Rediscovering the Magic of Sports
Sports is a beautiful thing.
They know no language, no state lines, and no barriers between countries.
Two years ago when I decided to pursue a career in sports broadcasting, this was the draw of them. People didn’t have to understand them to appreciate them. I remember attending my first football game as a young girl with my dad. I was maybe 5 or 6 years old, far too young to grasp the themes, understand the rules, or know any of the players.
But despite all of the things I couldn’t grasp, I understood the most important thing of all: the emotion. I could sense the mood of the fans when the players emerged from the tunnel, feel the stadium shake from the thunderous roar of the crowd, and understand the outcome of the game based on the emotion from the fans.
There was something magical about this: understanding the outcome solely based on the mood of the arena or stadium.
As I got older and grew to understand the complexities of sports, some of this magic started to disappear. My knowledge of sports began to cloud my appreciation for the emotions that make sports great in the first place.
When I was presented with the opportunity to go to Spain on a month-long study abroad, I had no idea I would regain a little bit of this wonder.
June 9, 2019.
The magic returned. That was the day I attended my first-ever international sporting event, a Spanish basketball league playoff game between Valencia Basket and Real Madrid.
And on that Monday night, my appreciation for the beauty and simplicity of sports started to come back.
My professor John Shrader, fellow student Rita La Vau, and I got to the arena early that night, arriving about two hours before the game. We camped outside of the player entrance so we could easily witness the arrival of several Valencia Basket players who stopped to take pictures with the fans.
A few moments later, a large charter bus rolled up to the spot where we were standing. Off came the entire Real Madrid basketball team and coaching staff. Now, back in Nebraska, when an enemy bus rolled up, boos and other sounds of dislike would fill the air. In the case of Spanish basketball, this wasn’t the case.
After capturing the sights and sounds of the arriving players, our group of three continued on our path around the arena to find our appropriate entrance. After a couple of wrong turns, we stumbled on a sign reading “La Prensa,” which translates to “Press” in English.
As the sound of the PA announcer filled the arena I realized that even though the language was unfamiliar, I understood what was going on.
Back in the States, the rules for where a member of the press can and cannot go are very strict. However, in the La Fonteta arena that night, it seemed as if there were no rules. Rita and I moved around the court, capturing video from every angle we could.
As the 9:05 p.m. tip-off approached and the arena began to reach capacity, the roars got louder and louder. At one point the noise hit a pitch that made me cover my ears.
“Whoa,” I thought. “Spaniards take their sports seriously.”
As this crossed my mind I immediately felt a little shame. I had never thought of another country being as crazy for sports as we are in the United States.
A few minutes before tip-off, it was time for the players to run back onto the court. A band played and fans lined the court and held a red and yellow tarp up for the players to run underneath.
Seconds later, the entire Valencia Basket Club emerged to chants, cheers and loud music, and as loud as it had previously gotten, this was louder.
As quickly as the team had run out on the court, the game began.
Valencia won the tip-off and madness ensued. The band continued to play during the game, and was interchanged with the blaring American hip-hop. The PA announcer Rafael Nachercas was more invested than anyone, nearly screaming every time the home team scored a point.
Several minutes into the game Valencia Basket was leading and John, Rita and I decided to climb the stairs up to the press box seating where about 10 other members of the media were camped out, laptops open and notebooks out.
It was a small media area with plastic seats. And it was sweltering hot. No air-conditioning will do that. I also noticed something I never have in an American press box: we were the best-dressed people there.
That was new.
From my perspective I was dressed pretty normally for a member of the press, especially knowing the style of Europeans. I was wearing black pants and a white and black striped shirt. I thought my outfit of choice might be a little sub-par, but no. All of the media members were in the most casual attire I’d seen for any media member in my short time covering sports.
After noticing this, I knew to look out for other differences, so I could better compare and contrast American and European sporting events, in the eyes of a media member.
It wasn’t long before another glaring difference presented itself.
The media members were cheering.
This is a big no-no anywhere in the States, and the funny thing was they were doing it unashamedly. Apparently rules for press behavior differ from one continent to another.
While I sat pondering this, in an overly negative way, something else jumped out at me, but this time in a positive light: the fans were incredible.
By now it was the fourth quarter of the game and their team was struggling to keep up with their opponent. It was clear who the better team was, but the sold-out arena didn’t let it faze them. They booed the calls they disagreed with, screamed for the good plays and the points scored, and were just in general, one of the most consistently loud crowds I’ve ever witnessed.
