1

El Clásico

The metro screeches to a stop as people shuffle through the car. Shai and I wait until
the doors pull themselves open before stepping through and down the platform. Visions of
corvette red and ocean blue pass us up the stairs, down the streets, and at all the cross walks.
Every person in Barcelona wears their game day attire: jerseys, beanies, t-shirts, scarves—
more often waving them around than draped over their shoulders. I look down to adjust my
own shirt, making sure I’m not standing out as a tourist in any way. As we get closer to the
sports bar, we recognize a familiar head of curly black locks.
“Stevie!” Loui stands at the front of the line with two hands around his mouth and
begins waving me on.
Rushing to the entrance, I’m nearly trampled by an older Catalan man stumbling onto
the street while his friend argues with the bouncer. Loui pulls us past the men, one arm
lingering on the small of my back. Once inside, it is much busier than I’d expected. Even
with fans fighting for tables, stealing pints and dumping them at far corners of the joint, we
still managed beat the rush and pick a spot on the top floor overlooking the big screen.
Finally seated, I release a sigh.
“Did you think you were going to be late?” Loui asks. His navy shirt reads Barça,
Barça, Baaaarça! in a weird white font I don’t recognize; must be from a tourist stand. The
man couldn’t possibly stand out more as an American. Today is the first time I’ve genuinely
thought he looks like a frat boy. At university, he always carries a tote bag and wears his hair
in a half-up half-down man bun.
“Well, I certainly didn’t want to risk it,” I say, checking the time on my watch. My
roommates insist on making us late to everything which is not usually an issue when we’re
running on Spanish time, but today everyone is early.
Shai chimes in, “She told the rest of the roommates they could either leave with us or
miss the match.” Loui busts out laughing. I shrug my shoulders.
Today is the most important day in football. El Clásico. The television screens are
still hooked up to the previous matches. As the kick off grows closer and closer, the
sentiments in the bar grow more anxious with each passing minute.
“Where’s the game?” A man wearing three different types of apparel points to the tv.
“They’ve still got Liverpool on,” says another guy, thrusting his pint in the air. This
one has unkept stubble and purple eye bags.
The sign out front stated very clearly: FC Barcelona vs Real Madrid—16:00. I
presume the match will be turned on when the other game ends. Liverpool and Arsenal are at
the 73rd minute with one goal each. Anything could happen. There’s a group of young men all
wearing bright red shirts in the front of the pub, presumably rooting on an English club. No
one would be caught dead wearing a Real Madrid shirt today.
We arrived two hours before the match starts to secure seats and avoid standing room
only. There’s still another hour before kickoff. Loui was convinced we wouldn’t get in after
14:00. I’m beginning to think he was right.
I turn to Shai and ask her what she wants to drink.
“A cheeseburger,” she says, her fine long brown hair whipping as she turns to face
me.
 2

“And to drink?” I enunciate over the noise.

“Oh, sorry. Sangria!” I shoot her a thumbs up and walk in the direction of the counter.
Loui grabs my wrist, “Are you ordering?”
“Do you want something?” I don’t meet his eyes, instead checking to make sure Shai
is safe sitting by herself.
“Can I get a beer and a burger? I’ll Venmo.”
“Anything else I can do for you?” I tease. He just frowns, squinting his eyes as if
searching for the joke. “I got it.” He lets go and moseys back to our spot.
After several agonizing minutes elbowing past the hordes of sloppy drunk men, I find
myself at the counter. The bartender looks me up and down. I’m sure she’s about to mutter
“tourist.” Instead, she asks, “Table number?” I weave all the way back to where we are seated
to find the tiny silver plaque with a three-digit number on the sticky wooden surface. Once I
meander to the bar once more, I yell “303!” to the woman. She nods and gestures for me to
push through the crowd to tell her my order: three cheeseburgers, one sangria, and two beers.
She presses some buttons on her tablet, shoos me away, and looks towards the next customer.
I take my cue and make my way to our table.
As I settle into the spot, I take a moment to admire our good work. It’s a great seat.
On top of the balcony, we can see down to the crowd below. This vantage point has an
excellent view of the projector screen, not that it’s hard to miss.
On the table, the light from my phone stands out with the name Mother plastered on
the screen. Normally, I wouldn’t pick up her call during such a crucial time, but I’ve talked
about this day for weeks; she wouldn’t call if it wasn’t important.
I make my way again through the crowd and stick myself in a corner in the back of
the establishment that’s yet to be filled.
“Hello?”
“Hi honey! Are you getting ready to go out?” My mom asks in her usual enthusiastic
tone. I have no clue how she’s able to maintain that excitement all the time.
“I’m already at the bar,” I say, rolling my eyes since she can’t see me. I swear the
woman never checks the family shared calendar. To her credit, the six hour time difference
between Eastern Standard time and Spain can be confusing.
“Oh, I was hoping I’d catch you before you left,” she says dejectedly. “I can call
back.”
“It’s fine. The game hasn’t started yet.” I do wish she’d hurry up because I’d like to
get back to my friends. Shai and Loui haven’t hung out together much because all of Shai’s
classes always overlap with our lunch schedules.
“Well, I hate to bear bad news during a happy day…”
She really makes you work for it sometimes.
“What is it?”
“The results of my mom’s test came back. She tested within the range of early onset
dementia. Alzheimer’s.” She pauses, waiting for my reply. “Sweetie, are you there?”
“Yeah, I’m still here. I’m sorry, Mom. What do we need to do?”
“Everything is still in the early stages, but your grandparents might have to move in
with us. I can explain more about the situation when you get back home. I just wanted you to
know.”
 3

