It’s Friday, and it may be my last.

WE’RE AT WAR WITH SPAIN!!!!

Well, no. We’re not. But I’m a sucker for hyperbole.

There are dark clouds in the horizon, my friends. In the last few days I have had to endure many hardships, with people continuously asking me where I stand on this bilateral conflict that has Spain and Argentina at odds.

My position, of course, is that if you’re stupid enough to believe that the fate of an oil company should be the cause for two kindred nations to start hating each other, then there’s no point in arguing with you.

Still, as the violence and xenophobia against my kind continues to rise due to the President’s recent announcement, I have to warn you all that very soon I could be extraordinary renditioned to the Martín García Island and never to be heard from again for a couple of weeks.

This is what you need to know before I’m Guantanamoed:

• 

  Many young people on Facebook proudly supported the President's decision by replacing their embarrassing profile photo with the YPF logo, which is even more embarrassing because they are young people expressing support for an oil company. (Image/Wikipedia)

  Well, it happened. The worst case scenario finally became a reality, and it has unleashed a political shit storm of dire consequences: in a surprise press conference last Monday, President Cristina Fernández de Kirchner announced her decision to expropriate YPF, Argentina’s largest oil company, from Spanish oil giant Repsol YPF, who had purchased it back in 1999 (now don’t worry, I’m not going to make it very complicated. I’m gonna dumb it down for you, in my usual fashion, so you can go to bed tonight with a smile on your face, feeling smart.)

• So basically Argentina accused Repsol YPF of not investing enough in exploration and exploitation of oil reserves in Argentina, which caused fuel imports in the country to double. Hence, the Government decided it was time to expropriate the company. Case closed.

• As the President sends the expropriation bill to Congress, the rest of the world is fuming: Spain, France, the UK, Belgium (actually the entire EU), and to a lesser extent for motives that remain uncertain, the US. Brazil and Venezuela have praised the decision, but Colombia and Bolivia have been more cautious and politely distanced themselves from this mess.

• Former President and current political pariah Carlos Menem, who masterminded Argentina’s State Reform Law (a late 80s bill that called for “smaller government” and advocated for the privatization of many state-owned companies, including YPF), has already said he will vote in favor of the expropriation in the Senate (he’s a senator now, you see. He is also like 140 years old). “I know they will criticize me heavily for this, but they should understand that times have changed since I privatized it.” Well, that is true, but the fact remains he is still responsible for one of the most infamous decades in recent Argentine history. You like Cristina’s hijinx? You would have loved this guy. After all, this is the President who back in 1995 announced that Argentina would soon have a “space flight system” that would allow Argentines to take a rocket to space so they could be in Japan in like three hours or something. No, he really did!

• Right in the epicenter of this political shit storm is the new rising star of Argentine politics: Deputy Minister Axel Kicillof. A power player so recent that he doesn’t even have a Wikipedia page yet. Mr. Kicillof, as any other respectable La Cámpora member, has a huge sense of entitlement. He’s loud, he’s rude, he’s angry and he doesn’t wear a tie because he wants you to know he’s against the establishment. He also looks like he’s 25 years old even though he’s 41 (which seems to be a turn on for Argentine girls) and is a fucking brilliant orator. So the establishment, obviously horrified because he wouldn’t wear a tie, decided to target him violently. Vanity Fair Spain says he has “hypnotized Cristina” (you know, like Rasputin), and the Financial Times describes him as “a baby-faced Marxist economist with Elvis sideburns who does not appear to own a tie.” Aha! I told you the tie thing would piss them off. Such squares, these people.

• Unfortunately the whole YPF brouhaha completely overshadowed last Saturday’s meeting between US president Barack Obama and Cristina in Cartagena, Colombia during the Summit of the Americas. In said meeting, Obama reassured Cristina that no matter what kind of fuckery Argentina gets involved in, the bilateral friendship is above it all. So Cristina, apparently encouraged by Obama’s de facto license to mischief, returned to Argentina and expropriated YPF.

• The meeting also produced a photograph that sparked many comments around the web, since  it’s hard to tell what the hell is going on there. Is Obama taking her temperature? Is he checking to see if the baby is kicking? I would totally play one of those stupid “Caption the photo” contests but I really don’t feel like it.

•  By the way, remember that whole thing about the Malvinas/Falklands that we kept going back to every Friday for months before this whole thing exploded? Yeah, me neither.

