Road to La Bombonera

Football connects. The same football team connects even more. It creates bonds, friendships, affection, memories. And it suggests some lessons derived from victory or defeat and, in any case, from perseverance.

The connection between father and son, son and father, due to the same expectation, the same support, the same passion, intensifies inside the stadium (and alternatively in front of the television).

Moreover, it can also contribute to shortening distances caused by the most diverse reasons – especially, in current times, by the excessive use of social media.

With the definition, weeks ago, of the results of the quarterfinals of the Copa Sudamericana, a historic duel was announced: São Paulo and Boca Juniors. First game there, in Buenos Aires; second here, in São Paulo.

Finally, the first opportunity arose to go with my son to the mythical stadium located in La Boca, La Bombonera.

The first leg was scheduled for a Tuesday. A school day. I called my mother, excited. I wanted her approval. He didn't come. But tickets and passes were already bought. The trip would happen – and soon with his mother's support.

On a gray September morning, João woke up early to go to Guarulhos – and not to school.

The departure and flight went smoothly, alongside other São Paulo fans. A sense of belonging and community dominated the atmosphere.

Once in Buenos Aires, under a beautiful blue sky, father and son abandoned a reservation at the award-winning (and, for that date, unnecessary) Don Julio and headed, without prior notice, to La Brigada in San Telmo, a delightful parrilla (grill) that displays on its walls paraphernalia from hundreds of local and international teams.

A more appropriate setting, undoubtedly, offering a Buenos Aires-style journey into the world of football and, at that moment, welcoming São Paulo fans who were bursting with pride at belonging and invading the stadium to cheer.

At the end of the afternoon, we arrived at the meeting point: a run-down hotel in the city center, from where we would depart for Puerto Madero, the base for the dozens of buses carrying fans, heading towards La Bombonera.

At the base, the first emotion: about fifteen hundred uniformed men, from different backgrounds, gathered in an act of faith, awaiting police clearance. Yes, no bus would leave without prior inspection and police escort. Problem: our bus was the last to arrive and, given the queue time, wouldn't leave for another two hours.

Anxiety consumed the flesh – and unsettled the spirit. We couldn't wait.

I stopped a taxi, negotiated the fare, and imposed two conditions: first, the car had to follow the convoy and couldn't stray from it for any reason; second, it had to drop us off at the same place as the organized supporters. The conditions were accepted and promised. And so, equally uniformed, we set off, proud, right behind the escorts.

Invasion – or intrusion – underway. Apprehension at its peak.

At the second or third traffic light, the group took a one-way street against the flow of traffic. The taxi driver hesitated and didn't follow. He would get a ticket, he said. The promise was broken. Without the convenience of an escort, traffic was inevitable. Worse, we would arrive at the stadium alone, not as a group, as planned.

I intended to revolt. But that would be worse. I protested, however. The response was disconcerting: - Don't worry. I'm Boca. I know the area like few others. We'll arrive together.

Believing was all that was left.

During the chaotic journey, every time we mentioned we wouldn't find the buses, the driver pointed to some lights in the distance and said: "Those are them. We'll connect soon." They weren't them. And there was no sign that the connection would be established. I thought about my mother. What would I tell her if, upon arrival, we got beaten up and came back with black eyes?

Suddenly, the taxi wound its way through semi-deserted streets, lined with warehouses and seemingly abandoned buildings, forming an incomprehensible zigzag. It suggested a scene from Blindness.

"Are you lost?"

"I already told you that La Boca is my home. We'll find the buses soon."

I was about to bet we'd reach Fort Apache. And that we wouldn't leave from there.

Then, as we rounded a sharp bend, the Bombonera appeared on the illuminated horizon, and a few meters ahead of the taxi, at a slow pace, the convoy.

- Didn't I tell you? There you go. We'll get there together.

We would arrive together! Impressive and exciting. We rode a few blocks following the motorcycle escorts and, finally, the first barrier appeared. The buses were allowed to proceed, the taxi wasn't. Another broken promise.

- Sir, wouldn't we reach the nearest stop next to the fans?

- But the police wouldn't let me through. I'm sorry. But you can continue on foot.

- Can we go in uniform?

- Of course. From here, you won't find any Boca fans besides me.

- Are you sure?

- You can trust me.

- I trust you. Thank you very much.

- Do me a favor.

- Of course.

- Don't win the game.

At that moment, and after the magic of the encounter with the fleet, I would trust what he said, until Milei was normal.

We got off and walked for a hundred meters and came face to face... with the fans, who were getting off the buses euphorically. Our driver was right. He knew everything. A rival fan, he drove us safely. And he didn't normalize Milei.

The route to the stadium – yes, a stadium, old-school or old-structure, without an arena complex – was theatrically planned, with barriers at all intersections, so that opposing fans wouldn't collide, physically or visually.

More: we passed through eight police checkpoints, which repeatedly checked ticket possession or simply aimed to impose respect (or fear). After the last one, the imposing blue and yellow building appeared, the stage for historic spectacles. And also the seemingly endless staircase – like a beanstalk – that would lead us to the clouds of a city that, on that pleasantly cold night, had no clouds.

Upon conquering the hundreds of steps, the prize: from the top, yes, from the highest point of the stadium, reserved (or relegated) to the opposing fans, one could see, down below, the grass, almost as sacred as that of Morumbi, upon which the father and son's team would create a (also almost) divine connection.

- We're at La Bombonera!

- To see São Paulo!

João's emotion, on his first time, met mine, also on my first time with him.

And that's when a misunderstanding was revealed to me, perhaps my greatest misunderstanding.

I had never experienced anything like it with my father. He, like all my family, was a Corinthians fan. He never understood my detachment from the team and would throw it in my face during arguments. But, over time, in secret – not so secretly – he began to root for his son's team, for his son – without ever betraying his own team. And even more so, years later, for his grandson's team – and his granddaughter's, who didn't go to La Bombonera because she was studying for her university entrance exams.

There, high up, amidst two thousand São Paulo fans, who sang tirelessly and didn't care about the hostility of the opposing fans, I regretted not having given my father the joy that João gave me; but I was certain that he not only accepted my choice but, from somewhere and at that moment, was singing and encouraging Tricolor.

At the end of the game, after more than an hour of waiting inside the stadium, tired, sad about the result, but at peace, we went to the bus. Again, one of the last in line. The departure would be by convoy. It would take time. Perhaps a lot of time.

We started walking, to see where we would end up. The street ended at another, wider and busier one, where Boca Juniors fans were walking. Not many.

Three men, at different paces, came towards us. The three were vying for our attention, as potential passengers. One of them, the most gruff and with the appearance of a bookie, overtook the others.

I asked the price of the ride. He answered. It wasn't expensive. I had no intention, at that moment, of bargaining. I inquired about the safety of walking with him to the car, about 100 meters ahead, in our uniforms, amidst local fans.

- With me, you're safe. I know everything around here and everyone knows me.

- Shall we go?

- Let's go, Dad.