Sevilla – Football and Religion

The Benito Villamarín

A two hour train ride from Malaga, itself one of Western Europe’s oldest cities and a fine one at that, followed by the best part of two days exploring had left us both bleary eyed and nursing battered feet. Maybe it was Sevilla’s oppressive heat or simply the sheer surprise at having boarded a train that was both clean and on time that had left us shellshocked, but after a cold shower and a siesta we were refreshed and ready to roll.

Re-emerging from the air conditioned sanctuary of our second floor ‘piso’ we set about retracing our steps from earlier in the afternoon. We slipped past the place where we’d seen the Brotherhood of ‘Los Gitanos’ parading on the night of our arrival. Wearing white and accompanied by a marching band they’d carried crosses and candles through the furness like streets. An early glimpse into the soul of this special city. Sauntering on, we wandered past terracotta facades that hid altars of gold and frescoes depicting Christ on the cross or Conquistadors landing upon Mexican shores. The horrors of Spain’s imperial past and the Catholic Church’s lust for global expansionism immortalised and celebrated under the roof of the Lord. Violence, religion, injustice and death. Where’ve we heard that one before?

Squinting ferociously as our eyes struggled to adjust after the darkness of the church, onward we strolled past decrepit old convents that housed sisterhood’s of nuns, the chants and whispered prayers escaping through single pane windows and the widening cracks in the faded exterior. Narrow and enchanting, the streets of old Sevilla provide cool solace or infernal heat at the suns bequest. Turn right, and the street is ablaze, consumed by a devilish sun. Turn left, and an alleyway of shade becomes a welcome oasis. It’s little wonder that when the moors of North Africa were expelled from their Iberian Caliphate, much of their architecture remained. Mosaic domes and palm thronged courtyards know as ‘riads’, are as common here as igloos in the arctic, and the therapeutic trickle from their ornate fountains seemed to usher us forth, as though guiding lights on a fog obscured runway.

Having navigated the labyrinth-like warren of ancient streets, we found ourselves on a busy thoroughfare, where horns blared and tarmac sweated. Tapas bars dotted it’s edge and fellow believers supped Cruzcampo’s in the late evening sun. If not directly on it, we’d certainly located the outer fringes of the pilgrim route. Hundreds of these trails dotted the city and beyond, important arteries that carried worshippers young and old to the beating heart.

Picking up the scent we followed the more seasoned hands, passing horse drawn carts, lilac bougainvillea and statues paying homage to Colombus or Vazquez. The distinctive tones of flamenco drifted on the humid breeze, filling the dusk bitten sky with a spellbinding concoction of Maghrebi minaret and Spanish orange grove, a potent mixture. Edging closer to our Mecca, we began to notice more and more devotees joining the steadily growing crowd, until the trickle became a torrent.

The ‘niños’ re-enacted famous goals, darting in and out of cigar smoking ‘abuelos’ and groups of young women sipped ‘cañas’ in replica kits. A rogue firecracker caused some consternation but calm was soon restored and on went the ritual.. families, friends and foreigners all united for a single cause.

Stumbling past strangers so as not to miss kick off, we clumsily made our way to the entry point. Another set of pilgrims were also here, ones of a different faith. They’d journeyed from a working class neighbourhood of Madrid*, and were now escorted to their seats by heavily armoured ‘policia’. Bounding the endless steps of the concrete interior we eventually emerged from speckled darkness into the half light of sunset. Regulars had taken their usual seats and prepared for 90 minutes of devotion and joy, or devotion and disappointment. Always devotion, regardless the outcome.

Scarves where held aloft and banners unfurled, as clouds of swallows soared and swooped amid a sea of green and white. Raising to greet their heroes to the holy altar, fifty thousand disciples belted out ‘el himno’ with a zealotry seldom seen, and as a mandarin sun made silhouettes of the city spires, weekly mass could begin once more. For in this glorious city, football and religion, are one and the same.

‘piso’ – flat

‘Los Gitanos’ – the gypsies

‘riad’s’ – interior garden

‘niños’ – young lads

‘abuelos’ – grandad’s

‘cañas’ – small beers

‘policía’ – police

‘el himno’ – the club hymn

*Madrid – Rayo Vallecano from Vallecas, a working class district of Madrid.