“The purpose of ritual is to wake up the old mind in us, to put it to work. The old ones inside us, the collective unconscious, the many lives, the different eternal parts, the senses and parts of the brain that have been ignored. Those parts do not speak English. They do not care about television. But they do understand candlelight and colors. They do understand nature”. (Z. Budapest)
Rituals are a main stay in my life. After all, we engage in rituals to give a semblance of order to our lives. I get up at 5, make the coffee, take the dogs out, clean up the yard, make bag lunch for everybody and then drive off to work.
This becomes even more true come game day. But… 'Why the Rito'? People engage in rituals for all kinds of reasons. It’s a confidence booster, even what you wear becomes part of the ritual. Let me explain.
One of my very dear friends and founding member of Siete Verde, Victor Torres, says that the jersey I choose to wear game day has to do with how Chivas is doing in the tournament. He says if we are doing well, I will most probably wear that seasons jersey. If I am feeling combative, the Tigre Sepulveda commemorative jersey. If we are down in the dumps, the 2006, long sleeve, sans advertising, traditional jersey.
The jerseys are part of the ritual as I set my clothes out before I shower and get dressed. At some level it adds to the collective consciousness. Then there are the cabalas, other lucky charms. The jerseys 'de una puesta'. I have a couple of those, but there is one which is particularly special: the one I wore to the final against Tigres in 2017. I wore it once and put it away. It sits in a bag in my jersey drawer, it’s too beautiful to be worn again, it represents the memory of a glorious moment frozen in time.
Let me take you on that journey. On game day, some of the members of La Irreverente will gather on the west side of the parking lot and have a 'cascarita'. When the majority of the barristas have assembled they will start chanting as they put the ball away, unfurl the banners, produce the drums and horns. They saunter confidently through the parking area a song on their lips…
“Ya me voy para la cancha, ya me voy a ver a Chivas, a mí no me importa nada, (NADA NADA) Deportivo, yo te quiero (YO TE AMO), mi corazón, pintado tricolor, te quiere ver Campeón, contigo festejar, 100 años muchos más, celebra el país, con fiesta y carnaval...”.
On the day of the final, the Chivas 'Barra' were walking around the parking lot, singing and chanting, stopping for moment with a group and a shared beer before moving on again. It was a magical, musical spectacle, people flocked around the drums and banners, a tornado of euphoria.
One of the guys from la “Irre” kept staring at me as we walked along, singing. At one point he came up to me and said “ahora sí vamos a ganar carnal, seguro!!! (We are going to win for sure today bro)”, I said I agreed but asked why are you so sure. In response he showed me his forearm, tattoed with spitting image of who seemed to be yours truly!!! It was the tattooed effigy of a mustachioed man, dressed in the sacred colores del Rebaño, elegantly clothed in a white collared, red and white jersey, blue shorts, dribbling an antique leather ball.
In surprise, I exclaimed “Where did you get that?!!”, and he said “Es la imagen de uno de fundadores, carnal. Aquí estas tu. Reencarnado!!! (It’s one of the founders! It’s you reincarnated!!!)". That tattoo forms a part of our collective ritual. It is now part of my memory. Frozen in time.
Some people get there early and set up camp. Some have their 'asado'. Others go and have a 'lonche' at El Pesebre. Still others have to have their guasanas and semillas. In extreme cases there are even those that silently, discretely, light their veladoras beside their cars. After all, 'uno nunca sabe'. Divine intervention is always a good thing.
At 30 minutes to kick off, Siete Verde pack up and make our way towards the entrance. Always the same entrance: la puerta Uno, left of the main gate. We always go in the same door. Who knows when we started using that gate. It’s now part of the pattern. As we enter, the stadium becomes a time machine, a place where seconds can transform into hours. Time becomes relative. A regression occurs as we walk through the lofty halls. Time moves on and yet stops. Colors, lights, fragrances, music, voices. A kaleidoscope of movement frozen in time.
Let me explain. Many may not admit it, but I am certain that many other ChivaHermanos y ChivaHermanas suffer from this same affliction, an addiction to journey to a place where time ceases to exist, yet moves on inexorably for 90 minutes. Contrary to other sports, in soccer there are no time outs.
Never a moment to stop and look around, no time for a breather. Perhaps this is why people are so drawn to futbol, you live the moment. A moment you wish you could capture and hold on to, but which you know, will inevitably slip through your fingers. During the match there are moments where we pray for time to speed up, like when we are up by one or tied and the other team is 'throwing rocks at our ranch'.
We pray for time to slow down, when we are down by one and we pray to the Gods of Time (dressed in bright yellow or green and hold a whistle) to grant us one more minute to score the goal to tie it all up. Time just becomes relative. It freezes, it speeds by. If you are distracted you will miss it and there is no rewind. That’s why when the ball is rolling, and you have to use the restroom, you can’t leave your seat. If you blink, you might just miss something important.
That’s what half time is for anyway. That and chatting in the halls with your 'compadres'. Time for a smoke, a quick exchange and then back into the fray. The praying, the shouting and the chanting. Living the game, part again of that collective euphoria that you don’t ever want it to end.
But alas, the final whistle. I always linger a bit more as people leave their seats and start walking towards the exits. We usually leave when the barra exits, then we can walk behind them as they sing and dance…
“…Mi corazón, pintado tricolor, te quiere ver Campeón, contigo festejar, 100 años muchos más, celebra el país, con fiesta y carnaval...”.
A strange feeling begins to permeate the air when the final whistle has blown, when the cheering has stopped ringing in the stands and in the hallways. The crowd slowly, grudgingly, makes its way towards the food stands and the parking lot. One last lonche or taco, one last chesco or chela, uno pa’l camino.
Back at the car begins el tercer tiempo. We talk, we argue, we analyze. Throw what is left on the asador and wait for the traffic to die down. Eventually, one by one my clanmates get in their cars and go back to their lives, their families, their loved ones.
As I sit and sip on my last beer, I watch the lights go down and observe the slow lumbering of the last cars as they make their way slowly out of the lot. Sitting on my bumper, time comes to a stop and I am overwhelmed by a feeling of melancholy. At that moment as I prepare to drive home and the boys are performing a reverse check, I must arm myself with patience.
It finally dawns on me that it wasn’t important if we won or lost. The expectation of what was to be, had been my motor all week long. Melancholy invades me but I know that if I am patient I will be rewarded. The ritual will repeat itself. We will come return and to try and cheat time once more.
