’t make it into the group stages of the Champions League but had a fantastic run in the UEFA Cup in 2006/07, overcoming Bordeaux, Glasgow Rangers and Bayer Leverkusen, losing to fellow Spaniards Sevilla in the semi finals. They have had a small English connection in the past – between 1986 and 1989 the team boasted Liverpool European Cup Winners Sammy Lee and Michael Robinson among their ranks.  The players are seen as legends in the eyes of Osasuna supporters as they inspired the team to finishing fourth and fifth respectively in seasons 86/87 and 87/88. However, one of my students tells me ‘Robinson is best remembered for getting drunk and chasing women’.

Narrowly avoiding relegation on the final day of the season of 2007/08, Osasuna began 2008/09 badly, dismissing manager Jose Angel Ziganda in early October, appointing former Real Madrid and Spain coach Jose Antonio Camacho. The appointment is well received and many fans turn up to his first few training sessions, giving the club a new lease of life. When I arrived in Pamplona in mid October Osasuna were at the foot of the table, without a win. I went down to their stadium for the first time in November, for the visit of high flying Atletico Madrid.  There are several interesting things about the club’s ground. For a start, it’s the only stadium in La Liga to have changed its name for commercial purposes. In 2005 ‘El Sadar’, named after a Navarran river near the stadium became ‘El Reyno de Navarra’, the stadium now effectively being sponsored by the local tourist industry.  The move didn’t go down well with the supporters but was eventually accepted as necessary due to the lack of money the club had.  And better to be sponsored by a local industry than by Emirates Airlines.

It’s location is rather strange as well, sharing land with the public University on the outskirts of the city. The stadium itself, built in 1967, is fairly dated and not especially aesthetically pleasing, yet its compactness and proximity to the pitch makes for an intimidating atmosphere, known by the local press as the ‘twelfth man’. Indeed, so close are the supporters to the pitch that you can actually smell the grass.

The game finishes 0-0, the home side having the best opportunity to score after being awarded a penalty for a truly theatrical dive, but Javier Portillo, once an exciting prospect at Real Madrid, later somewhat of a joke at Osasuna, passes the ball into the hands of the Atletico keeper from the spot.  The failure to convert this stroke of fortune into something substantial was to be a recurring theme of their season.

My next trip to ‘El Reyno’ was for the second leg of the Copa Del Rey against Getafe. Although it’s Spain’s only cup competition, the majority of teams treat it more like Premiership teams treat the Carling Cup (except for Spurs). Both sides field weakened sides, the forthcoming league games deemed a higher priority. The game gives Osasuna their first victory of the season, being literally gifted a goal after the Getafe keeper fails to clear properly. Even so, scorer Walter Pandiani makes hard work of a pedestrian goal, almost shooting wide of the gaping net.

The Navarrans have to wait a bit longer for their first league win, which comes with a 3-1 win  at the end of November against fellow strugglers Almeria at El Reyno. In their next home game against Valladolid they take a 3-0 lead and the tide appears to be turning, only for them to squander it by conceding three goals, snatching a draw from the jaws of victory. At this stage, it seems that for Osasuna,  if something is too good to be true, it usually is.  They do however manage to beat Getafe once again in the final game before the Christmas break, entering the festive season with high hopes for the New Year.

And they needed to be hopeful, with their next four opponents – Sevilla, Barca, Real Madrid and Villarreal – all competing at the top of the table. After taking a respectful point from their trip to Andalucia, they host the Catalan high flyers, who play them off the park for the first half, Osasuna barely touching the ball. However a battling second half performance  results in the impossible, Osasuna leading Barcelona 2-1, the stadium erupting when Pandiani puts them ahead. But, such is the nature of both team’s seasons, Barca come back to win 3-2, a superb goal by Lionel Messi in the dying minutes cruelly destroying all the hard work done by Camacho’s men.

If even this wasn’t enough to suggest that this wasn’t to be Osasuna’s year, then the following week’s trip  to the Bernabeau would have convinced even the most optimistic of optimists that they were doomed. Despite taking an early and deserved lead, they lose the game 3-1, due to two catastrophic errors by ‘keeper Roberto and have two nailed on penalty claims turned down, the second resulting in the dismissal of Juanfran, a former Real Madrid player, for protesting the decision. It would appear that God had a grudge against the reds.

