Mès Que Un Club

One of the things I love most about my friend Ann is that she is always up for anything.  Her flight came in yesterday at about 6:30 am.  We had gone to our friends’ Vibeke and Erik’s home for a fun and delicious dinner on Friday night, so I  had had only about  four hours of sleep myself when my alarm woke me at 6 to go and pick Ann up at the airport.  After a quick snooze on the couch, Ann was ready to go.  We all headed to the market for our weekly shop and then down to the Barceloneta.  It was another perfect Barcelona day—70 degrees and not a cloud in the sky.  We wandered through the old neighorhood to the beach and had a late lunch at Agua.  I had sent the kids to the chino across from the market for some sand toys, and they happily passed the afternoon digging and collecting rocks, landing at our table briefly to wolf down plates of pasta while we sipped our cold beers and began to get caught up.

Ann mentioned that a friend in New York had urged her to go to a Barça game during her visit, and it turned out that the only night they would be playing was last night.  Alec checked the Mundo Deportivo he had picked up earlier— Barça was playing Getafe CF, a team they were expected to beat handily.  So there could still be some tickets available.  It was nearly 6 pm and the game started at 8.  The kids quickly got on the bandwagon:  “Let’s go to the game!” they cheered. We made our way home and Alec got right on the internet to check for tickets.  If we all went, we would need three tickets—kids are allowed to sit on an adult’s lap.  Alec found two together and one not far away.  “Are we doing this?” he asked us.  Ann and I had begun to sink down into our unattractive but deliciously comfortable sofas.  Ten more minutes and we might have been beyond the point of revival.  “Go for it!” I said (weakly but with enthusiasm) from my supine position.  I didn’t get up until Alec informed us that the credit card had gone through. “Done,” he said.  “We’ve got to hustle.”  The kids got their jerseys on and Ann wore Alec’s.  (See what I mean about her being a gamer?  She has never been into soccer, but when she’s in, she’s in 100 percent).  We were out the door in ten minutes. 

Two trains and a long-ish walk later we were walking into the electric and focused atmosphere of Camp Nou, a little late but happy to be there.  I took Milo on my lap, and Alec sat with C.C. and Ann.  Our seats were fantastic.  Dani Alves had already scored: 1-0 Barça. 

When you watch Barça in person, a couple of aspects of the team’s play that you hear about become crystal clear.  One concerns the team’s 70% possession of the ball.  Sitting up in the stands, you really notice just how much of the game is played on the Barça end of the field.  Another is the balletic beauty of the team’s choreography.  On average, Barça completes about 700 passes per game to the other team’s 300.  Viewed from above, you really see how the ball moves from player to player, as though the team is executing a precisely planned dance.  And then there is Messi, who did not play a particularly good game last night but is a marvel to watch nonetheless.  When he has the ball, it appears as though it is attached to his foot by a very short cord.  He simply does not lose it.  At one point, he traveled from the middle of the field to near the goal through a crowd of defenders; he even fell down and got up without ever losing control.  It recalled for me how excited Marv Albert used to get describing John Starks’ movement through the lane “in traffic” during the New York Knicks’ strong ‘90s run.

The fans, too, warrant comment.  No one gets up during the game to go to the bathroom or to buy food.  I wonder what a Barça fan would think of Mets fans standing in line for a half hour or more to get a burger from Shake Shack while watching the game on the JumboTron.  There is no chit chat—everyone is completely focused on the game.  And the fans applaud maneuvers that others might not even notice—Messi’s ball control, Adriano heading the ball to keep into play so that it does not go out of bounds and result in a throw-in.  You don’t hear it when you watch the game on TV, but in person, the applause for Adriano last night was instantaneous, and very loud.

Més que un club—“more than a club” is Barça’s tag line, and it could not be more apt.  We walked out into the balmy night with the other 99, 995 fans feeling good about the home team and our adopted city, and our friend Ann.