“I appreciate that,” I shake my head, trying to hold back tears.

I love my grams, but I definitely saw it coming. She had been forgetful and confused
for years when we visited her and my gramps out in California. Our entire family has been so
worried about her ability to navigate simple tasks like the grocery by herself when my
gramps is too busy watching the golf channel or more risky responsibilities like taking trips
to visit their children who have spread themselves across the U.S.
“There’s one other reason I wanted to tell you now,” she pauses, keeping me in
further suspense. “As you may know, Alzheimer’s is hereditary, meaning you and I have an
increased chance of getting it too.” The breath I was holding, the one that kept the
waterworks at bay, finally broke. I turned my back so I was facing the corner of the wall and
no one could see the stream of tears running over my soft cheeks.
“Thanks for letting me know,” I say through the tightness in my throat.
She clicks her tongue, sensing my distress. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything.
I hope the game goes well. Your dad and I will be watching at home!” Admittedly, her
timing is truly impeccable. I wipe my tears with the sleeve of my layering shirt.
“Me too. I’ll talk to you later. Thanks for calling.” I hang up and try to reel it in before
heading back to everyone.
Once seated, I realize how stuffy my nose feels.
“Everything okay?” My eyes must still be puffy because Shai quirks her head when I
finally turn towards her.
I shoot her a distant smile, bottling it up. In light of this new information, I have
resolved to make this day and all the rest to come as memorable as possible.
“Yeah, my mom just called.” I find myself grateful that Loui seems to have
disappeared in this moment, completely missing my breakdown. He would know something’s
up for sure.
Shai nods, not really believing me and by the grace of God, she lets it be. Instead, she
takes a long look at our surroundings and leans over.
Shai whispers, “We’re the only locals here.” After a quick glance, I see what she sees
and giggle. The bar is packed with men, mostly internationals. We are far from locals,
though. I’m still not settled on the fact that we’ve been living in Barcelona for three months
now. Just in time to experience the joys and jitters of watching Barça play against their
biggest rival.
It would be a dream for the team to win this tradition during our time here. This team,
this game, represents much more than one singular match. It’s the ongoing flame of
revolution against the establishment—the central government. For years these people have
sacrificed their language, their culture, and their tradition to submit to the Castellano way of
life. When Barça wins, it proves once again that they deserve their voices heard. A win would
give me something to remember, to hold captive until the last memory slips from my fingers.
Every tabletop has a pint of some brand of beer—each one vaguely similar to the
other. The room is fluttering with conversation about probability, prospects, players, and
hopes for the match. A smog of desperation fills the air. Loui taps a coaster against the glazed
wooden table until I shoot him wide eyes and a swatting hand. He pouts, setting it down
gently to not disturb me further.
 4

