Mud envelopes us as distant battle cries cut through the sky. Just one more step. Just one more… “Preferida! Preferida!” shout the mass of vultures walking in the wrong direction, holding little pieces of paper high for all to see. Around us the palpable anticipation is cut by the scents of grilled sausage, popcorn, and candy making their way towards us, dominated by the oppression of a coming storm. As the sun rushes to hide behind the distant trees, the grey clouds reign supreme, only to tease us with a slight, dampening mist. I cling tightly to my ticket, thanking myself for having left my wallet in the once-overcrowded minivan. After slapping away a wandering hand from my empty pocket, a rifle-yielding guard asks for my precious slip of paper. As he rips it in half I realize we are now at the gate of the coliseum, a place of blind devotion, of skill, of fickle crowds. In the distance the gladiators fight while we get swamped with consecutive once-in-a-lifetime opportunities to buy useless red and blue memorabilia. “No gracias” digo yo, as we elbow our way through the crowd. We’re too late. Should’ve paid for the cheap seats because that’s where we’re going to end up. Deciding on a place, the leader of our clan proudly points us in the right direction, far from the flag-bearing, shirtless hooligans chanting Lord-knows-what without taking a breath. Cerro must win… Cerro campeon! What’s that smell? I know I took a bath today but I wouldn’t bet on the man next to me, his faded jersey a poor mask of, or perhaps the source of, my intense nasal journey. In front the fence is lined with youth, chanting and screaming at field players to do impossible things and whistling when presented with failure. Suddenly the bass drum beat starts getting louder, the snare’s rattles becoming more pronounced with every passing second. Dios mio, the mob approacheth! Are they leaving the game already? Why are they coming this way? As if in slow motion, the fantaticos envelope our section of moist cement benches, yelling, chanting, jumping. The silence lasts for only a second and then they begin again, trying to lift their team up from a disappointing breakdown in defense. It becomes evident that the group as a whole works together as one, its success a triumph of anarchy. The only breaks are taken by a token few who kneel to smell something mysteriously concealed within their hands, only to rise again to shout like never before. Not able to hold it any longer, the sky opens and in blows a wind that carries the celestial downpour straight to the bone. My t-shirt proves futile against the chill. Another breakthrough and the home team barrel-rolls seemingly out of control, taking with it the crazed mass to my left. Fighting for balance, I too begin to jump, only to be devastated by a long, hard whistle signifying the end of a period of painfully lax performance. Cerro Porteño starts better this half, putting rivals Tacuary in dangerous situation after situation right off the reopening whistle. Sensing hope, crazed support turns to hysteria, capped off by an incredible show of personal skill good enough to get one back and also good enough to raise the fanatics to a new, unprecedented level of uncontrollable craze. There is hope yet. Then it happens. Amazing! Incredible! Unbelievable! Using the newly found momentum, Cerro capitalizes on an error, evening the score and deafening my ears. This is no common feeling. Love is a strong word, yet insufficient when describing the sensation felt by those all around. As I close my eyes to record the moment, I am awakened by a brush of coarse material on my head. Straight ahead I see red, to my right I see red, as well as to my left and behind. I begin to bounce as I am unable to ebb the flow of adrenaline to my brain. Up and down we go, no doubt putting on a show for all those around, crazed fans caught up in the moment of elation under the huge, jersey-shaped flag. A tie means a championship, and that is the road down which the red and blue clad soldiers are dragging us. In front, the younger, lighter, nimbler fans climb the fence to get a better view, ready to evade the shield-carrying riot police onto the field and into a world where poverty ceases to exist, at least for the time being. Even the unfortunately young, dirty, unofficial vendors are quiet as the star writhes on the ground, taken out nastily from behind. That’s it, the ref has seen enough as his guards rush the field to surround him, glaring down all those hoping to get a last parting shot. Fortunately for us and unfortunately for the police, they find a way onto the fenced-off field. Over, under, lo que sea, they are going to get in there, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it. The mixture of dried sweat and rain on my skin turns sticky as I chomp on a deliciously unhealthy piece of celebratory candy. I begin to come down, sitting now, contemplating my new world. I at least thought I had seen most of what there was to see in the world that is international futbol. Turns out I was wrong. Vive Paraguay!