The Fourth of July: A Copa American Holiday

Nobody spoke. The silence wrapped around the room like a blanket, holding us all in a perfect paralysis. My heart beat strong and quick in my chest, and the sound of rushing blood filled my ears. Somewhere off in the distance, the announcer was rambling off in a thick chilean accent, but then, even he stopped talking. Just for a second, the silence was complete. It was Chile's kick, and Alexis Sanchez stepped up to the ball. The whole world watched.

Goal! The city erupted.

Thousands of people flooded out of apartments and bars and into the streets,  chanting in choruses of Chi Chi Chi Le Le Le. A steady current of red, white, and blue swept through the streets. Flags waved over the sprawling mass of bodies. Children sat on their parents' shoulders for a better view, and street dogs zig-zagged between the ever-shifting labyrinth of legs. The sky exploded in bright bursts of color over Plaza Italia. We had done it. We had won the Copa America. And I was here to see it.

I would be lying if I said that I knew anything about soccer before coming to Chile. Before I left the States, a friend tried to teach me the fundamentals by letting me watch him play Fifa. But alas, if soccer in real life hadn't gotten to me yet, there was no chance for a video game. Three months ago, I wasn't even close to being the guy sitting on the edge of his seat, wanting, hoping, praying against all odds for a ball to roll inside of a net. It takes a certain person to chant, scream, and yell in a bar, and honestly, that typically isn't me. Well, at least not when it comes to sports. 

I am what may be called a "band wagon fan." I'm the guy that goes with the flow, and I try my best to thrive in peer pressure. Ask me what time the game is, and I'll tell you that and what stadium it's in. Test me with some players' names, and I'll toss in their numbers for good measure. But make no mistake: everything I have is from late-night Google searches. I am not a "fan" in the truest sense of the word because, quite simply, I've been interested in the Chilean soccer team for  a grand total of a month. But in my defense, I didn't just jump on the bandwagon: I greased the figurative wheels, painted figurative signs, and baked figurative cookies for everyone else who was on it with me.

I really and truly enjoy things that are "things." When Lays had their flavor competition last year, I bought all three bags and had a side-by-side comparison. The Cheesy Garlic Bread chips were my favorite, but I would call the Chicken and Waffles a close second. When Pottermore was released, I stayed up for about a day and a half to make sure that I was one of the first people to experience the Beta test. But after I got my wand and I was sorted into a house, I stopped using the site. My style is pretty simple: short bursts of intense interest. 

In Chile, the Copa America was everything I needed: one month, intense, and beyond popular. So, as I am prone to do, I got invested. For the past two weeks, all of my kids classes were designed around the Copa America. With the younger kids, we designed jerseys and learned the action verbs for soccer. With the older kids, we made tournament brackets, compared players, and talked about "If's" and "Then's." And every single one of my kids played fútbol.

El Campeonato de los Completos

But my newly born fanaticism didn't stop there. A local restaurant had 12 completos that represented each of the 12 countries in the tournament. As of Saturday, the last day of the tournament, I have tried all of them. As far as completos are concerned, Chile and Argentina kept it classic and did it well, but I loved the unconventional pineapple and barbecue sauce on Jamaica.

Yet, despite my devotion, I never thought that Chile would actually go all the way. It was enough that Copa America was this year. It was more than enough that Chile was hosting. It is beyond belief that Chile took the cup home, especially against Argentina. Before this, Chile had never won a tournament, and the last time they made it to the finals was over twenty years ago. Every statistic was against this year being any different.

While some people have waited four years, ten years, or their entire lives for Chile's first title, I just happened to be here at the right time. The stars aligned, and by a stroke of pure luck, I found myself in the middle of Chilean history. I promise, it is no less than that.

Shortly after Chile had won, I asked the bartender about a drink. Everyone in the bar was on their feet, standing on couches, waving banners, taking pictures, and hugging their friends and family. A woman in an Argentinian jersey was in the back crying, but I couldn't muster enough sadness to feel anything but ecstatic. The bartender, smiling cheek to cheek, told me to follow him. We walked to the tap, he took out five glasses, and he filled them one by one. Then he looked up at me and asked, "Where are you sitting?"

Plaza Italia after the win

On the way towards the city center, armored police cars lined the streets, and the carabineros were standing by with rifles in hand. But tonight was a celebration, not a riot. Soon, young people with stars and stripes painted on their faces were standing side by side with the police and taking pictures. Teenagers had climbed the horse statue in the middle of Plaza Italia and were shouting down at the thousands of people below them. The entire city had become a party. It was pure, unadulterated chaos in the best way possible.

That night, I decided to walk home. It took me about two and a half hours, and on the way, I had conversations with three different groups of very proud Chileans. They were too excited (and drunk) to care much about my sloppy Spanish and gringo accent. My clothes were red, white, and blue; nobody cared much about the color of my skin. For the first time since coming here, I didn't just feel like a spectator or a foreigner. I felt like a part of the country.

 The best part about being on a band wagon is that I'm never alone. Copa America gave me the chance to small talk with absolutely anyone in the city. Weekend plans revolved around game times, and there was at least one guaranteed asado. Each and every time I yelled at the t.v. or sighed at a missed shot, my voice was drowned out by a room full of other shouts or sighs. We were all hoping for the same thing: to see Chile with the cup. And finally, we got our chance. 

 I'm sure the founding fathers intended the Fourth of July to be patriotic and as obnoxiously American as possible. They can rest assured that last night, I felt more American than I had ever felt before. My American was just of a more southern variety than usual.

This year, I missed out on the burgers and cherry pie. I didn't set off fireworks in my driveway or eat watermelon by the pool. Nothing about this Fourth was the same as it would be at home. But if given the chance, I wouldn't change a thing.

There is a lot to be proud of in Chile, both as a country and a culture, and yesterday, I saw that pride in all its glory. I painted my face, shouted in the plaza, and celebrated alongside thousands of other people lucky enough to share this moment in time.

I am not Chilean, but while I'm here, I want to get as close as possible. This is my chance, and I have every intention of taking it. Call me a "bandwagon fan," and I'll agree whole heartedly. So far, it's been working out.

Waving the new red, white, and blue!