If anything, however, the injustice of it all serves as an inspiration for the rest of the season, and they take twelve points from their next six games, including a victory against the mighty Valencia. Next comes the short (by Spanish standards) trip to Santander to face Racing, and my first away game, courtesy of my new friend Fernando, who works as a commentator for local radio station COPE Pamplona. Fernando has the rather enviable job of travelling to commentate on every single Osasuna game, and gets paid to be as biased as he pleases. Which, being from Pamplona, is very, very biased.

It’s a truly miserable day in Santander, the rain beating down hard on the players, whose performance is similarly dismal. The home side take the league from a long range goal and send their fans into a frenzy, which is superbly silenced by a goal ten minutes later from Pandiani, whose nickname ‘The Rifle’ seems most appropriate here,  his header piercing the net like a bullet. The silence is hilariously broken by the frantic shouts of ‘GOL GOL GOL GOL GOL’ by Fernando who happens to be sitting next to me, microphone in hand, slap bang in the middle of the home supporters, previously unaware of his presence, but who now glare at him with utter contempt. The game ends all square and is followed by a disappointing defeat at home to fellow relegation strugglers Sporting Gijon and a dull nil-nil draw with Real Betis, also in the thick of the scrap for survival. A fantastic turnaround that looked to have steered Osasuna away from relegation had hit a snag, and the threat of going down loomed once again. The club needed a boost, something to inspire them once again. And it came in the form of a pig. No, not a metaphor to describe former player Sammy Lee, but a real, actual pig.

Or, more accurately, twelve of them. Navarran farmer Luis Miguel Arraztoa offered the team twelve of his finest pigs for a team roast (as in roast dinner, not a Frank Lampard/ Kieron Dyer style roast) if they beat Espanyol at home, another crunch survival game. It’s not the first time that pigs had played a role in Osasuna’s fortunes. In the 1980s the clubs’ supporters had a large amount of disdain for Real Madrid star Juanito. When said player came to Osasuna to play for Madrid, a group of home fans smuggled in a live pig – wearing a Real Madrid shirt with Juanito’s number on the back – onto the pitch during the match, to express what they thought of him.

In the game in question against Espanyol, it looked like the pigs would be spared with the game poised at 0-0 with 90 minutes on the clock, until Iranian midfielder Nekounam headed home from six yards out, giving them a much needed three points, and a much deserved pork dinner to celebrate. As fate would have it, Nekounam, hero of the match and saviour of the feast, as a Muslim, would not be able to partake in it.

There must have been something in the bacon, as a week later the reds did what they hadn’t done for over a year – win away from home. And not just sneak a win, but utterly outplay fourth placed Atletico Madrid, romping to a 4-2 victory. They then make it three wins on the bounce by defeating Basque neighbours Athletic Bilbao. Osasuna’s minds are put at ease, relegation now seeming an unlikely scenario, especially with a relatively straightforward run of fixtures, discarding the last two, Barca and Real Madrid.

But, refusing to do anything the easy way, the Navarrans slide into a disastrous run of form, just when they needed to get results at the business end of the season. They lose 3-2 at home in a fiery contest at home to Malaga which sees three of their players sent off, and then throw away the lead against bottom of the table minnows Recreativo Huelva, missing an array of chances when leading 1-0 and then unbelievably conceding a sloppy goal in stoppage time to lose a game they looked certain to win. I watch this game from the comfort of the Osasuna commentators’ box, and Fernando turns off his microphone to unleash a barrage of Spanish expletives and kicks the glass of the commentary box when the final whistle goes. I struggle to contain my laughter, but the plight of Osasuna is anything but amusing.

And so attention turns to an away trip to Getafe and a show of solidarity from the team’s long suffering supporters, a rare entity in a country with very impatient and demanding fans who often boo their team and wave handkerchiefs when things go wrong. Yet, despite many reasons to do so, Osasuna fans never boo their team. They keep on yelling their encouragement until the final whistle and have a decent away following compared to many of their counterparts. Nonetheless, the band of Osasunistas that travel to Getafe for this make or break game makes headlines round the country for its size: 3,000 fans making the five hour trip to south Madrid. And they might have wondered why they bothered, seeing their team collapse to a 3-0 defeat, hope of survival all but faded.