• OK, so let’s say that you are a councilman in the small, uneventful Misiones town of La Candelaria (Population: really, really close to zero), and one day you decide you don’t like it when a journalist is all over your face, demanding you tell the truth about something. So the most civilized reaction to his annoying behavior is to beat the shit out of him, naturally. Wait until the 2:23 mark for hilarity to ensue.

• Oh my God! La Candelaria already has a Wikipedia page! In your face Deputy Minister Axel Kicillof! See? And people say violence never leads to anything. Tell that to the people of La Candelaria. One day no one knows you’re alive, then you kick someone’s ass and BAM! You’re on Wikipedia. Well played, people. Well played.

• And not to freak anyone out, but people are being assassinated in broad daylight in Recoleta now.

• By the way, that last comment WAS A JOKE. Please don’t start freaking out, saying that it is now “unsafe” to be walking down the streets of Buenos Aires. Initial reports suggest the victim was a Colombian citizen with ties to drug trafficking, so it seems he was gunned down by a hitman. See? Nothing to worry. Unless you are in the drug trafficking business. In that case, worry.

• Consider this to be the straw that broke the camel’s llama’s back: remember how in the last few months Salta‘s reputation as a “safe, tourist-friendly” province has been wavering due to a series of grizzly murders, rapes and attempted rapes against female visitors? Well, you can now add another female victim to the body count after authorities unearthed the body of a woman near tourist hot spot Cafayate on Thursday. What’s worse, they believe the body may belong to missing María Cash, who mysteriously disappeared in Salta last year and was never heard from again despite her family’s impressive nationwide campaign to find her. So I’m being serious now: if you’re planning on going to Salta, do not wander off alone into the wild. Or an even better idea: do not go to Salta alone.

• You know what? Fuck it, just don’t go to Salta. Period.

• If you’re wondering why last Tuesday the Obeliskwas sporting a
  

  Fun fact: Did you know that Björk's real name is actually Björk? You did? Well, I didn't. I thought it was just a made up name. You know, like Cher. (Photo/Wikipedia)

  confusing yellowish/orangish color (I know you’re not),  then don’t worry. There’s a perfect explanation for that, and it is that apparently last Tuesday was Malbec World Day (?). Sorry, City Government! But not only you fucked up big time because that color looked nothing like wine red, also it doesn’t matter what kind of stunt you pull out of your ass, nothing will be able to top December 2005 when the former administration decided to turn the Obelisk into a giant condom. They were simpler times back then.

• Are you excited about going to see Björk tomorrow night at GEBA? Well you shouldn’t, because she cancelled. Sorry!

• Also, were you aware she has been performing in Buenos Aires this whole month? Because I had no idea! Although in all honesty I really don’t care that much about her singing. All I remember about her is that song where she shooshed everyone and that time in Bangkok when she went apeshit on a reporter and beat her senseless. Just like that councilman from La Candelaria! The only difference is that Bangkok is already a relatively well-known city around the world, so beating that woman up didn’t really amount to anything.

•  Oh, football. What would I do without you? I know we’ve had our differences in the past, but you’re just too adorable for me to hate on you. Sometimes you provide so much comedic value that if you were a tangible being instead of a stupid, excruciatingly boring concept I would hold you against my chest and never let you go. Let’s take a look at what people who passionately follow the football have been doing this week, shall we?

• After a match between Boca Juniors and Club Atletico Tigre, some Tigre fans decided it would be neat to go insult all the Boca players when they were leaving the stadium on their super luxurious Boca Juniors bus. After all, Tigre had been defeated and we all know there’s nothing more cathartic than telling people you don’t like to go fuck themselves. But, alas! The Boca players took the insults personally and decided that the most rational, coherent thing to do in that conundrum was to get off the bus and start beating the shit out of everyone. The result? One of the players ended up with two broken fingers. So smart, these guys.

• No, I will not make another La Candelaria-related joke. Shut up.

• Let’s say your favorite team (in this case Racing) lost 4 to 1 in the previous match. When the time for the next game comes, how do you welcome those brave fellas who week after week leave their lives in the field just to provide you lazy, beer-drinking fucks with 90 minutes of idiotic entertainment? Well, isn’t it obvious? You douse them with a rain of crutches, of course! Because calling them “crippled” is not enough. No, you want to hit them in the head with those heavy metal poles and literally cripple them to make a point, right?

• You know what, I changed my mind again. Fuck football.

