Football’s hymns can lift you up in any language

Dom Wilson

This week’s winning entry: joins fans on a match day in Antigua, Guatemala

The truck weaves sharply through the rough cobbled streets, and I’m riding in the cargo area, adorned in green and white. Match days in Antigua, Guatemala, demand it. Zipping past the vibrant colonial façades and the beautifully inscribed bell towers of Iglesia de la Merced, I sing along cluelessly to the hymns of my adopted football club, with other itinerant travellers bouncing along beside me. Antigua is a city blessed by beauty, charm and character. But for today at least, those attributes are lost on the passionate and vociferous Guatemalans who are charitably escorting us to their cathedral, Estadio Pensativo, to watch the mighty “Green Bellies” play host to Malacateco.

On arrival, we pile out of the cab, joining the throngs streaming towards the gates. With no alcohol allowed inside, a group of us gather outside the whitewashed walls to finish our morning beers and bask in the heat. Quizzical and eccentric Antiguans wander into our vicinity; the ageing super fan with deep facial fissures and the curious farmer with the snaking scar and a penchant for whisky. They are underprivileged, but their lives are made richer

by hope and overwhelming pride in their team, their city and their nation. A spot for the Guatemalan national team at the World Cup would make up heartily for the hardships they face on a daily basis. But that day is a long time coming.

Inside the stadium the atmosphere is engulfing. We form a rambunctious ensemble with the locals, and join in their intoxicating chants. Every pass is tinged with expectation, and when Antigua find the net, it’s as if the towering Volcán de Agua, which dwarfs the city, is rumbling to life from an eternal dormancy. Despite our visit being fleeting, my friends and I have become devoted Antigua partisans. I grab a large flag and parade along the lower terrace, flag trailing and compadres in tow. The game climaxes with an emphatic goal scored high into the net, and the final whistle awakens a thudding reality of place and time.

As the spectators filter out, a comprehensive victory secured, all is calm and forgotten. Like the many matches that preceded it, the outcome didn’t matter. It always has been, and always will be, the journey that counts. Drinks are passed around among friends on the grassy verges outside, as the retreating faithful melt back into the city whence they came. We doff our caps, and their reciprocations make us feel like adopted sons.

As I too make the long walk back, through the narrow lanes and chaotic markets, I almost lure myself into believing that I am home here. But I’m not, really. Only until the next day, and the next town. And I can do it all again.