So, to the last three games of the season: Sevilla (in 3^rd place) at home, Barcelona (1^st) away and Real Madrid (2^nd) at home, at least six points needed for survival, possibly more. When I saw the run in they had, I was convinced they were doomed. But, I had forgotten one crucial factor: the history of the end of the season in Spain and how sometimes, when one side doesn’t need to win, favours are called in. Fernando, on the eve of Real Madrid vs Barcelona, a game that will all but decide the title should Barca win, explains: ‘teams have good relationships with clubs in their locality. In Andalucia, for example, if Almeria are playing Huelva and Huelva need to win, Almeria will play a weaker team and won’t try as hard. Although it is not quite official, everyone knows it goes on. So this weekend everyone associated with Osasuna is hoping for a Barca win in El Clasico so the title will be over by the time we play them, meaning they won’t care about letting us win. It also means Real Madrid won’t be that determined to beat us either on the last game of the season.’ So rife is this attitude, that in the past teams that haven’t had any motive to win have to have been given one: a financial one. On the final day of the 2006/07 season, a desperate Barcelona allegedly offered Mallorca money if they beat title rivals Real Madrid. Although there’s nothing wrong with asking a team to win a game, it seems strange – at least to a fan who’s used to teams playing to win on the final day of the season even if it doesn’t affect their final position in the league – that they need to be paid to do so. I tell Fernando of my memories of West Ham playing for their lives to deny Manchester United the Premier League title in 1995. He replies with a smile: “Who won the league that year? Blackburn? They paid West Ham, I’m certain of it”.  I however have faith in the sporting nature of the English game, or to be more precise, the hatred West Ham have for Manchester United.

Anyway, back to May 2009, and Osasuna are in the Nou Camp for the crowning of champions Barcelona, who won the league mathematically two weeks ago and have the final of the Champions league in four days time to think about. Sure enough, Barca play a team without any of the players who have won them the league, and Osasuna get their victory – the irrepressible Pandiani getting the winner.

And so, to the final day of the season, and with the league and Champions League spots tied up, all attention turns to who will take the final relegation spot along with Huelva and Numancia. Anyone of Real Betis, Valladolid, Sporting Gijon or Osasuna could go down. Osasuna occupy the final relegation spot. A win will guarantee them survival, a defeat relegation, and a draw would mean praying that other results went their way, which, given the climate of end of season favours, seems a bad choice. I’m at the Reyno with two hours before kick off and the sun is shining, thousands of fans are drinking outside the stadium, brass bands are playing and the mood seems to be a positive one. The fans are sure Osasuna will beat the hated Madrid and secure another year in the top flight, which they have been in, uninterrupted, for almost ten years. A soundsystem from one of the bars attached to the ground emits a song titled ‘yo no bajo’ (I won’t be relegated), the winner of a competition ran by local paper El Diario de Navarra in support of their campaign of the same name which began in January, which mainly consisted of photographing local people with ‘yo no bajo’ t shirts. Would it help them stay up? It certainly gives an air of optimism today when just two weeks ago all looked lost.

The game kicks off  and Real Madrid, although with nothing to play for do nonetheless field a strong side. And with them being the team Osasuna hate the most, you might think they’d do their best to condemn the cheeky Navarrans to La Segunda. And although Osasuna begin the game the brighter of the two, it is the men from Madrid who take the lead. Higuain, Real’s only real bright spark from an otherwise disappointing season powers into the box from the right hand side to strike the ball past former Manchester United ‘kepper Ricardo and into the Osasuna net. An awful start to the afternoon.