The best part about watching football is the art of conversation. A drunk Spaniard
swaying beside his girlfriend to the right of our table captures the Mediterranean style with
light stubble and slicked back hair. His friend sitting across from them has been playing
devil’s advocate for the last half hour.
“Real Madrid has been on their game lately,” he says.
His friend scratches his sideburns. He replies, “Yeah, but this is El Clásico. Barça
needs this win.”
He’s absolutely right. The team needs to win, for more reasons than one. Not only to
put them through to the second position in the league, or to boost their spirits after a tough
season, but for my own sanity. This match is pivotal.
Loui nudges my shoulder. “Do you think we’re going to win?”
I assess his gaze. His face is close, and his eyes remain constant on mine. “I hope,” is
all I can muster with his agonizing glare. I quickly look away to find Shai glancing between
the two of us, smirking. She’s heard the stories after classes about all the mixed signals I’ve
been receiving. There’s nothing worse than a man who makes you debate their attraction to
you. Whether or not he feels the same spark, even the slightest of his touches sends a jolt
under my skin. I just shake my head at my supportive friend, hoping to save the lecture on
why I need to stand up for my feelings and set some boundaries for later.
As a waitress hands a tray of nachos to a table in front of us, my stomach begins to
rumble. I pray our food comes before the game starts. Just in case, I close my eyes and send a
quick message to whoever might be listening above.
The television screen conveniently switches to the match everyone came to see. The
camera pans to the players of both teams lined up on the pitch, with a few small children in
the middle separating the rivals. The clock starts the ten-minute countdown.
Everyone stands up to clap when flashes of our players appear dressed in the familiar
team colors of blue, burgundy, and gold made famous by Lionel Messi and the record-
breaking 2011 Dream Team. The small patch on their left chest contains St. George’s cross,
the flag of Catalunya, and Barça’s colors. The emblem is symbolic to the Catalan people who
find deep connection in the success of their football team.
Even though I never played for a team as monumental as this one, I feel a certain
unease to accompany the excitement when I watch the starting lineup. Football—soccer—
will always be a part of my life, but there are times that I deeply miss the feeling of my heart
thumping as I stand in front of a much smaller crowd and wait to hear my name called by the
announcer. I haven’t touched a soccer ball in years. Ever since I began feeling random pangs
in my back, I decided to take a rest. The last time I attempted to play around in my backyard,
each kick sent a shock through my spine. My parents have always said that, unless the pain is
debilitating or hindering my daily life, it does not require medical attention. I suppose they
don’t believe soccer is important enough to be part of my every day. Maybe with my
grandmother being officially diagnosed, they’ll shift their position.
As if my prayers are answered, my mind having drifted elsewhere to occupy the time,
a curvy woman brings a large serving tray full of burgers and sets it down before us. She
hands out the beers first and the sangria next, giving Shai a skeptical look in the process.
After all the burger baskets are dispersed, she recedes into the crowd holding the round black
tray high above her head.
 5

Whilst chowing on my notably inauthentic burger that tastes more like beyond meat
than cow, I watch in admiration as the crowd hollers for their favorite players, stars twinkling
in their eyes as they cheer for their beloved team. The legend with dark brown hair and a light
beard, coach and FC Barcelona icon, Xavi Hernandez, smiles proud. There’s a dark intensity
in his eyes that reflects his readiness for the challenge. The bar erupts into applause. Another
few rowdy minutes, and the teams are set in their formations on opposing sides of the field.
Two bulls kicking dirt in the wind.
A deafening silence fills the air. The stakes of the game and the hopes of the people
just doubled. The referee’s whistle echoes between the walls of the joint like surround sound,
and the match is underway. I take a second to blink away welled tears and appreciate this
moment. I will never feel this exact experience for the first time again. When I’m old and
withered, hopefully worn from years spent traveling the world and writing about it, I may not
remember how I felt. In direct opposition of this fear, I remain present in this bar as if it’s the
last thing I can hold on to.
Players charge at one another, the ball bouncing around the pitch like a pinball. The
coaches sway back and forth whilst caressing their beards. Only soft murmurs can be heard
for the first five minutes of the match as everyone stands breathless waiting for something to
happen. The beautiful part of the game is when nothing is happening, because everything is
happening. The players move in and out of formation, creating invisible shapes that procures
sneaky progress. The possibilities are limitless. It only takes a million good passes and one
good shoot to win a game.
Shai takes a sip of her sangria, her face glued to the screen. I peel my eyes away long
enough to observe the way the people watch their team. Some drink ferociously, some stroke
their lover’s back, and some yell at their friends over the differences between Cruyff football
and tiki taka. Everyone has something vague and skeptic to offer, as if they’re as
knowledgeable as Xavi himself. The conjoined muscle of the bar tenses around the control
our team has maintained thus far, proving Xavi’s mastery.
Barça has been passing around the other team with ease. Momentum is boiling hot.
Piqué sends the ball to Lewandowski. A long pass to Gavi. A quick touch to Pedri. The ball
slams the back of the net.
For a moment, everyone is silent, a smile creeping on their faces. As the players run
to the corner of the pitch to celebrate, and the referee toots the whistle definitively
determining the goal, the bar roars in cheer. Beers are spilled, two women wearing Pedri
jerseys hug each other, and the men behind us are high fiving anyone nearby. Shai joins in on
the fun, laughing and dancing to chants, unashamed that she doesn’t know the words. I follow
her, diving into the middle of the crowd and pulling Loui behind me. Together, we jump,
dance, sing, scream, and smile.
The goal-scorer kneels on the grass waiting for his teammates to pile on top of him.
The bar sings one cohesive song, one hundred people all culminate as one loud voice.
The game is again underway, and the excitement has settled. The shiny reflection of
belligerent smiles beam against my eyes. It must be infectious, because I have one of my
own. I take a big gulp of my beer. This. This is what I was waiting for. To live and to breathe
as one, enjoying the happiest time of our lives.
 6