Send Adrian your comments, thoughts or tips at adrianbono@hotmail.com or follow him on Twitter at @AdrianBono

A week may be a long time in politics, and in fact football, but eight seconds really isn’t. Unless, of course, you happen to be a long-suffering fan of Racing Club. Unfortunately, as you well know, I fall into this cursed group of masochists and gluttons for punishment, which made for a very upsetting evening on Saturday.

A couple of week’s absence for this most distinguished of blogs coincided with an upturn for my beloved misfits, as a draw and two victories began the ascent from the nether regions of the table to the shiny peak. Pure coincidence I may add and related to an undesired absence from the stadium, rather than a mere willingness to only talk about the team when they fail. Well, maybe a little of that.

The recent good form led to an upsurge of hope for the team, a fact rather cynically exploited by Racing as they slapped another 50 pesos on the ticket prices for ‘Day of the Fan’. Proving as ever that the La Academia faithful are commendable in their blind fanaticism, 40,000 supporters happily begged, borrowed or stole to cough up the extra cincuenta pé and make their way to El Cilindro. The meeting point as ever was the one and only Lo de Susi, this time with some extra guests; a television crew who had made their way to the local drinking hole to interview the legend herself and see her wise words drowned out by exuberant fans wishing death upon Independiente and San Lorenzo.

Well-lubricated and in the stadium then, we waited with baited breath for the team to appear and deliver another glorious triumph which would lift us near the top and keep the eternal dream of the championship alive. Joy, expectation, hope; all emotions in abundance for the first seven seconds of the match against Union.

The early bird gets the worm

Because after that, it all went wrong. The Santa Fe side pumped the ball up straight from kick off and there was a disastrous mix-up at the back between Sebastian Saja, Matias Martinez and Lucas Aveldaño – henceforth to be known as the Three Stooges. With a flourish of comedy sound-effects and “watch it, chowder-head” exclamations the trio contrived to bump into each other, while Diego Jara calmly ignored the floor show and put his team in the lead. Eight seconds. EIGHT SECONDS!! I usually don’t arrive in the stadium until at least five minutes have gone.

From there, it only got worse. A second goal followed, before on the stroke of half-time a penalty was given to the away team. Enrique Bologna, whose time-wasting from the second minute of play had attracted the ire of the Racing fans, stepped up to take the kick and was denied by Saja, but a penalty-area invasion – to borrow Argentine parlance – necessitated another try. The goalkeeper took a deep breath, started his run-up… and blasted the ball so far over the bar it most likely ended up in Quilmes.

The farce continued after half time when Teo Gutierrez suffered exactly the same fate as Bologna, missing twice from the spot. Sometime after that, a third goal from Union confirmed a humiliating  3-0 defeat. Not that you’d know it from listening to the home fans mind. Seemingly determined to get their money’s worth, the Racing popular exploded in a melody of chants and jumps, wonderfully oblivious to the depressing events on the field. “There is a gang that is different, it’s not the same as all the rest, The one that doesn’t give a shit if you lose, or if you wiiiiiiiiiin,” was the hit of the night, and the one which most succinctly sums up what it is to follow this most cursed of footballing institutions.

It was a torrid evening, seven seconds of excitement followed by roughly 5393 desperately painful seconds (don’t you love calculators?) but still, nothing could deter the fans who were determined to make the most of their 50 peso outlay. Turning to a friend of mine in the stadium, who declared the festivities the loudest and most impressive of any team he has witnessed, winning or losing, just confirmed what all of us know about Racing. Win or lose, and one tends to come more than the other, the support will always be Number One. But if we could still win a few, that would be ok as well.

PS: The obligatory plug is coming. If you haven’t started listening to Hand of Pod, possibly the finest (and possibly the only) Argentine football podcast in the English language, I would strongly recommend it. You can listen to me alongside Sam, Dan and Seba every week waxing lyrical about the General Belgrano Clausura, and there’s even a couple of jokes to enjoy.

The tribalism of Argentine football, as I’m certain I have alluded to more than once in these hallowed pages, is a sight to be seen. Thousands of police officers are put on duty and armed to the teeth every weekend with one specific goal: do not let the two sets of fans get near each other, or else watch as all hell breaks lose in a flurry of stones, bricks and trips to the local hospital. The faithful of my own Racing Club, although clearly superior in so many ways to the rabble who go to Boca, River or (god forbid) Independiente every week are from guiltless when it comes to demonising the other in the opposite stands – a fact poetically stated by a good friend of mine before a Clasico, when he declared that he “hated Independiente with all his soul.” Quite.

