Last weekend I took in my first Spanish game for a month. I’d nipped back to England on each of the previous three weekends for the home games against Liverpool and Man Utd and the England rugby match against South Africa, so had missed a few opportunities. I had intended to go to Lugo on the Saturday evening for their division 2B game but in the end decided to listen to the Boro on the internet. A pity really, because Lugo is an interesting place, with a Roman wall that you can walk along encircling the ‘old town’, whereas listening to Bernie Slaven whinging on about the Boro’s 1-1 draw with Wigan wasn’t quite so enthralling.
That left me looking for a game to go to on the Sunday. Celta Vigo were at home to Villareal, but I couldn’t be arsed. I went to the same fixture last year and just knew that the stadium would be half empty with not much of an atmosphere. Ferrol were at home as well, but even though they are playing quite well at the moment I’ve been there a few times now and my interest over here now tends to be in going to the new places.
The game that I decided upon in the end was Sporting Sada against Chantada in the Preferente autonomica (North). I’d watched Chantada brawl with SD Compostela in a 5-2 defeat about a month ago and enjoyed it. There’s nothing that improves a game quite as much as a decent punch up, apart perhaps from female streakers running on the pitch or players rugby tackling stray dogs. Or maybe players rugby tackling female streakers. Or female streakers rugby tackling stray dogs. You get the idea, most of the combinations work. And as a bonus, since the Preferente autonomica (North) is in effect the fifth tier with its teams ranked outside of the top five hundred in the country, I also though that it was unlikely to be sold out.
The Big Match
Sada is about forty kilometres away from Ferrol and as I was keen to have a look around the town beforehand I set out at 2pm for a 4pm kick off. It’s on the other side of an inlet for the sea and as usual I got lost. My theory of just following the coast didn’t work on this occasion as I lost sight of the water, and so coming out of Betanzos I had to stop and check the map. I noticed an old biddy scowling at me from an upstairs window of a nearby house, obviously suspicious of the stranger with the dirty car who had stopped in the middle of nowhere. She had a big inflatable Father Christmas on a ladder decoration on the front of her house. I reckon that it was more likely that he was using the ladder to escape from her than for delivering presents. I wouldn’t have blamed her husband if he had followed Santa down the ladder as well. Perhaps she was worried that I was the getaway driver.
I drove further on towards Sada, passing even more old people along the way. One of the favourite pastimes in the countryside over here seems to be sitting by the side of the road watching cars drive past. It’s as if motorised transport is still a novelty to some of them. The old men tend to wear berets or peaked caps and the old women usually have big black dresses, accessorised with this season’s must-have item, a broom.
And yet, whilst the locals could spare the time to sweep up leaves or make a mental note of every stranger passing through, they didn’t seem to have the time to pick the oranges from the trees. Well into December, there was still plenty of fruit to be seen. I wondered if it was intended to be decorative rather than for eating as it’s hard to imagine that they would harvest them as late in the year as this. Of course, it’s possible that all the coffin dodgers scrutinising every passing car were actually watching out for the arrival of the Man from Del Monte. If only I had brought my Panama hat I could have given them a thumbs up.
I got to Sada an hour or so before kick off. It is a seaside town that would probably be quite busy in the summer. As it was December though it was pretty deserted and I went for a walk along the seafront. Or should that be a stroll? I tend to think that if you have a dog then it is a walk, but if you have an ice-cream then it is a stroll. I had neither, so it was maybe more of a wander.
Sada beach
Although there were no people there were plenty of seagulls, swooping and squawking in that way that seagulls do. The seagulls reminded me of the year that I spent in Peterhead, a town that seemed to consist solely of seagulls and smack heads. I went to see Peterhead play a few times and would reckon that their level of Scottish Third Division was probably a bit better than the standard of the Division Five Sada and Chantada players. The weather is nicer here though and neither the seagulls nor the smack heads covet your chips.
Campo de Futbol As Marinas
I paid my six euros and went into the ground. It was very similar to a lot of the stadiums below the top three divisions. There was one small stand, a clubhouse and then just advertising boards around three sides of the ground. The usual seven foot high fence stopped anyone without a biscuit tin to stand on from watching for free. There were still about twenty minutes to go before kick off and I watched the players and officials warming up. The referee and linesmen were lapping the pitch and for one of the assistants this looked as if it might just finish him off before the game had even started. I didn’t have much hope of him being able to keep up with play.
I took a seat in the stand as the teams lined up. Sada were in an all white strip whilst Chantada wore the same red shirts with blue shorts that I’d seen them play in against Santiago last month. I looked around and reckoned that excluding substitutes there were about 110 people watching. It speaks volumes for the crowd size when you feel the need to clarify whether or not the players are included in the attendance figure.
