The Beautiful Game?

I'd never been run down by police horses before. I've been drunk out of my mind in rowdy crowds outside racing carnivals and music festivals and wandered past the odd protest rally but never had a problem beyond some burly, overzealous security guards wanting to assert a little authority to make themselves feel tough.

Upon arriving at my first Colombian football match, however, I finally heard the terrifying clip-clop of the cavalry moving in behind me and had to scurry away among the mob of fans for fear of being trampled. And these weren't the malnourished donkeys you see pulling carts around town, these were stallions. Eight-foot tall, armoured with futuristic looking police officers steering them in the crowd. This was only trying to get into the stadium. I could imagine what was going on inside, but first I had to get in. Having an official, previously purchased match day ticket didn't necessarily mean immediate entry into a Colombian football match.

Passing rows of fully equipped and padded riot police on full alert on the way to Campin Stadium gives you the impression this isn't your ordinary sporting event. I was lucky enough to be in Bogota for the local derby between Santa Fe and Millonarios. One half of the stadium would be blue, the other red. I wore green, and was told to buy a neutral ticket. If I sat in either club's main supporters’ stands I would be targeted for not being a true supporter because I wouldn't know any of the chants to sing along to. Having an extremely limited grasp of Spanish meant I wouldn't be able to learn them quickly. But first I had to get in.

After the horses dispersed there was a solid crush of people trying to get into one single gate, made even slower because of the number of supporters without tickets who were trying to fight their way in past the security guards. I felt a couple of hands go into my pockets during the wait and was thankful for being warned not to bring any valuables like cameras or extra money. I had my ticket in one hand and a few pesos in the other, and whoever's hand it was in my pocket would have to move on.

Once inside the stadium - at about the twenty minute mark of the first half - the atmosphere was electric. The flood lights lit up both sides of the crowd that were a constant ocean of waving flags, giant banners and passionate chanting. It far outweighed the entertainment on the pitch, which was a drab affair played at a slow pace with a lack of flair or creativity.

It wasn’t always this way. Colombian football was a powerhouse in the early 1990s. Thanks in part to the drug money of Pablo Escobar and other crime figures of the time they attracted world class players and coaches and competed with – and defeated – some of the giants of South American football. Unfortunately, looking at the current game, those days are long gone.

The cheerleaders were far more interesting. Not for their talent, but instead their complete apathy. About forty were lined up on either side of the half way mark. Half in blue and white for Millonarios; half in red and white for Santa Fe. The Millonarios girls sat chatting to each other in small groups, a couple stood up and tried a hand stand or a cart wheel or a dance move. It was void of any choreography or competence, more like some high school girls passing time in detention. At half time the music started and they all stood up, but only some danced. Some just stood there, one yawned. Soon the players ran back out and the cheerleaders sat back down to wait for the final whistle so they could go home.

Late in the game there was some brief excitement when the Santa Fe goalkeeper made a clumsy challenge and gave away a penalty. This would be a huge upset if the lowly ranked Millonarios defeated the top placed Santa Fe. Half the stadium would go mental, a Santa Fe fan would potentially storm onto the field to attack the referee for giving the penalty before being set upon by the riot police who were now circling the game, shields up and batons gripped and ready. But the penalty missed, and the game fizzed out to a 0-0 draw.

In the end it was what football is in most places around the world. A huge build-up; passionate and energetic crowd; electric atmosphere; and ultimately a cautious, lackluster spectacle leading to further unrest in the stands.

Somehow I had found my way into a Millonarios fan dominated section of the stadium when it was time to leave. To avoid any violence, we were locked in for half an hour while the Santa Fe fans left the arena. This didn't do anything to help the frustration of those locked inside, but further unrest was narrowly avoided when a very nervous looking gate attendant finally got the go-ahead and opened the doors, the crowd being released passed the waiting police force and out into the night.