King's cycle of dreams and disappointment is painfully familiar for Racing fans

As a born romantic, however, a lover not a fighter and admirer of the legendary Martin Luther King  Jr, I too have a dream. That fans of
both teams will one day play in the streets together, that a man will be judged not by the colour of his shirt, but by the content of his character. Walking to El Cilindro on Sunday to watch Racing take on Banfield, I rubbed my eyes in disbelief as it appeared my fantastical dream was in the process of becoming reality.

Two men walked in the opposite direction; one bedecked in the unmistakeable celeste y blanca of my beloved. The other was wearing the equally distinctive green and white stripes of the day’s opponents, based in the eponymous city in the sprawling suburb of Lomas de Zamora. Was I seeing history? Was this a seminal moment in Argentine football? Would fans from this point forward be putting down the flaregun, the rocks and the anger to forever more sit in fields and braid each other’s hair before games? Well, not quite.

Upon further inspection, I deduced that the shirt was in fact that of Atletico Nacional, a South American giant based in the Colombian city of Medellin. In Gio Moreno La Academia have one of the Colombian team’s favourite sons in their ranks, and since then fans of Nacional have swarmed to El Cilindro to bring their own colour to the stadium palette. A heart-warming story, if not quite as Kingesque as the one I had first envisaged, but a further sign of how, for a significant proportion of the thousands of Colombians who move to Buenos Aires every year, the shared passion of football brings two fanatical populations together. This is Racing, after all, where on entering our favoured pre-match watering hole you are just as likely to hear a “qué más, parce?” as you would a more porteño form of address: “Qué hacés, vieja?” A lovely bunch.

Fittingly it would be a Colombian star who had the biggest impact on the match, although not completely positive. Not Moreno, but his Cafetero cousin from Barranquilla Teo Gutierrez, a striker whose ability to put the ball in the net is only matched by his talent to put his foot in his mouth, and drive us all insane. Suffice to say he managed both on the weekend.

First, happy thoughts. Our merry band of tipsy supporters had barely elbowed our way into the stands when a penalty was given, and Teo stepped up to slot it home and provoke a mass round of hugs, kisses and other public displays of affection with hairy men you would usually decline to sit next to on the bus. Those readers hanging around from the previous two weeks (cheers, by the way) will remember that Racing had failed to score in their first two outings, and had picked up one measly point. Pay attention, this will all be on the test. And anyone familiar with the mighty L’Acade will know their unrivalled capacity for self-destruction. Yes, it’s another of those stories.

The Racing Barra thanks Colombia for its support, Oscars style

A soft penalty down the other end gave Banfield parity once more, but after Bustamante was sent off Racing surely had to reassert their dominance. No. What followed were 60 frustrating minutes of poor crosses, awful passes, wayward shots and agonised grunts from the terraces. Oh, and the obligatory moment of stupidity from our man Teo: already on a yellow card, for reasons best known to himself he tried to kick the ball out of goalkeeper Lucchetti’s hands, earning himself an early bath no-one could argue with. With that, a draw would have been acceptable, but the visitors had other ideas and three minutes into injury time headed the winner to leave fans perplexed and dumbfounded.

The boos followed, as did the chants referring to a vital anatomical part of the players’ own mothers and a confrontation outside when it was time to get back on the bus. This was accompanied by the brilliant image of coach Basile squaring up to fight each of the disgruntled supporters, only to admit that maybe they had a point after another shocking performance.

Our little group, meanwhile skulked away to begin the post-match dissection of the defeat, and there was perhaps one conclusion that gained more popularity than most. Argentina, England, Colombia: fans of Racing can come from all corners of the globe, uniting cultures and nations with the beautiful game. But for the long-suffering supporters, permanent exile to one of those corners would be welcome for La Academia’s losers. Siberia, anyone?

PS. We still are less than fond of Banfield

Please don’t take this as a mark of disrespect, my dear readers and fellow travellers through the smoke-obscured labyrinth that is

Hi-ho, Hi-ho | Back off to work goes the Guardia Imperial

Argentine football. It delights me to have the chance once more to regale you with my tales of following the mighty Racing Club across the length and breadth of this fair nation, sharing everything inside the stadiums that’s fit, and not so fit, to publish.

For myself, however, and as I imagine it would be for most enfermos who claim allegiance to the cream of Avellanedan football, my re-entry down the hallowed halls of the Argentina Independent is but the second most important reunion I have enjoyed this week. And anyone with a particularly long memory who remembers my earlier musings on the same subject, will surely by now know just what I am talking about.