“De dondé sois?” asks the Spaniard guy from the table next to ours. Luckily, I took
Spanish in high school and one advanced course in college—enough to decipher his question.
“Estados Unidos,” I say.
“Oh, Americans,” he replies, switching to English as soon as he hears the accent. No
one here likes to listen to us struggle through broken Spanish. The man turns to the girl under
his arm to whisper in her ear. Through her thick brown locks, she gives us a once-over and
scoffs. “So, why are you here?”
“To watch the match,” I say, returning my gaze to the TV. With the distraction, I
didn’t realize the entire bar had gone quiet in the wake of a goal from the opposing team.
“Mierda!” yells guy-with-a-girlfriend, waving a hand at the screen. When I
researched some key Spanish curse words days before hopping on my flight, I found the word
for shit which I shared in our apartment group chat. I look at Shai and smile. We both turn
back to the screen and begin shouting curse words we hear from others in the bar. Guy-with-
a-girlfriend glances at us and simply nods.
“Are you from Barcelona?” Loui asks the man thinking he’s just made a friend.
“My family is from Argentina, but I’ve lived here for 5 years,” he says. “Long enough
to see this team turn to shit.”
Loui nods empathetically. As internationals, we couldn’t possibly understand the
loyalty developed after living here for years. I want to reach that level someday. Barcelona is
one of the liveliest places in the world. Of all the cities and countries I’ve traveled to,
Barcelona is home. I’ve awoken from daydreams of living and working here, of writing and
traveling and just living. At least then I’ll have my memories documented in my own words,
like a living diary.
“I’m Marcos, this is Raquel.” He pulls his girl closer to his side. “What are your
names?”
Loui’s closest so he responds first.
I glance to Shai who ushers me on. “Well, I’m Stevie…”
“Shai,” she adds.
After Marcos shakes all of our hands, the boys begin chatting while the game moves
on with higher intensity as both teams fight for the next goal. Barça pressures Real Madrid’s
defense, attacking as soon as the ball lands at the center defender’s foot. Busquets wins the
attack, dribbling up the goal box and taking the shot. Fans in the high left corner are nearly
drilled in the head by his desperate kick. This match is already draining me, emotionally. As
the fiftieth minute rolls around, I feel an intense sense of dread. Barça has been looking
sloppy, missing the easiest of passes and turning it over to the other team left and right.
Real Madrid’s goalie, draped in traffic cone orange, punts the ball from the six well
past half field. The midfielders are prepared as they begin their sprint, putting pressure on our
defense. The other team wins the ball out of the air and takes it into our final third, too close
for comfort. I bite my nails, holding my breath for the next play. One of their players, a fast
and sneaky winger passes to his teammate making a run across the middle. Barça is
backpedaling to adjust to the quick move. It’s too late. The player takes the shot. It sloshes
the right corner netting. On the television, the crowd throws their scarves in the air, jumping
up and down to the tune of some Castellano song. The player who scored is run over by his
teammates in the corner of the pitch.
 7