On such big occasions, you need a bit of luck, or as a cynic might say, a favour. Whatever you want to call it, Osasuna get it. Czech midfielder Plasil picks the ball up on the left wing from yards out, cuts inside and delivers what can only be described as an opportunistic effort, against arguably the best keeper in the world, yet it slips underneath Casillas and into the back of the net. Would Iker have committed such a careless mistake had Real still been in the title race? No-one in Navarra seems to care for the answer to that one, and the dream of ‘yo no bajo’ re-emerges. Game on. And only a few minutes later and they should be in front, Juan Fran, sent off in the game at the Bernabeau, blazing over from six yards out after Real fail to clear. Only moments later, Casillas goes from Osasuna hero to villain, saving from centre back Puñal at point blank range. Then it’s Madrid’s turn to attack as Raul’s shot is deflected narrowly over the bar and then Higauin’s opportunistic lob is comfortably saved by Ricardo. There’s time for one more piece of drama before the interval though as Masoud’s shot from the edge of the area is hoofed off the Madrid goalline by Marcelo. Is it going to be one of those days?

A frantic start to the second half sees Robben, Marcelo and Pandiani all go close to scoring for Real but the real turning point arrives when Madrid’s Salgado is given his marching orders for a last man challenge on Plasil. A huge boost is given to the Navarrans and their supporters who gleefully jeer the departing player. Once more, there is hope. Yet once again, there is a fantastic save from Casillas, this time denying centre back Flaño from three yards out. But cometh the hour, cometh the man. And who else should it be but the villain from the game at the Bernabeau and former Madrid player Juan Fran, who smashes in a thunderous volley from outside the box that sends the home crowd into a sense of delerium. With half an hour to go and against ten men, Osasuna believe now more than ever the words ‘I won’t be relegated’.

Instead of playing the cautious game and trying to ride out the victory, they seek to kill it off and would have done had it not been for another save from Casillas and had Plasil’s header been an inch or two lower below the crossbar. And they almost regret it, as a Van der Vaart free kick is pushed away by Ricardo and then Raul squanders the rebound. It’s heart wrenching stuff as the clock winds down. Nerves are cooled as substitute Hunterlaar is sent off only a few moments after coming on with two minutes to go, and then the sound all 19,000 fans are longing for arrives: the final whistle and the sound of salvation. Against the odds, dead in the water at Christmas and then looking absolutely hopeless just two weeks ago, Camacho’s men have somehow pulled it off.

And so the party begins, firstly with a good ol’ fashioned pitch invasion. Then it’s onto the Plaza Castilla, normally dead on a Sunday night, but tonight the centre of the party. A modestly sized and rather conservative city, Pamplona isn’t known for its wild parties, but when they have a reason to party, boy do they enjoy themselves. All the surrounding bars play Osasuna songs on repeat to the delight of their gloriously pissed punters. Festivities continue long into the night, many offices expecting a low turn out on Monday morning.

The party continues in a bar/nightclub just on the edge of the centre of town, and soon all the players arrive, dancing the night away, letting their hair alongside replica shirt clad, flag waving supporters. Towards the end of the night the standard Spanish pop music is put on hold in favour of Osasuna songs and a big screen showing key moments in their recent history.  Players and supporters, together, off their faces, singing and dancing to football songs. It’s a great way to end a rollercoaster year, but no-one at the club will expect anything other than a relegation scrap again come next season.

The Boys From The Basque Country – A Trip to San Mames to watch Athletic Bilbao take on Atletico Madrid September 20, 2009

Fernando Llorente, one of Athletic's few stars, but is he actually Basque?

Historically Spain’s third most successful club, Athletic Bilbao appear to be stuck in a footballing rut they can’t get out of. This is largely due to the changing tide of modern football, and the club’s refusal to be swept up in its waves. This makes the club and its supporters all the more endearing

When I tell friends and acquaintances that I’ve been spending the last year in Spain, they presume I’m spending my days relaxing on a scorching beach, working up a tan, listening to flamenco, eating paella, sipping sangria and meeting vibrant and stunning women. The vast majority of Spain doesn’t fit this description, as indeed the majority of stereotypes about many countries fall wide of the mark. When you arrive in Bilbao, it seems to have more in common with Manchester than Malaga. It’s mid May but the sky is murky and grey. The streets are busy but there is no buzz about the place. What does strike you about it, however, is the presence of large Athletic Bilbao flags, adorning countless balconies of apartment buildings and visible in nearly every bar you see, even the ones aimed at a more middle class clientele.