That’s right. After two and a half long, agonising months away from the Cilindro, frantically scouring images of sports broadcasts transmitted from impossibly sunny beaches in Mar del Plata in search of just one more football fix to keep me in relative sanity, the Clausura Crucero General Belgrano is in action. And remaining blissfully unaware of the escalating tensions between my nation of birth and my adopted country which could well end with an atomic bomb dropping on my Caballito palace one day, I made my way with a skip in my step to my second home in Argentina.

The routine was reassuringly familiar, like emerging from a coma to find that the sky is still blue, the grass is still green and River Plate are still in the B. Sunday’s lack of traffic meant that myself, Omar and Juan arrived in Avellaneda some two hours before kick-off, leaving ample time to start the previa. For those unfamiliar with the football previa, I can only recommend it as a wonderful activity on a boiling Sunday afternoon. Ice-cold Quilmes? Check. The very best Milanesa sandwich in the whole of Buenos Aires? Check? Raucous singing amongst the faithful who were making up for 10 weeks of shopping and DIY on the weekends?  Oh you’d better believe it.

You see, even by the standards of the famously optimistic, some would say deluded, Racing support, hopes are sky-high for this season. Academia favourite Alfio ‘Coco’ Basile is back on the coach’s bench for a fifth spell with the club that made him a legend. The name may not ring a bell to casual observers, but the voice is unmistakeable. Coco has always been famous for a vocal register that could be used to scare birds away from crops, but after a recent throat operation he now sounds like part of his warm-up exercise consists of gargling gravel followed by a milkshake composed of live bees. Still, he’s an idol, and that combined with the ability of last year’s runners-up to maintain their squad intact meant that the faith was there, ideally to start with a win against relegation-threatened Tigre.

The great Basile deep in pre-season training

Of course, since this is Racing, we saw nothing of the sort. The most exciting part of proceedings was the entrance of the players, the most popular of whom were left beaming by the serenades of the home popular. Unfortunately, that was as good as it got. 90 turgid, uninspired minutes of football were what followed, although for those of us who had engaged enthusiastically in the previa this pain was mitigated by the Quilmes misting sense and sentience to a degree.

So we continued jumping and singing throughout the fixture, oblivious to the 0-0 that was as inevitable as the tides or an insufferable Boca fan following any victory. The draw was fair, mainly because neither team did nearly enough to win, and as we filed out of the stadium along with 40,000 fellow fans, hope of bouncing back with a victory in the following week dominated conversation. On Sunday it did not come, but of course the next 18 games should be a walk in the park.

In the interests of balance, and mainly to protect this blog from claims that it is a platform for the rantings of a one-eyed madman, there were some other games played over the weekend (my sources inform me). Boca of course won again, angering everyone in what we can contrarily dub the Mitad menos Uno who wish nothing but strife on this band of Maradona wannabes. Of course this wasn’t enough for the Bosteros, and as I finish these scribblings coach Julio Falcioni is one his way out due to a refusal to share his toys with the great Roman Riquelme.

So ends a predictably action-packed first week of the Argentine season, although admittedly the action was to be found more often off the pitch than on it. The coming weekend sees Racing making the long trip to Mendoza (the place with the wine) to meet Godoy Cruz, a punishing 24 hour round trip that surely only the most ridiculously obsessed fan would make. The bus leaves at midnight on Saturday, I’ll be the one banging the windows and cradling a bottle of Fernet. Vamo L’Acadeeeeeee

PS. A gratuitous plug for myself seems merited. An article of mine about Racing’s 1967 Intercontinental Cup triumph over Celtic, which made the team the first-ever Argentine world champions, will appear in issue four of the Blizzard magazine. Aside from my scribblings it is a fantastic read which brings together some of football’s best journalists from across the world, and it is available to pre-order on a pay as you like basis via http://www.theblizzard.co.uk/, hard copies and pdfs for those of you who have those fancy space-age reading machines both available.

The beginning of the new year in Argentina brings the start of the Dakar Rally, with the first bike leaving Mar del Plata’s naval base and heading south to Necochea. All the vehicles have to complete the five stages in Argentina and cross the Andes, where another five stages awaits on Chilean soil. The final stage entails crossing the Andes once more, but this time into Peru, where the dunes and the desert will test the drivers’ knowledge, patience and skill. Lima is the ultimate destination; the rally ends there on 15th January.

