Uncovering the Game in Madrid: El Campo de Cebada
Uncovering the Game in Madrid: El Campo de Cebada
Uncovering the Game in Madrid: El Campo de Cebada
It wasn’t supposed to be part of the plan, which was exactly the plan. The itinerary was set in the most flexible stone that can be found in all of Spain.
The trip had its destinations, of course, but it was as much about a city as it was exploration.
Must See Madrid was the mission statement, which meant hitting up more than a few highlighted circles on a map. The goal was to see Madrid and the beautiful game that lives and beats on so many different wavelengths here.
The journey featured Real, Atlético, and Rayo, but before we get there, I want to show you part of Madrid’s unseen scene. The spot where the game is not only rampant, but integrated with every subset of culture that can be found.
I arrived after a tip-off from Twitter recommended that I go to La Latina. Specifically, El Campo de Cebada. I found out quickly that it’s a place you discover, even after you set foot within the park’s barriers and smell its surrounding tapas restaurants. Gates surrounded the pitch, and the welcome sign outside stated quite clearly, “we’ll leave when we want.” The following few steps did not disappoint.
On my left was a reading, organized by the community’s humble group of “voices of extreme poetry and disobedience.” The community welcomed readings from anyone with the passion and courage to step in front of a crowd. It didn’t matter if you were 18 or 80.
On my right, however, I found what I was after. The pitch was covered with young kids and around it were slightly older kids who brought a few teenage vices with them. But the game was there, amidst a stage for rebellion and self-expression. The game was there, on the ground that sat beneath some glorious graffiti.
Iker Casillas didn’t start here, but the Atleti and Real Madrid kits crept in, amongst the self-proclaimed crew of disobedience. These weren’t Galacticos, but this was Madrid.
It was a cross-section of present frustrations with a trace of future ambitions. Despite the cynicism that rang out from the poetry reading, there were quiet ambitions to improve and enjoy the moments in front of us all. And a layer back from that, there were a select few who couldn’t stop laughing and kicking a ball.
This is the first of a few pieces where I’ll be digging into my encounters with Madrid’s football culture. The kind of culture that might get lost when the media zooms in on El Clásico like it’s the center of the universe. If you’ve any questions or comments, feel free to reach me on Twitter at @BeardEric.