Recently, Athletic haven’t had much to shout about in terms of success on the pitch. Yet the pride the city has for its only club is impossible to ignore. And this pride isn’t confined just to its locality either. Bilbao have more ‘penas’ (supporters clubs) in Spain than Barcelona and Madrid, not to mention those from abroad, boasting clubs in Venezuela, Mexico, the U.S and Sweden. Whilst they can’t attract the level of short term attention that recently successful clubs like Chelsea do, they garner a more solid respect from people who believe a football club should have something more to it than Hollywood style players.

If Bilbao are no longer renowned around the world for their recent footballing achievements (their last piece of silverware came in 1984), they compensate by being the only remaining professional team in the world that only selects players from their own country. It would be hard enough for any team to have much success in the current climate of top level football with a no foreigners policy, but Athletic’s plight is made ever harder by the fact that what they deem foreign is anyone from outside the Basque country,  (a region defined by most Basques, albeit not by the Spanish government, as four Spanish provinces and three French ones) a demographic of only three million people. Some of the clubs detractors say that they define ‘Basque’ loosely – players from outside the region but with Basque relatives have played for the club, and controversy surrounds the legibility of star striker Fernando Llorente , who was born in a hospital in Pamplona, then allegedly driven straight back to La Rioja the next day, where he grew up. Nonetheless, the club are severely hindered by their selection policy and the challenge they face of competing in the Spanish Primera Division would be similar to a Premiership side only selecting players from Wales.

If a sugar daddy of Abramovic or Abu Dhabi proportions was to take up the Presidency of the club tomorrow, his money would not be of much use. The only big name players he’d be able to attract would be Xavi Alonso and Raul Garcia. To make matters worse, due to the relatively low quality of football the club has been playing recently, they are unable to even attract the best Basque players. Why would Xavi Alonso (from San Sebastian in the Basque Country), challenging for the Premier League and Champions League with Liverpool each year, join an annual relegation dog fight with Athletic? It would be a great story if he did, but it’s unlikely he ever would. If he did hold his Basque pride dearer than his own ambition to win trophies, he would surely return to his former club Real Sociedad, who play in San Sebastian. In fact, Sociedad also used to have a ‘Basques only’ policy, but it ended in 1989 with the signing of John Aldridge. This began a new policy whereby the club could sign any player, apart from non-Basque Spaniards, displaying the bizarre logic that someone from La Rioja, 2 hours from San Sebastian, had less of an affiliation to the club than someone from Argentina. This policy was then scrapped in 2003, after which the club was able to sign any player they wanted, transfer fees permitted. Bizarrely, this didn’t bring the club a change in fortunes for the better, and they were condemned to relegation to the Second Division in 2006/2007.

This move didn´t go down particularly well with the Sociedad faithful, several of whom switched allegiances to Athletic in protest, the last bastion of the ‘Basques only’ policy.

Athletic fans sneer at the change of heart of their neighbours, yet Athletic themselves have always been in a very privileged position which has come with their earlier domination of Spanish football. In a sense, they are like a Man United of the Basque country, paying large amounts of money to prize quality players from other clubs. Javi Martinez, one of the stars of the current side, was plucked from Osasuna in 2007 at the age of 18 for 6 million euros. Their veteran Exteberreria, now considered to be one of the sides greatest ever players, was signed from Sociedad for 3m, the highest transfer fee paid at the time for a player under the age of 18. So whilst Athletic receive great admiration for their ‘Basque only’ philosophy compared to the ‘splash the cash’ strategy of Real Madrid and Man City, they are only able to continue this policy due to their own considerable wealth.

