World Cup Finale In Madrid

It’s not very often when you can pinpoint with absolute certainty the biggest and best party in the world on a given night.

On Sunday night, when Spain won their first ever World Cup, I can say unequivocally that Madrid was that place, and I was fortunate enough to be there.

In one of the greatest gunslinging moves in history my dad decided last Thursday it would be a fun idea for him, my brother, and myself to hop on a flight to Madrid the following day so we could be in the city for the World Cup final. (My parents have worked for Continental Airlines my whole life, so flying for free is a little perk I’ve gotten used to, and it makes this ridiculous weekend trip actually feasible.)

The two days that followed were a dream. Walking around Spain’s capital city under blue skies, visiting the beautiful Retiro Park, The Royal Palace, and Prado museum were a lot to jam into a Saturday, but as the night came we ate and drank anxiously awaiting the next day and what we hoped would be one of the biggest days in the Spain’s history.

With only a half year of Spanish education, in 6^th grade, my communication skills with the locals were the lacking. I used a lot of hand gestures and simple words, and, in return, I got a lot of confused looks.

We thought the game was going to be televised in Santiago Bernabeu Stadium, where Real Madrid plays. But the crowd wasn’t near the stadium. The enormous mass of fans lined the Paseo de Recoletos, a section of the largest street in Madrid.

We left the stadium and followed the crowd for two miles, with no clue as to where we were going or where they were gathering for to watch the game. When we finally arrived I was blown away.

It was still an hour and a half before the start of game, but the enormous crowd was partying in full force. There was a random concert going on up until the very start of the game. The pure size and enthusiasm of the crowd was mind-boggling. It was like Obama’s inauguration but with more excitement and a lot more booze and cigarettes. I swear if someone pulled out a fleet of charcoal grills I would have passed out from the pre-game perfection.

Roughly 300,000 thousand crazy Spaniards stood at the ready to burn the city down (not literally like Philadelphia fans) if they beat the Netherlands to win their first World Cup. They consumed sangria by the liter and downed beer by the gallon. Four or five giant TV screens catered to the crowd of drunk, vuvuzella-toting Spaniards (plus my English speaking trio).

After a couple beers we staked out our space in the crowd, which changed –frequently. The national anthem was sung louder than “Born to Run” at a Springsteen concert. It felt like we were on our tippy toes the entire game; my legs, feet, calves and lower back were killing me by halftime. Fans were watching the game from the trees, on top of restaurant roofs, sitting on traffic lights — anywhere to get a clear view of the screens.

Also everyone in Spain smokes so this crowd of a couple hundred thousand became a giant ashtray (god I smelled like shit).

The sun came down around 9:45 p.m. as game really started heating up in the second half. The Dutch had a sure fire scoring opportunity with their best goal scorer on the ball and failed to convert. I swear when Arjen Robben was on that fast break you could her a pin drop in all of Spain.

As the game went on, the crowd’s anxiety doubled — one goal for either side and it would be over. Excitement replaced anxiety when the game went into extra time. After the first 15 minutes, everyone started thinking, “Shit, is this really gonna end on penalty kicks?” (They were probably saying it, too, but it might as well have been gibberish to me.)

Then Netherlands had a man sent off with a red card and Spain had the advantage. A couple more chances go by and now everyone is convinced we’re still heading to penalty kicks. Until Cesc Fabragas hit Andres Iniesta with a beautiful pass and Iniesta put it past the goalie. The place went fucking bananas. For seven minutes the Spanish crowd celebrated with verve and burst with unadulterated joy that I’d never seen before. The final whistle blew and the crowd literally exploded.

It was a moment I’ll never forget because it’s something as Americans we can never and will never experience. In Europe soccer is our NBA, NFL, MLB, NHL, and NCAA all rolled into one. In Madrid they enjoy soccer, partying and breathing, it that order. In America we don’t have any sports team that symbolizes our country. There is no team that everyone lives and dies for. Even more importantly there is no way we’re going to win a World Cup, not in my lifetime. We have improved dramatically, but if a soccer loving country like Spain had to wait an eternity, I’m guessing we have a long way to go.

After the final whistle blew, half the crowd was jumping towards the sky and setting off really load fireworks that didn’t do anything cool except make me jump. The other half stared in disbelief, many crying, some just staring, with their faces painted and Spanish flag draped over their whole body. It choked me up, to see what this game meant to these fans, on so many levels. The obscene amounts of sangria y cerveza were now being tossed in the air with reckless abandon.

As we walked back with the crowd towards the city center, some people were running down to join the masses to celebrate, others hanging out of their balcony windows, playing those fucking horns as loud as humanly possible.

The citizens stormed the streets as Puerta del Sol became celebration headquarters, with bootleggers selling beer instead of sunglasses.The euphoric Spanish fans climbed any and every statue or structure they could find, including a guy mounting a horse statue 30 feet up waving the Spanish flag proudly.

A nation overflowing with passion used every ounce of it celebrating the team that unites a country constantly under seceding turmoil. Even the Catalans in Barcelona were waving the Spanish flag.

I dragged my feet heading back to my hotel room. I didn’t want to leave the celebration raging throughout the streets of Madrid. The cars that braved the pedestrian filled streets waved their flags out the windows and honked their horns proudly.

At 3 a.m., four hours after the game ended, with the party still rampant with crazed fans, I reluctantly laid down and slowly acceded to the sounds of police sirens and vuvuzellas drowning me to sleep.

Two days later I’m still convinced I was dreaming.

*My video taken after the final whistle.