Competitors from all over the world came to Mar del Plata to compete in the rally and see the race start on New Year’s Day. Some 465 cars, bikes and trucks entered this year’s competition. Champion drivers, such as Qatar’s Nasser Saleh Al-Attiyah (the champion from 2011) and Russia’s Vladimir Chagin (champion in trucks in 2011), came back once more for another round.

This is the fourth time the prestigious rally has been held in South America. Founded in France, the first Paris-Dakar Rally was held in 1979. Unfortunately due to security reasons, the competition was canceled in 2008. However, the organisers found safer terrain in South America and so a new tradition was born. This course presents a whole set of new challenges for the competitors. They have to contend with various deserts, canyons, and many many mountains, forcing the riders and drivers to use both their brains and brawn to conquer the unknown and finish in one piece.

And not all do: Argentine driver Jorge Martínez Boero was killed in an accident on the first day. French contender Sebastien Coue succumbed to heat exhaustion after prolonged sun exposure, and his compatriot Bruno da Costa was hospitalised after hitting a cow and damaging his kidneys.

Photographer Irena Atanasoska shares her photos along with Adolfo Carrizo from the opening at Mar del Plata.

The Argentine delicacy chorizo is an inseparable part of any Argentine event. (Photo: Irena Atanasoska)

The sun made the Saturday afternoon unbearable for the elderly. (Photo: Irena Atanasoska)

People gathered wherever they could to get a good vantage point. (Photo: Irena Atanasoska)

The multitude of people stayed over five hours to greet all the drivers. (Photo: Irena Atanasoska)

Chilean rider Prohens Felipe pops a wheelie and behind him rides his brother Jaime. (Photo: Irena Atanasoska)

Johnny Aubert from France returns from the presentation of his bike. (Photo: Irena Atanasoska)

Champion Nasser Saleh Al-Attiyah and his hummer drive through Mar del Plata to try for another win. (Photo: Irena Atanasoska)

When the cars and bikes weren't on sight the plane above was getting all the attention from the crowd. (Photo: Irena Atanasoska)

Frenchmen Pascal Thomasse and Pascal Larroque present their buggy Optimus. (Photo: Irena Atanasoska)

Argentine motorcyclist Boero Martinez rode the streets of Mar del Plata before his fatal accident. (Photo: Adolfo Carrizo)

Espinasse Sylvain from France stopped to take photos with a group of drunken fans. (Photo: Adolfo Carrizo)

The Dutchman Frans Verhoeven puts on a show for his fans. (Photo: Irena Atanasoska)

One thing that you learn very quickly when you commit yourself to the life of a Racing Club fanatic is that no matter if you’re watching the best team in the league or one of the worst, you are condemned to an existence full of suffering. The 2011 edition of La Academia is widely appreciated as one of the best of the past decade; but judging on an incredible game last Saturday, the suffering will be with us for a good time yet.

After a joyful comeback victory against San Lorenzo the week previously the hopes and dreams of the Racing faithful had been well and truly ignited, which was confirmed by a quick glance around the Cilindro for Saturday’s clash with undistinguished yet still dangerous Olimpo. We emerged from local pre-match watering hole Lo de Susie (translated as Susie’s place, a legendary bar within spitting distance of the Racing home ground) with bellies full of Quilmes, milanesa and fries, and even an hour before kick off had to battle our way onto a terrace which was quickly becoming uncomfortably packed.

With the skilled use of elbows and more than a few toes being trod on though we maneuvered ourselves into position, and were joined on the concrete steps by two of the fellow representatives of the Villa Crespo Racing Club contingent. Sergio, who sauntered into the stand with a hefty Cuban cigar in hand and in good spirits and Maxi, who was already shirtless and happy to let his dreadlocks fly in every direction as he jumped maniacally.

The Guardia Imperial get ready for battle

As always the stand was electric with anticipation and passion, and the Guardia Imperial had prepared a new chant for the occasion that proved to be more like an epic love ballad. “L’Acade, a passion, you’re the joy that is in my heart, L’Acade, I’m always there, this hinchada deserves to be champions” rang out across the massive popular, reaching a crescendo as the heroes in celeste y blanca ran out to rapturous applause.

The team looked energised by the support coming from behind the goal, at least it seemed that way as we were treated to one of the best performances in most people’s memory during the second half. Playing an attacking 3-4-3 formation Racing streamed forward at every opportunity to create chances, with the much-maligned (by me, more than anyone) Pablo Luguercio playing a blinder as the link between attack and midfield.