In spite of the limitations the policy brings to the club, the supporters hold it very dearly. When I speak to a group of young, attractive females in a bar in Bilbao´s Casco Viejo they remain stubborn over it. ‘If we could sign any player in the world? Messi, but only if he was Basque. Success isn´t everything to us, we´d rather get relegated than change the policy and sign foreign players.’ Indeed, the threat of relegation is not to be smirked at. Although the club have been mathematically safe for a couple of weeks, the prospect of playing in the 2^nd division loomed large in November, when they had clocked up just 6 points from their first 10 league games. A solid run leading up to Christmas and following the winter break – where they took 20 points from a possible 30 – put their supporters minds at rest. Nonetheless, this is the third straight season that relegation looked a very real possibility, which is strange for a club the size of Athletic, who, if they were to abandon their rigid selection policy, could feasibly be challenging for the title and playing in the Champions League. And yet, their supporters seem content to underachieve, so long as they remain, along with Barcelona and Madrid, the only team to have never left Spain’s top flight, a badge of pride the team wears to counter the successes of other large clubs that have had recent success such as Deportivo, Valencia and Villarreal.

But what exactly is wrong with having foreign players? I try and get an answer from the attractive senoritas. I ask them if its possible for a foreign player to become an adopted local, citing the example of Johan Cruyff in Barcelona, seen as a hero not just for his talents but for the way he integrated into the city, famously giving his son the Catalan name Jordi, at a time when the use of Catalan names was banned by the Constitution drawn up by General Franco. I also explain that my favourite player of all time is Eric Cantona, a foreigner. “We have players that are not fully Basque, we have had players of colour, players from outside the Basque country who have become more integrated into the Basque culture, but they have had a Basque relative. To have a player with no connection to the Basque country at all would be very difficult.” And in spite of my love for King Eric, it can’t be denied that the connection the club has with its locality runs deep. Jose Etxeberria, a club hero, announced last year that he would play next season, his last as a footballer, without receiving a salary from the club. Although he is obviously already a wealthy man, it is hard to imagine many other players making the same move in the era of greed that is 21^st century football. The attitude of ‘Etxe’ is a breath of fresh air in the face of Ashley Cole’s claims that he almost crashed his car, such was his disbelief when he heard that his boyhood club Arsenal were only offering him £50,000 a week for his services.

Athletic’s detractors however, say that the selection policy has a sinister side: a political statement used to further the Basque nationalist agenda. And many fans do like to let their nationalist tendencies be known, often uttering their club’s philosophy proudly in between a nationalist rant, in my experience; I can even sense a hint of disdain for all things Spanish in the eyes of my newly acquainted Bilbao Babes. Yet the rigid selection of Basque only players is not always held up as a middle finger to Spain. I get talking to an elderly chap sporting a retro Bilbao top, pin badges and a beret from the recent Copa del Rey Final in Valencia. “The Basque only selection policy is vital to the club and it will never go away. Yes, I would sooner see us relegated than abolish it.’ When I ask him about his opinions on Spain, he replies: “Well, I am Basque, but the truth is, we are part of Spain, some say we are not, but we are. When Spain won the European Championships, I was happy. Not ecstatic, but happy. I´m not a radical, but this is one thing I am radical about. It´s part of our identity.’ And it certainly does give more meaning to the club, keeping it in touch with footballing tradition in the face of the threat of soulless commercialism that wracks so many aspects of the modern game.

And it’s not as if  following the club is a dull affair. Last week Athletic travelled to Valencia for the final of the Copa Del Rey (a trophy they have won 24 times) where they put to the sword by Barcelona. Although Barca are arguably the biggest club in Spain, if not the world, the Basque club’s travelling faithful outnumbered and out sung the Catalans in and outside the stadium, and amazed Samuel Et’oo, who wore  an Athletic beret during the trophy celebrations and told the press of his admiration for the losing side’s supporters.

Tonight’s fixture, the last home game of the season, brings an intriguing  opponent, Atletico Madrid. Many people unfamiliar with Spanish football often confuse the two clubs, due to the first part of their names and their red and white stripes. Indeed you shouldn’t blame anyone for confusing them, seeing as one spawned the other. Atletico Madrid was founded by two Basque students who moved to Madrid to go to university. Not warming much to Real, they wanted to create a Madrid equivalent of the club they loved dearly, Athletic, and so Athletic Madrid was born, their shirt design copying Bilbao’s, at the time dark blue and white, not dissimilar to the design of Blackburn Rovers’ shirt. Indeed, the two clubs almost seemed to exist together as one entity. When the Madrid side adopted red and white stripes as their kit, Bilbao soon followed suit. However, on looking at the two clubs today, the only thing that remains in common is the colours.