All I can do is stand perfectly still as if I just witnessed a person stabbed in the heart
in right in front of me. Loud shouts bordering on violent can be heard across the bar where a
group of older men congregate together slurring filthy curse words. A tall, muscled bartender
dawdles his way over to the gentlemen. He must have tried to ask them to stop because the
drunks begin yelling at the worker until another few employees come from beyond the
woodwork to settle the crowd. In our own section, where the youngsters seem to have
gathered, they have begun singing Barça chants at a volume I can only assume are intended
to be heard all the way at Santiago Bernabéu Stadium. Shai bottoms out her drink and looks
around the bar. You’re telling me.
Due in part to the major shift in the game, and the gnawing thoughts about the call
with my mother, I whip out my phone and type into the Google search bar: Alzheimer’s
symptoms. The results I find are substantial such as Alzheimer’s impacting daily life through
forgetting appointments, confusion with time, and problem solving. But, if my grandmother
carries the genetic mutation, then my mom has a fifty-fifty chance of inheriting the gene.
Even though it’s mainly hereditary by a first-degree relation to the person, that means there’s
only one family member separating my chances of developing the condition. If my mom gets
it, I am much more likely to follow soon after. Before I spiral, my lungs fill with sweaty air
and I set my phone back down on the table, refocusing on being present.
“I need another one to survive the rest of this game.” Shai makes another effort to
check the throng of fifty fans at the counter demanding a refill. “There’s no way I’m making
it through there.” She sighs, shrugging her shoulders.
“What are you having?” Marcos points at Shai’s empty glass.
“I don’t even know you and you’re going to buy me a drink?” He frowns, shaking his
head as though she’s suggesting he offered to buy her a four-course meal.
“Barça is losing. We all need to drink,” he replies in his thick accent, pulling his
girlfriend in the direction of the bar top. Shai shouts her order as they disappear into the mass.
I keep an eye on the bar as Marcos reappears at the front of the line, pointing in our direction
as the bartender seems to argue with him. He returns after an agonizing while later carrying
five drinks. He’s brought one for me and Loui too, despite us not having finished our drinks.
“What did she say?” Shai asks Marcos.
“She asked who would dare drink a cider while Barça loses.” Almost all the locals in
Barcelona drink Estrella Damm, the native beer. It’s their equivalent to Guinness.
Marcos sets the drinks down on our red coasters and returns his focus to the match at
hand. Unfortunately, the score still reflects the unnerving one goal lead of our enemy. The
seventieth minute stares us down, impending its daunting force on all of us.
My heart pounds to the beat of the clock ticking down, opportunities vanishing with
every second. To my right, Marcos twirls his girlfriend’s hair. They’re both standing cuddled
together, unflinchingly geared towards the screen. I force my eyes back to the game to avoid
a quick glance at Loui. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him take another sip of his beer.
Was that… did he just try to peek in my direction? At what point is attraction supposed to be
obvious? I try not to let myself be distracted from the game by trivial things like boys, but it
grows more difficult by the second. Loui has moved slightly closer to where he’s almost
leaning on me when a play goes wrong. I do appreciate his proximity as my own anxiety
begins to grow on me, my heart rate shifting with each disappointing play.
 8

The minutes seem to tick by like hours, my pint still just as full as the last time I
checked. With each glance at the clock, I grow restless. I’ve shifted in my seat twice to adjust
my posture. My back grows stiff from watching football, as it does anytime I’m sitting in one
position for an extended period of time. If only I could return to the field and play myself,
then the back pain would be overcome by the soreness of my thighs.
The referee stands at the edge of the field holding up a black sign too big for his short
stature that indicates there are three minutes of extra time. Both teams shift into gear, putting
in their best effort for the short period of time left in the game.
The last minute is filled with existential dread. Our team is going to lose. We will not
win El Clásico. No celebrating on La Rambla. No flags waving at the Arc de Triomfe. No
memory to keep forever. Nothing will be worth it. Our one opportunity to see the best team in
history beat their archnemesis fades to black. The whistle blows and a deep sigh can be felt
inside the bar. The crowd gathers jackets, finishes the last of their drinks, grabs onto loved
ones, and collectively shakes their heads. Loui wipes his hair out of his face and gathers our
things.
Shai pats my arm. “Ready to go?” I take one last look around the bar. Through hazy
eyes, I make out empty beer cups and burger baskets scattered across tables and in piles while
the big screen recaps the goals of the match at which I must turn away in disgust.
Loui waves goodbye to our new friends.
“Next time,” Marcos says, pointing assertively.
We all watch as Marcos and his girlfriend make their way down the creaky wooden
stairs, their arms wrapped around each other.
Loui looks to me, tilting his head. “Shall we find a new bar?” He suggests, a smirk
creeping on his face. At this, I let myself smile. If this day can be turned around, I am
jumping on the opportunity.
Shai takes a few steps towards us, interjecting into a conversation she knows wasn’t
directed entirely at her. “I’m feeling pretty tired. I might go home and take a nap. Maybe I’ll
meet you guys later.”
I look to Loui, and he raises his brows as if asking are you leaving too? I smile wide
and greedy. Memories are fleeting but the feeling of a moment lasts forever, even if it’s just
in your heart rather than your mind.
“Let’s go.”
As we exit the bar, Shai turns left toward the metro entrance as Loui links my arm in
his, and we turn right into the hopeful crowd of undying fans.