El Payaso notched the first goal in the opening minutes, before forcing a second with a shot diverted into the Olimpo net by a defender. Every goal was marked by a wall of noise from the terraces and a raucous atmosphere starting to resemble closer a moshpit; after the second goal we would finish a good six rows lower than when the ball hit the net, never to return. The cherry on top of a perfect performance came when Lucas Licht polished off a 12 pass move to hit the third; a voice of caution came at half time though, when the obligatory self-appointed wise man of the tribuna urged caution.

Racing celebrate the first of four goals

How right (and irritatingly smug) he proved to be. After Teo Gutierrez chipped home a fourth in the opening minute Racing decided to fall asleep, and Olimpo bounced straight back with a shocking seven minute spell. The ball zoomed, inched and squeezed past goalkeeper Jorge de Olivera three times in that incredible period, changing the game from a walk in the park to one where fingernails would end up being bitten until somewhere near the shoulder-blades. The songs went silent for a second, replaced by frenzied asking of the same question: ¿Cuánto falta? ¿Cuánto falta? How long do we have to survive?

In reality it was roughly 25 minutes, but it felt like an eternity as Racing held on to the final whistle. Hold on they did however, and the 38,000 odd home fans erupted in unison when the sweet melody of the final whistle sounded. Despite fierce traffic blocking the roads of Avellaneda on the way back and a game which surely provoked more than one heart attack in Argentina the general mood was one of contentment, and joy that unlike previous years this Racing side could be thrown against the ropes and yet withstand the blows without folding.

The weekend finished with a very agreeable sight, that of La Academia looking down contemptuously on the rest of the league in first position- yes, I know that only four games have gone but do you really think that matters right now?! The trick for Miguel Angel Russo and co. will be staying at the summit, starting with a trip to Santa Fe next Sunday which I will unfortunately have to view from the comfort of my own home being unable to make the six hour trip (trust me, it was a tough choice).

The team however are playing with a swagger and verve that is unrecognisable from the XI I first started watching two years ago, and this is matched by a passion and adoration from the stands which is guaranteed to send a warm feeling down the spine. Win or lose, champions or also-rans, this passion is something which will never leave the Racing faithful.

Follow Dan on Twitter at @DanEdwardsGoal, and his ramblings on South American football with Goal.com

El Superclásico, played every year between Boca Juniors and River Plate, is rightly acclaimed as one of the world’s sporting highlights. The Guardian newspaper included in a list of the “sporting events to see before you die”, and for tourists the game appears in every guidebook as something to experience while in Buenos Aires.

Just over the Riachuelo in nearby Avellaneda however, the game passes almost unnoticed. For there is a far greater rivalry at stake which brings the city to a standstill twice a year, between local heroes Independiente and Racing Club.

Photo by Robert Bits

Football stadiums of Independiente and Racing are right next to each other, fueling the bitter rivalry

Rivals Through History:

Racing and Independiente are two of the oldest and most successful clubs in Argentine football, and almost from inception became hated rivals. The tension between the two clubs is amplified through their proximity; there is only 300m separating the two stadiums, and on derby days at Independiente’s Libertadores de America Racing’s very own El Cilindro looms ominously in the distance. Even the colours of the teams are diametrically opposed- while Independiente sport a deep red and are known as ‘the red devils’, those of Racing wear white and celestial blue stripes- a true clash of heaven and hell!

Both teams were conceived in the early years of the twentieth century, and their first match in the top division took place on 12th December 1915. Los Rojos won the first encounter, only to later lose the points for having fielded an ineligible player. Since this first match the teams have met 173 times. Independiente have been more successful, winning 67 compared to La Academia’s 46.

Both teams have also had to suffer through ‘golden ages’ of their enemies. Racing Club dominated Argentine football through the 50s and 60s- in no small part due to the patronage of Gen. Juan Domingo Peron, who had a strong influence in the club and after who the stadium is named. The Peronist influence persists to this day amongst Racing fans and management. Racing’s glory years included three  consecutive championships, and becoming the first ever Argentine team to win the Intercontinental championship, in 1967. Independiente meanwhile were unstoppable in the 1970s, winning an unprecedented 4 consecutive Copa Libertadores (South American Championship) titles between 1972 and 1975.

In recent years however the teams have found reduced success on the field. Independiente brought the last league title to Avellaneda in 2002, while Racing have been more preoccupied recently with avoiding relegation than with any title aspirations. Underachievement on the pitch, however, in no ways implies that the fans become any less passionate.