Whilst Athletic’s line up spans only from Vizcaya to Navarra, Atletico’s takes in Uruguay, Argentina, Portugal, Brazil, Holland as well as Spain. This variety certainly adds a bit of spice to the Madrid side, which boasts Kun Aguero, hotly tipped, predictably, as ‘the new Maradonna’. Then there is Diego Forlan, a flop in England with Manchester United but a huge success in Spain, being top scorer in 2005 with Villareal and tonight just one goal behind Barca’s Samuel Et’oo in this year’s race for the La Liga equivalent to the Golden Boot, the ‘Pichichi’, named after a player from, funnily enough, Athletic Bilbao. And it’s not just on the pitch that the clubs contrast. Despite the Basque roots of Atletico, their supporters are proud to be Spanish, their travelling fans tonight singing ‘Viva Espana’ and holding aloft Spanish flags, much to the anger of their hosts, who chant back ‘Espanoles, hijos de puta’ (Spaniards, sons of whores). Things get more tasty when a vocal section of the Madrid fans offer Nazi salutes, countered by the darling chant of ‘ETA mata los’, a plea for the infamous Basque terrorist organisation to kill their guests. The fans directly below the away section flee their seats in fear of getting objects thrown at them, but it is the Bilbao fans that throw objects, albeit only plastic cups, but it significantly ups the temperature. Their opponents answer only with loud chanting and mocking gestures, but no real trouble breaks out. The Athletic fans are provoked though, and after the game the gate where the visiting fans are waiting to exit is continuously bombarded with rocks and glass bottles. The watching riot police do nothing at first, then wade in with their smoke guns and batons, causing a surge of ordinary supporters down the road, desperate to escape the chaos. The madness appears to be over but then a group of Athletic fans turn over and set fire to huge disposal bins, blocking the road. More explosions are heard from close by, and then a riot police van pulls up and policemen fire smoke guns down the road, causing more chaos. After the game many Bilbao fans blame ‘the fucking Spaniards’ for provoking them, yet it is plain to see that the blame for most of the violence lies with the Basques, and is a poignant reminder of the depth and aggressive nature of the separatist feelings that still grip this city.

On the pitch though, the gulf in class on paper doesn’t immediately translate. Bilbao are a tough, hard working side which wouldn’t look out of place in the Premiership. Their guile compensates for their lack of flair and the fist half is evenly matched, neither side creating any clear cut chances, and ends nil nil. The second half is started more brightly by Athletic, who should really have taken the lead on more than one occasion. Yet, it is the class of Madrid that breaks the deadlock, a sweet finish across the far post from Raul Garica beating the keeper after good link up play.

Bilbao’s fans scream their encouragement and the players respond well, going close on two occasions to equalise, but denied by keeper Leo Franco, who forces a corner, an area from which Athletic are most dangerous. And so it proves, when Xabier Etxeita latches on to a searching cross to head the ball into the net. At this moment, San Mames, so far not quite living up to its reputation as being a cauldron of noise, erupts. When the whole crowd gets going, the noise is deafening and it is impossible not to get caught up in the fever of the club. The home side up the tempo and come very close to going in front, Llorente missing a sitter from six yards out. They soon live to regret their squandering of chances, as Atletico grab the lead against the run of play, a superb bit of skill by Forlan, his quick feet beating his man with ease before driving a daisy cutting shot into the bottom corner. He then scores a carbon copy of the goal 5 minutes later, followed by his hattrick goal from the spot after a baffling decision by the referee to reward a penalty, the Uruguyan all but securing the Pichichi in the very stadium where the legend was born.  For all the bravery and strength shown by the hard working Basques, it is the exotic flair of a foreign player that puts them on the end of an embarrassing, albeit slightly unjust, score line.

So, brave Athletic are on the receiving end of a scoreline that doesn’t reflect the run of play in the game, but underlines the gulf in class between the two sides and ultimately shows that for all the history the club has and the spirit of its team, the future looks rather bleak while it holds onto its admirable but ultimately limiting selection policy.