As I had suspected, the young linesman had peaked too soon and his two lap warm up routine had taken it out of him. He would take the opportunity to have a rest whenever the ball was down the other end of the pitch, but because he tended to stand with his hands on his thighs, looking at the floor, he wasn’t always as quick off the mark when the ball was hit long as he should have been. He made up for it though by always standing up straight when putting his flag up. It was as if standing to attention would distract from the fact that he was ten yards away from where he should have been, a bit like a kid who sits quietly with his arms folded on School Report writing day in the hope that his teacher will forget about him burning down the Sports Hall and play down the incident with the goat and the Catherine wheel.
I'm sat behind them.
The referee looked like one of those skinny full backs that used to play rugby union for England in the days when you could tell the difference between the backs and the forwards without having to examine the amount of damage to their ears. You know the type, he would have spent the morning doing heart transplants, before taking off his white coat and turning up at Twickenham twenty minutes before kick off. He then would put on a white shirt, kick half a dozen penalties and then a few hours later find himself back at hospital as a consequence of drinking a pint of aftershave in the post-match celebrations.
Sada had a bloke with a Jesus hairdo and beard playing for them in midfield, although he looked to be a good couple of stones overweight. Perhaps the ability to do that trick with the loaves and fishes was taking its toll on his waistline. I knew he would be good though, you don’t get to keep your place when you are that size if you don’t have a fair bit of ability. I was right and he was involved in everything from playing all the clever little balls into gaps, to taking all the free-kicks and even when things were a bit quiet, throwing the money lenders out of the temple.
Fat Jesus
Fat Jesus also, like the rest of the players, had to hop over the advertising boards and retrieve the ball whenever it went out. There weren’t any ball boys and the spectators who weren’t sat in the stand all tended to congregate by the dugout, perhaps hoping for a game. The advertising boards were a strange mix of local businesses and global multi nationals. The Siboney Café, Sada, sat alongside an advert for Coca Cola. I wondered why Coca Cola would be bothered to put a board up at a game like this. Perhaps they don’t and the clubs put them up to try and make the place look like a proper football ground. You know, in the way that you can buy the little accessories for Subbuteo or for toy train sets. Maybe there is a rule that lists a Coca Cola advertising board as being necessary for a match to take place, you know, like a ref, corner flags and an old bloke with a radio nailed to the side of his head.
The first half was fairly tight and it took a penalty just before half time for Sada to open the scoring. I wandered around to the other side of the pitch, got a coffee and had a look at the Sada trophy cabinet. They looked to have won more stuff than the Boro, although I suspect that some of it might have been for record orange juice yields or for Best Turned Out Seagull 1978.
In the second half the substitutes started making their appearances; some of them only looked about fourteen years old. At the last game at this level I was sure that both teams used four substitutes. Well today Chantada went one better and used all five outfield subs that they had brought with them. They must have a policy that if you turn up then you will get a game.
Two of the Sada subs.
Mind you, they could have played all five from the beginning as well as the eleven players that started and it wouldn’t have affected the result. Fat Jesus ran the show for Sada and the goals just kept coming. Two nil after fifty minutes and a second penalty after sixty five minutes made it three. There weren’t any floodlights and with the light fading and the younger players being called in for their tea by their Mams, Sada pushed for a fourth goal in the dusk.
By this time I had moved to behind the goal and was risking life and limb as the shots rained in. I was in perfect position as the final goal went in and even retrieved a couple of wayward shots to save Fat Jesus from having to climb over the advertising boards. If my Spanish had been better I might have suggested another of those forty day fasts to him. Hopefully I’ll get my reward in the next life. The skinny ref blew for full time as the last of the light faded and the players walked off only to be met with a bloke on the door of the dressing room who insisted that they removed their muddy boots and washed them under a tap before he would allow them in.
I doubt the keeper could even see it in the dusk.
I drove my even dirtier seagull splattered car past the old biddies who were still sat by the side of the road and back to Ferrol. It is a little odd watching a game that doesn’t even get the result published in the papers, but sad sack that I am I had a look on the internet the next day. Chantada have their own website, complete with photos. In fact complete with photos of me sat in the stand before kick off. And in the sad sack stakes, it is hard to tell what is worse, being there, looking it up or then writing it down.
Next will probably be Deportivo v Athletico Bilbao. Deportivo are on a seven match run without a win and Bilbao are looking likely to get relegated. The pre-Christmas crowd should be the lowest of the season and it is forecast to rain. Still, my son is coming out for the weekend, so I can enjoy his suffering. I’ve ‘borrowed’ one or two photos from the Chantada site, but the one of the goal is all my own work. If you are impressed then I’m available for weddings, portraits and reader’s wives style bookings.
Spanish Sporting Stuff 