Lost in Translation, Behind Enemy Lines; both movie titles and apt descriptions for an experience in a Guatemala stadium filled to capacity with (see later for appropriate adjective) Guatemalans save for two rows designated for the All Sport Promotions Charter of (appropriate adjective coming soon) Trinidadians. So who are we that travelled to Central America knowing what we as ‘fans’ will be up against? What are they, as countrymen and women dressed from forehead to ankles in their country’s colors, sardined with a duplicate of themselves, multiplied by ten thousand? After what my paranoia would describe as a near death experience, I sat in the bus next to Alvin Corneal and he said, as my boss would approve me overhearing, that we need to be supporters, not spectators at such events which better than any Hollywood movie title ever could, really sums up what I was thinking in the stadium at the Trinidad vs. Guatemala World Cup Qualifier.

Any excitement about seeing a huge stadium cleverly constructed slightly below ground level was quickly huffed by anxiety and something really close to fear of a giant mob crushing the bus full of tourists. The red of our hearts and jerseys was bright enough to signal to the Guatemalans that the Trini contingent had arrived at the stadium. But the true discomfort really set in when we had to be rushed into (not out of) the stadium by officials and shown to our seats. There was no where we could have been that wouldn’t be surrounded by the blue and white, but staring into the sea of white T-shirts across the football field, I knew it could have been worse. It was a difficult and unnerving time in Guatemala before the game because I had never been in an environment where I HAD to gesticulate and play charades to communicate effectively. This had an upside however because upon arriving outside the stadium, and throughout the game for that matter, we could hear the opposite fan base shouting what I could only assume were expletives back at us. In hindsight it was kind of funny that they may not have known how ineffective their efforts to curse us about our mothers or ‘putas’ were, but I suppose middle fingers and nasty glares and screams were enough body language to get the point across. That’s when I started thinking about two things.

The first was my very primal instinct of survival. I felt as if I was surrounded by real enemies who at a moment’s notice would pounce and use more than just sheer numbers to annihilate us because of where our allegiance lay. I mean, it wasn’t quite racism, but I couldn’t be sure because of the communication breakdown (although I did see one of them point at our group and started acting like a monkey and then pointed and then back to monkey and then rinsed and then repeated). A friend of mine once brought up the idea that global differences should be solved by football (what a world that would be; somehow feel it would be fair though) and that these games will replace our wars. I suppose that will be a little more exciting, and definitely more fun. But for the couple hours at the stadium, I felt as if the war zone spread past the turf and all the way up to us in the crowd. Against the odds (another movie title); we the fans and our ten man squad brought new meaning to the title “Soca Warrior”. For the first time I thought, maybe, just maybe, I too at this moment was a Soca Warrior. Not to take away from our boys who I know we all love and appreciate, and high fives and tens for a great game that night, but as they selflessly threw themselves in front of our goal or a Guatemalan striker not for a paycheck but for our ‘survival’, I thought would I do the same on my end? What was my role as I too was out numbered? Could the rants, wit and defiance of Anil Roberts be heard by our team and would make a difference to them? So the second thing that came to my mind was about that support; that intensity. Were we all football fans who just want to see a good football game? Or were we patriots; die hard patriots? Either way, I think the love for country or football should prevent us from fouling each other just because of the color of T shirts. I guess I am bit too naive.

So as I sat in the bus, perimetered by armed and shielded security guards, I waited for my life and these at the time incomplete thoughts to end as the angry mob, disappointed in their team’s performance, might at any time get fed up of the idiots (or patriots) in our bus who were waving Trini flags at them and start the riot. Different combat scenarios played out in my head, but they all ended in at least me catching a stray bullet or very deliberate ‘buss head’. They continued to throw the angry words, stares and fingers, but a rare few in the crowd actually waved at us. As we rolled out, the man next to me, who turned out to be Alvin Corneal, spoke about the game from his expert point of view and listened to some of what the rest of had to share about our experience among the Guatemalans. He said alot of things, but what really stuck for me was when he said that we need, as fans at a game,to be more than just spectators but supporters and that really was exactly what I was thinking for the whole time about us and about them. So I don’t know. I don’ t think I will show this great animosity to a foreign country at a stadium, but I think given another chance in translation, or behind the line I would scream and wave the flag high and hard, and if I had to fight, I will spill my blood and it will flow red, white and black.