Thou shalt love thy neighbour?

Photo by remi de nimega

Club Racing Fans

An integral part of being a fan of either Racing or Independiente is hating with a passion your ‘other’. Even when the teams don’t play, many of the chants and songs sung by the fans insult their Avellaneda rival. A Racing song tells the Independiente fans “Rojo! You’re queer, a vigilante, you work with the police and you have no support” while the Independiente faithful sing “you’re shit like San Lorenzo, call a priest, go to mass and then suck our dicks”.

The rivalry divides the city of Avellaneda; while in Buenos Aires there are a multitude of Premier teams that share support, across the river there is only two, and allegiances can often split friends and family if only for two days a year. On derby days the tension is palpable, the city is deserted apart from bands wearing blue or red. “For a week before the game you can feel the tension around everywhere, no-one talks as much or is as friendly as normal and the atmosphere is oppressive” explains Luciano Ciccarelli, a lifelong Racing fan from Villa Crespo, “If you’re Racing and your friend is Rojo, for that week you’re not going to talk to each other.”

The tension has often in the past erupted into violence. A memorable instance of on-pitch brutality occurred in 1961, where the referee had to suspend the game due to fighting between the players. The game eventually continued, with both sides reduced to seven men each. In 2006 the match was actually abandoned due to crowd violence. Racing away fans, upset at the fact their team was losing 2-0, started to riot and destroy the visitor’s enclosure. Next they turned on the police, fighting a pitched battle in the stands. The incident led to the banning of away fans from all Argentine professional football for a period.

A Saturday in Avellaneda:

On Saturday 27th February the 173rd Avellaneda Derby took place, in Independiente’s newly renovated Libertadores stadium. The bad blood started days before however, with an ugly slanging match between the two team presidents each accusing the other club of being favoured by referees. Racing ticket sales also did not pass without incident, as the few made available by Independiente provoked incredible scenes as 2000 fans battled their way to two windows selling 700 tickets. Several were taken to hospital after fainting in the pressure and the crush of the completely uncontrolled situation.

For the match itself I was located in the Racing terrace, along with 4,500 others who had been lucky enough to secure a ticket. It was clear that this was a different game than normal, as usually boisterous loud fans were instead suffering through a nervous silence. Luciano for one was visibly anxious, with head in hands smoking cigarette after cigarette in a bid to calm down. There was no doubting the passion however- the stadium was almost completely full an hour before kick off. No-one was prepared to miss this match.

Photo by sicoactiva

Independiente Fans

Eventually at 5pm the teams ran onto the field to the jubilation of their respective supporters. As always the chants ran the gamut from the humorous (“Independiente finish your stadium- it looks like Banfield’s” was a Racing favourite referring to the as yet unfinished home ground) to the unprintably vulgar. Particularly impressive was a massive Independiente banner that spanned the entire home goal end. It was paying tribute to ‘el Kun’ Sergio Agüero, the rojo starlet whose multi-million pound transfer to Spain financed a large part of the stadium renovations.

The game itself perhaps inevitably could not live up to the hype. It was tight throughout, with few real goalscoring chances and both teams frightened of being humiliated in front of their own fans. The violence associated with the game also reared its ugly head with two dismissals. Racing forward Gabirel Hauche was expelled for a horrific studs-up challenge into an opponents midriff, while Independiente’s Patricio Rodriguez also saw red in the dying seconds for a second yellow card.

The difference between the teams came four minutes from the end of the first half. Racing defender Brian Lluy handled the ball in the penalty area, and referee Nestor Pittana had no hesitation in pointing to the spot. It was up to Darío Gandín, a rojo legend and prolific scorer against their Avellaneda rivals, to convert it, and he made no mistake in rolling the ball into the net. Except for a couple of good attempts by la academia the 1-0 scoreline was rarely in doubt, as Racing could not break down the stout Independiente defence.

The red half of the stadium exploded into celebration as Pittana blew the final whistle, while the Racing fans hurried towards the exits in order to escape the depressing outcome of this vital game. Fireworks, flares and other explosives were launched from every corner, and the home players went straight over to their end to applaud the sterling effort of these faithful supporters, who turn out in their thousands every week rain or shine.

With that the Clásico de Avellaneda was finished, and the red half of the city will enjoy the all-important bragging rights over the blue half for the next six months. In the spring however it will be Racing’s turn to host their neighbours, and there is no doubting that the tension, hatred and adoration will be just as intense the next time the fan’s heroes meet each other.