Monday, March 5, 2007

A Night With the Spartans


There are a couple things I’ve learned as a fan and player of many sports. One is that regardless of age, sex or maturity, any spectator melts into a childish form of himself when captured on the jumbotron. Back in ’99 I saw my friend’s dad jump to his feet, throw his hands in the air and gyrate to Ricky Martin’s “Shake Your Bon Bon,” after realizing that his 15 seconds of fame had commenced. Aside from disturbing male choreography, I’ve also learned that sports are sports. The sounds, the skills, the strategy—they all fall under an umbrella of likeness regardless of what group of people is playing. What changes though, and can make or break the entire viewing experience, is the fandom.

I was well aware of the Czech Republic’s beloved hockey history before coming to Prague for a semester abroad. The nation breeds stars, many of whom do their own time abroad in the United States playing for teams in the NHL. At home, their national team is a fixture in world championship tournaments, garnering the title of 2nd best team in the world only to Sweden. They might not be top notch in the books, but the Czech puck handlers do know how to bring out the best in their fans.

I got my first impression of the HC Sparta Praha hockey team when chatting with a Czech peer. Crinkling his nose and bringing his chin to his shoulder in a look of sheer disgust, he said, “Sparta? Why do you want to go to Sparta game?” This caught me off guard, so I prodded him to explain his distaste. Sparta is notorious for having the rowdiest fans, and lest you want to be caught in the mayhem of no class, drunken debauchery you ought to go across town and check out an HC Slavia game. Never one to take the safe road, I grabbed my planner and penciled in the Sparta play-off game on Sunday, March 4.

The #15 tram to Vystaviste was full of the usual commuters when I boarded it three stops from the T-Mobile arena in Prague 7— some metal kids toting Iron Maiden backpacks and a bunch of old folks with used and reused shopping bags from Albert. At the second stop the tram’s doors opened like an accordion and in poured the music of Sparta’s choir of hockey fans—they may be atheists, but they still sing the good gospel of national legend Jaromir Jagr.

The mostly male addition to the tramcar proceeded to break the ultimate public conduct rule: holding their beer bottles in one hand and the railings above them for balance with the other, they carried out boisterous banter well above the acceptable whisper. Beyond the tram windows, a steady stream of pedestrians followed, Sparta flags in hand and battle cries on their lips. With daylight fading and graffiti-covered walls prevailing, it looked as though these Czechs were en route to a street fight instead of a sporting event.

As I surveyed the seating chart in front of the ticket booth, a gangly man in black knocked on my language barrier. I apologized for my lack of comprehension, saying “English,” and turned away. He persisted though, and pointed at the chart: “Ah, yes, ticket. One for you? I have here,” he said, aiming the ticket at a section on the map containing the first 20 rows up from one of the curves in the rink. “For you, 200 crown!” Frugal as I am, I nodded to the 20 crown discount and snapped open my wallet. It was only after he said “good luck” that I realized I had just made a transaction with a Czech scalper. The ticket looked legitimate, so I walked up to the doors mulling over whether his benediction was meant for the team I was supporting, or for my entrance to the arena.

Access granted.

Dodging full-sized flags emblazoned with a bold red “S” and kicking soiled hotdog trays out of my path, I meandered around the perimeter of the rink. After making eye contact with yet another leering drunkard, it dawned on me that I was in the minority here, and it had nothing to do with nationality. Where were the dainty ladies adorned with the cutest player’s jersey? And more astonishingly, where was the mile-long line outside the women’s bathroom? Bewilderment struck as I paused to reflect on this, but I was interrupted by a pack of rampaging guys racing for their seats as the closing notes of the Czech national anthem fell over the din of the stadium.

Taking my place in the red stands, section 214, row 19, I looked to my immediate left and smirked. The next section over was the designated standing-room-only section for the most unruly of the HC Hame Zlin fans, located directly behind one of the goals. I was neighbors with the inevitable losers section, as any Sparta fan would assure you that he was holding the team scarf of the “best in all country” (after all, Sparta did champion the Extraliga last year).

Before the puck was even dropped, a different battle had ensued: chants from the Sparta superfan section ricocheted off those from the Zlin fanatics. Translations aside, the fervency fueling them colored faces red in fits of passion, spit flying alongside screams from the mouths of vehement fans. Images of Spartan soldiers flashed on the jumbotron as the puck hit the ice.

The first period was accompanied by a barrage of native cheers, but the occasional “Let’s go!” boomed from the speakers to urge fans on. In the waning moments, a Sparta defender held the puck in his offensive third. He danced with it to the tune of a deafening collective whistle, something completely novel and equally painful to my ears. He fired the puck across the ice to a waiting stick that slapped the puck directly into the goalie’s glove, ending the piercing noise and the period.

The lines at the beer stands snaked menacingly throughout the venue. I learned from one of the sturdy policemen, clad in riot gear with a helmet and club, that fanaticism, alcohol and men are the keys to the hooliganism here. I had spotted a toddler earlier, propped up on a table by his keepers, spitting back the “HEY!” to the classic Sparta call-and-response cheer—clearly they get them young. And, of course, beer is nothing new to sporting events. But without women to temper the testosterone, you can only imagine the atmosphere.

Regardless, not one fight broke out in the stands during the match. Was it their deep absorption with the game at hand? Not quite. The same policeman pointed outside, to the parking lots open for cigarette breaks between periods. “They fight there,” he said, before and after, but not during the game. The sixty minutes of play were reserved for the warm up—the incubation of wrath only unleashed once the open air sparked fuming tempers.

The game proved worthy of inciting such behavior. The play held close through the first two periods, with scuffles on the ice quickly quelled by the four referees. Fans brandished flags like swords each time an unfavorable call was made or a player was sent to the penalty box. When their team was on the offense, supporters would execute three quick claps and raise their arms in a “V” above their head, concurrently yelling the appropriate team name. Despite the driving cheers from the stands, it wasn’t until the first thirty seconds of the third period that the scoring began.

Sparta put three away in a matter of ten minutes, followed by a later rally of two goals from Zlin. After each one, horns were blown and drums beaten while their owners jumped up and down, marking the only time fans in the seated sections took to their feet. The last minute and a half was the pinnacle. The whole of the approximately 10,000 spectators rose from the benches and held a solid clap, the outnumbered but optimistic Zlin fans begging for a tying goal. The seconds ticked out, the buzzers rang, and Sparta reigned victorious.

In my preoccupation to witness a brawl outside I nearly missed the preemptive police strike within the stadium walls. The area of the concourse through which Zlin superfans exited their section was closed off with barricade gates. A group of riot police, helmets on and plastic face guards down, shuffled the fans out one at a time. Each had to take off their Zlin jerseys, remove any yellow clown wigs, and roll up their team’s flags. There were no exceptions and there would be no conspicuous targets for awaiting Sparta ruffians.

I walked out into the parking lot, dejected at best since realizing it was unlikely that I would witness any epic clashes outside. The litter lining the sidewalks seemed acceptable, Prague 7 bustling for the first time since I’d gotten here. Approaching the tram stop, I was crowded and jostled by buzzing groups of comrades, all enthused by the big win. I joined the triple clap-arms up cheer, marking another of the unwritten laws of fandom: when without a team of your own, it’s always safer to cheer with the winners.

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