As the final seconds ticked off the clock, this energy didn’t change, and I was in awe.
I’m accustomed to American fan bases where fans filter out of the arena with several minutes left on the clock if their team is losing, and even sometimes winning.
Not in La Fonteta Arena, though, and not the Spanish fan base. They were on their feet until the very end, even in the midst of a season-ending loss.
That’s the moment when my wonder returned.
I didn’t understand the PA announcer’s words or the language of the chants, but the love and emotion I could feel didn’t need a translator. And that is the beauty of sports.
My second interaction with international sports was a night-and-day difference from my first, but equally compelling and special.
On June 18, three students, my professor and I made our way down Valencia’s oldest streets, with our backpacks, cameras and water bottles in tow. Not knowing what to expect, a theme for my month in Spain, I blindly followed along as the heat beat down on my already sunburnt arms.
All I knew was what I was told: we were visiting a baseball team called the Astros. Now, don’t get me wrong. I enjoy a good baseball game as much as any other meat-eating, beer-drinking, red-blooded American, but after attending the basketball game a week earlier, I didn’t think anything could come close.
But once again, my initial judgment was proved wrong.
As we walked up to the small park with a blue sign hanging above the gate that read “Los Angeles Dodgers,” I knew we’d found a hidden gem.
Walking across the outfield toward the dugout I itched to get my hands on my camera which was tucked away in my backpack. Seconds later my Nikon 5200 was in my hands and I got to work snapping a couple of test shots of the field, dugout and mounds of baseballs sitting in a shopping cart.
About 30 minutes later, the A team started to filter onto the field, their orange jerseys reading “Astros” complementing the green grass they were warming up on.
The next hour and a half flew by, and for once, I didn’t overthink the footage I wanted to collect. I just took photos and enjoyed the game of baseball. Similar to the basketball game, I couldn’t easily communicate with any of the players, but also similar to basketball game, I wasn’t missing out on anything.
They ran, they hit, they fielded the balls. They played baseball in its purest form. Raw and real, and for the second time on my four-week trip, I saw the magic of the game come to life on a small field, tucked away in the middle of Valencia.
Out of all my sports experiences in Valencia, the most eye-opening one came late in my study abroad when we took a trip to Villarreal CF, the La Liga soccer club based in a city about 40 miles north of where we were staying.
Coming into this trip, I always knew Europe was crazy about soccer, or fútbol as they call it, but my ignorance kept me from realizing just how big of a deal it was.
The morning of my trip I packed up my gear and dressed in a business casual outfit as I had been instructed before beginning my hike to the train station. Twenty minutes later I arrived, sweatier than a pig, and even crankier. I was annoyed at myself for having a bad attitude, but couldn’t help wonder what the huge draw was for this soccer thing.
After an hour and 20 minute train ride we arrived in the town of Vila-Real where we were picked up by a man associated with the soccer team named Brandon Paramo. My classmates and professor and I loaded into the cars they had waiting. I crawled into a backseat where my knees touched the seat in front of me, quite an accomplishment for a girl who stands just over 5-foot-2.
While my classmate Rita sat in the front seat rattling off perfect Spanish to the driver, I looked out the car window. It was a town about 50,000 people, but it seemed way smaller as there was no hustle and bustle on the tan rock sidewalks. Even though it lacked that element, it had another that made it completely charming.
Ten minutes, and what felt like as many roundabouts later, our driver parallel parked her small car alongside a packed street. It only took a couple of seconds for me to see it, it was kind of hard to miss. But right in front of me in the middle of the apartment buildings and businesses, was a massive soccer stadium.
That’s when I knew. Soccer was a little more than just a big deal.
Over the next hour our group toured the stadium. We saw the player locker rooms, where the press worked and learned about the fans that had been supporting this team for nearly a century. More than that, I learned about sport that because of my ignorance, I had overlooked for 22 years.
As we continued to talk with Brandon, I learned really just how much this soccer team was loved. Their emotions ride with the team’s success. It’s their pride and joy, their life.
The train ride back to Valencia later that day is when my embarrassment hit. As a girl who grew up on what I referred to as the “real football,” I didn’t think it was possible for a sport to be as popular, but I couldn’t have been more wrong.
That day trip to Villarreal showed me that soccer is loved by the entire world, and has a reach across oceans that I had never been able to fathom before. It truly knows no language and has no barriers.
Soccer is the true fútbol.
