Bala. BA-la. Say that out loud, BA-la! That means ball in Greek. It also means ‘footie’. That sport enjoyed for centuries across so many countries around the world also known as football—or, if you live in America, soccer. Their football is the other one that involves throwing a melon-shaped ball, catching it, running like hell, then getting pounced on by a dozen close-zised players ready to fight you for it. Or something like that anyway, I don’t know, I don’t really care at this point, that’s not what I’m here to talk to you about. Today I’m talking football!
Let me start by saying that I have never been the sporty type. I remember having classmates in school who were into football—so pretty much every boy—but didn’t find any of it appealing. I was more interested in flipping through magazines and cutting out as many blue things as I could find for ‘my blue wall,’ or dressing up in weird shit with my twin sister and putting on music(al) mashups, than things like football, or piano lessons. We just played outside, making tree-houses in the back garden, which was the whole mountain side. Sure, I enjoyed volleyball in school and even did some floor and rhythmic gymnastics for a few years when I was younger, but by high school I was on the delicious combo of sex, drugs and rock’n’roll!
In college I remember seeing lots of wealthy young yuppies, walking into class carrying nothing but their cell phone, cigarettes, sports newspaper and keys to their jeep. They made bets on game outcomes and lost huge amounts of money (because they had it) and even got pissed off when you badmouthed one of their players. Who are these meatheads, I would think to myself, who have time and money to waste on things like football? I thought it was dumb, so much money wasted on big events and organizations, meanwhile the people are losing their jobs; the games still sponsored by large companies, the players sold back and forth as if it was all part of a Playstation game. (And yeah, Christiano Ronaldo plays like a pro in both).
Then, about three years ago, something weird happened. I had been working a shitty job for a year or so and got to picking up a crappy, daily newspaper every morning on my way to work. I worked alone and so had more than enough time to read the whole newspaper with my morning coffee if I wanted to. And so I did. It was another excuse not to work, so I read everything—and I mean everything, even the bullshit ads and moronic letters to the editor, the horoscopes and car/moto section and, of course, the sports pages. So, every day I read about football teams I didn’t support and got news on players I had never seen play. I found out the gossip on who was embezzling money, the rumours about player A being offered huge amounts of money to play with team B, the radical past of coach X and the horrible injury of scorer Y. My job was kind of boring and my life even more so at that stage, so I enjoyed being able to follow these events and games. I even asked old men on the street about match results, just to stay ahead with what was happening, and to amuse myself of course. Old men discussing football with thick countryside accents—fucking best!
When reading about any competition, one leans towards something. I didn’t even watch any football games, ever, except for the Mundial Cup, which, I mean—come on, who doesn’t watch that shit even just a little bit when it’s on? Anyway, I just knew that I wasn’t going to support either of the two main teams, the eternal rivals, Olympiacos and Panathinaikos. I remember both these teams growing up, one was red, the other was green.
A red was called a gavros (anchovy), they originate from the port of Pireus (much like anchovies, which used to be sold at games, old school fast food) and their home stadium (surprise, surprise) looks like a giant frying pan, a detail rival fans have noticed and mock repeatedly. Their symbol is a white, statuesque-looking, wreathed young man on a red and white background and pretty much 99% of Olympiacos fans I have encountered are meat headed idiots.A ‘green’ was called a vazelos, from the word Vaseline shouted by Olympiacos fans after a particularly brutal match. I don’t think I need to point out the connection between Vaseline and a sore loss, do I? They originate from Athens, their symbol is a clover and their stadium is right in the centre of the city, across from the police’s main headquarters, ÃÁÄÁ. Most Panathinaikos fans I have encountered are richer kids, often just dorky, other times jocky, most usually just middle of the road boring.
I ended up sort of leaning towards AEK, mainly out of reaction—in high school I had an (older) punk classmate who was an AEK hooligan (he was that scary calm, you know, when he gets angry he goes mental) and he told me some crazy stories from some of the games and it was brutal. AEK is the team from Constantinople, relocated to Athens, with the double-headed eagle and a stadium that once stood in New Philly, Athens, now torn down, so they play at the big OAKA stadium. Like all Greek teams, there’s enough shit to dig up on them, you could block out the sun. Years later I was to meet another punk who was somehow knee-high in working for AEK and he too told ìå some crazy stories, this time about the inside workings of the team and it was pretty surreal. Their mockname used by rivals was lagos (hare), presumably because they needed to run fast to avoid getting their asses whopped. I know there are punx out there who can correct me if I’m wrong. …
At some point I tried asking dudes about football and their reactions ranged from funny and stupid to downright moronic and sexist. Then in 2010 I met someone who really loved football, grew up on it and spoke to me about it with such passion and genuine interest, that I realized there was something I’d been missing—besides watching the games and getting the rules obviously. He didn’t only talk about amazing coaches, or unforgettable fouls, or even talented players. He spoke about the experience of being there, at the stadium, watching it all live! About traveling with a bunch of other crazy people by coach, or train or airplane, to go chant and cheer along their favourite team. To get drunk on the happy highs and to morn the horrible lows.
His team was PAOK, another Constantinople team, relocated to Salonica; their symbol a two-headed eagle, their colours black and white, their stadium in Toumba, Thessaloniki. PAOK’s eternal rival is ARIS, whose fans can also be known as skulikia (worms)! I got quite interested in the image he had painted for me, as we sat at the pub, drinking beer, shooting darts. It was something much better sounding than the corrupt, dog-eat-dog, shit talking, deal-making/deal-breaking world of modern day professional football as I had perceived it so far.
PAOK is one of those love/hate affairs—you love it when they win, but you hate it when they lose, it’s almost like they’re cursed or something. OK, obviously the more money you can launder, the more you can spend on buying ace players and I guess PAOK didn’t have as much as the rest. Though we still had a pretty neat array of players in recent years, so sooner or later larger, richer Greek and European teams scooped them all up. Though Salpigidis won’t budge his thick thighs off the pitch! I was learning the rules, even remembering some of the player’s names. I was actually following a sport. Me! The eternal chain-smoker, was actually chain-smoking while watching football! Well I never! That summer I watched as many World Cup games as I could, which was most of them seeing as I was unemployed. Little did I know that I was soon to experience something way better than crappy, organized football events, sponsored by Citibank and Adidas, broadcast by mainstream mean. I was going to witness the gore and glory of a third division football match. But I was not going to see just any team. I was going to go see Asteras Exarhion!
To be continued…
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