saltar

There’s a very large hirsute fat man standing on the terraces. The large fat man is suffering. His beard is dripping sweat. His team, Nacional, are two nil down on the night to the team from Brazil. The Centenario, home of the first world cup, is far from full. It’s a weeknight in the Libertadores. It looks like Nacional are going out. He turns and shouts at the others in the home end. Shouts at them to sing louder and shout louder. One fellow in particular catches his eye. He’s got long hair and he looks like he doesn’t belong. He’s not shouting, he’s not singing, he’s not even jumping.

The fat man’s attention is caught by the game again. What he doesn’t realise is that the long-haired man is an Englishman, who doesn’t speak a word of Spanish. That this is his first ever sultry night in this country, on this continent. It’s also the first time he’s ever been to a football match.

Things are no better in the second half. The fat man turns and sees the long-haired kid, who’s still neither shouting nor jumping. The fat man decides that he’s probably Brazilian. This thought pisses the fat man off. He walks over to the long-haired kid. He asks him what the matter is. He tells him to jump. Saltar, he shouts. Saltar! The kid looks at him, baffled. His friends are laughing. (Friends he has met for the first time ever that very night) The fat man wraps his arm around the Brazilian and shouts in his ear.

The friends laugh. They tell him the kid’s not from here. He’s English. It doesn’t bother the fat man. His team’s losing, the long-haired Brazilian’s not moving: it’s all wrong. Someone says something to the Englishman. They tell him the fat man wants him to jump.

Suddenly everyone’s jumping. The fat man still has his arm round the long-haired kid’s shoulders. The kid starts to jump. The fat man thinks that that’s more like it. He gets the kid to sing. The kid goes la-la-la, but at least he’s making an effort. His friends can’t stop laughing.

It works. Nacional score. Now they’re going to have sing and jump and shout even more to get back on level terms. The fat man moves away to gee up the rest of the crowd. Every now and again he turns to check on the Brazilian kid. The Brazilian kid’s still jumping.

Nacional score again. All they need to do is hang on and they’ll qualify. The final whistle goes. Nacional are through. The Brazilians are out. The crowd celebrate by throwing stones at the riot police. The riot police cower. The fat man melts into the night.

The Englishman has been blooded. This is South America. Prepare for the unexpected.