By: Alissa Flores
I stared wide-eyed into the football (soccer) pitch as an Olimpia player threw a punch at the FC Motagua assistant coach. A nearby banner was trampled as a throng of angry, passionate men crowded around the fight. Honduran games were known to be intense and dangerous—not just for the players, but also for the fans. Tonight was no exception. All around me, the stadium roared. Curses and insults were flung into the air, as well as trash and plastic bags full of liquid. I was overwhelmed, yet … enjoying myself?
Four days earlier, my parents had told me we wouldn’t attend the final for Honduran Liga Nacional. Then, the night before the match, they surprised me with last-minute tickets. I squealed with delight and threw my arms around my dad, thanking him profusely. He didn’t love attending games in his home country. To him, it was stressful to make the trip, find parking, and ensure our safety.
The next morning, my dad, my four cousins, and I piled into our small Mazda and headed to the capital, Tegucigalpa. Along the way, my cousins and I chatted in Spanglish, predicting who would win. Out of everyone, I was the most excited. Soccer has always been my passion. Since I could walk, I had been kicking a ball with my brother and learning everything I could about the game. Even as I got older, my life revolved around it. The sport was, and is, the love of my life.
I had been to a game in Honduras once before. At 13, I clung to my dad’s side, heeding his warning of aggressive fans, fights and thieves. Now, at 20, I felt more confident walking through the congested streets, yet caution lingered in my mind. Vendors sold jerseys, food and noisemakers. The atmosphere was electric, but I kept my eyes peeled for anything unusual.
We arrived two hours early to avoid traffic and swarms of fans. After a thorough pat-down by security, we found our hard, uncomfortable seats. My cousins and I entertained ourselves until a loud commotion caught my attention.
To my right, Olimpia fans tried to open a gate into our section. Simultaneously, Motagua fans rushed in from the bottom aisle. Fans yelled curses and threw things. Finally, the gate swung open, and a flood of white Olimpia shirts streamed in, forcing the Motagua fans into another section. Police officers stood between them, a chain-link fence their only barrier.
This was before the game even began.
Once kickoff started, the stadium buzzed with energy. The sunset cast an orange hue onto the pitch as 22 players sprinted up and down, dribbling and taking shots. At halftime, the score remained 0-0. Then came the “own goal.”
To the dismay of Olimpia fans, their team had accidentally scored on their own keeper. My cousins groaned in frustration. I, too, was disappointed, though not as heartbroken as them. Now, if this had been an FC Barcelona game, I would have been losing my mind.
With minutes left, Olimpia fans watched in silence while Motagua fans cheered. I was focused on the game when I saw a flash of movement near the corner. The Olimpia assistant coach walked past warming-up Motagua players and jeered at them. One of the players lunged, shoving him hard.
All hell broke loose.
Players sprinted toward the fight. The teams collided in a flurry of shoves and fists. Fans hurled anything they could onto the field. My cousins and I, safe in our seats, whipped out our phones to record the uproar. Security finally pulled the assistant coach and Motagua’s head coach away. Shockingly, the game continued.
When the final whistle blew, Motagua fans erupted in celebration. Smoke bombs filled the air, noisemakers blared, and fans climbed the fence. Olimpia fans, embarrassed, rushed out. My dad knew things got more dangerous after games, so we hurried to leave.
At our car, we waited an hour before we could leave—traffic was awful. As I sat there, I reflected on the game.
While some moments may have made me nervous, I actually relished the electric atmosphere. I loved being around passionate football fans; it made me feel at home and accepted. Going to games abroad, especially in Latin American countries, is such a cool experience because it shows just how much of the world loves football and how much it means to the fans. Wherever you are, I recommend going to a football game at least once (bonus points if it’s out of the country).
