For thousands of Racing fans on Saturday, an odyssey that was hours, weeks, even months in the making came to a blissful conclusion in a matter of seconds.
A final, desperate Cruzeiro attack broke down. One, two headers to send the ball from the edge of the Academia area into the path of Roger Martínez. A steady, almost languid jog towards Cassio’s net followed by a laser-guided finish into the corner. Joy. Ecstasy. Relief. And tears. So many tears.
As a sweltering afternoon in Asunción turned to early evening, the Academia faithful struggled to digest just what had happened. They had travelled to Paraguay en masse, 40,000 according to some, up to 50,000, claimed others. A blue-and-white tide that engulfed the landlocked nation, arriving by plane, coach, car and on foot across Argentina’s northern border crossings.
From Avellaneda, through Entre Ríos, Corrientes, Misiones, Formosa and Paraguay itself the roads were commandeered by the travelling hordes, enduring countless kilometres of potholed highway, hours at police traffic stops, soaring temperatures and severely strained bladders. Most had left loved ones behind to embark on this journey: partners, children, parents, brothers, sisters. Many cashed in December’s pay cheques and bonuses, sold their possessions and held raffles to fund the trip. All had one singular goal: to see Racing win a continental crown for the first time since 1988.
All of that sacrifice was not to be in vain. The Racing support threw down the gauntlet and its players proved gloriously, heroically up to the task. From the very first minute, when Gastón Martirena saw his goal ruled out for a dubious offside, La Academia never looked like squandering this historic opportunity. The Uruguayan full-back caught Cassio off-guard moments later with a cross that floated into the net, before Adrián ‘Maravilla’ Martínez netted his 10th of this year’s Copa Sudamericana to put Racing clear.
The stands of Cerro Porteño’s La Olla heaved and strained under the celebrations, with more than three-quarters of the stadium occupied by the Argentine masses. Those same thousands had spent the previous hours and days enjoying the benevolence of Asunción’s citizenry, another unsung hero of an unforgettable weekend. They opened their houses and hearts to the massed visitors, handing out water, offering shelter, directions and endless buena onda, even hosing off overheated fans under the punishing Paraguayan sun. Even before the game started, the entire nation joined the Racing support in willing their team on to victory. Cruzeiro did not stand a chance.
Of course, it would not be quite that easy. After being bullied and battered out of contention in the first half, the Brazilians came back fighting, and pulled the game back to 2-1, thanks to the scintillating Kaio Jorge. In other moments La Academia might have folded, but this team, led by grizzled club legend Gustavo Costas, is made of sterner stuff.
Racing took Cruzeiro’s best punches and came out standing, and had just enough in the tank to deliver the final knockout blow with what was effectively the last kick of the game. Those who had not made it up to Asunción would hear ESPN commentator Sebastián Vignolo exhort: “Weep for your grandfather, for your father, for your son, for whoever made you a Racing fan.” Inside the stadium, none of us present needed to be prompted for the tears to start falling.
Dan Edwards celebrates Racing's Copa Sudamericana win with friends in Asunción.
My father didn’t make me a Racing fan. Before one of those strange twists of fate that brought me to Argentina and La Academia, he had barely heard of the team. But he did instill in me the love of this silly, illogical sport, through countless hours playing with me and my brother in the park, watching games together, exhaustive debate over cups of tea and pints of beer setting the football world to rights. As a sports journalist, he was my biggest fan, avidly reading the articles I sent his way. Every time I picked up the phone to check in from Buenos Aires, there were certain questions that needed to be addressed: “How are your boys Racing doing? When are you taking me to a game?”
I never did get to take him to Avellaneda. He passed away suddenly in June, far too young, leaving behind a wife and three children who thought the world of him. Since that awful day he has never been far from my thoughts, but never more so than last Saturday as the jubilation of winning the Copa unfolded all around me.
And so I wept. I wept for my father, who should have been there on the end of the phone the next day to receive a full debriefing on the final, the drive up and the quality of Paraguayan steak and beer. I wept for my son back in Buenos Aires, a Racing socio since he was a week old and now, at five, already hopelessly entranced by the world of football and La Academia. I wept for my friends in the stands next to me, the same group of locos who had bumped into a young English kid 15 years ago on the streets of Villa Crespo and invited him into their club and their hearts.
And I knew that up above, my dad would be looking down smiling as his son celebrated this unforgettable moment. I knew from watching the convulsed, tear-stained expressions and sharing in the fierce embraces of those around me that they too were dedicating their joy, their pain to someone special who is no longer with us. I knew that for that brief instant, in a divided world, we are united by a common feeling of emotional release, from the thousands in the stands to Costas, almost inconsolable after seeing an entire lifetime dedicated to Racing vindicated, and his indomitable players. That behind every shout of ‘Dale campeón’ that rose from La Olla there was a personal story of passion, sacrifice and loss that for those brief moments was allowed to rise to the heavens as one overwhelming voice.
As a wise man once said, the ball can never be tainted. Football can be dull, messy, nonsensical, violent, even corrupt, but at its heart it is beautiful. It is beautiful for its unique ability to bring thousands of people from different backgrounds together in common colour and cause, to unite generations through a universal inheritance.
From my father down to me, and on to little Nahuel, my boy who already reels off Racing XIs and, when asked who his favourite superhero is, replies ‘Maravilla Martínez.’ For all of its faults, it is still beautiful. And long may it continue to delight and frustrate us in equal measure.
