At the Seville Derby: Look Out when the Rocket Lands

Sometimes, in the middle of a big crowd, during a big game, in a stadium filled with emotion and a city gone briefly mad, there are some very fine lines to walk. Tension is high, things can easily go off track, and people who might be sane for 363 days of the year should not be crossed on one of the other two.

So when somebody lands a rocket in the middle of, say, the Seville Derby, one has to be very careful.

Seville is normally a peaceful, lovely city, filled with people enjoying a sweet life of outdoor dining, sunny weather, and at certain times of year the smell of orange blossoms wafting through the air.

Real Betis’s stadium on Derby Night: The not-so-peaceful side of Seville

The city also hosts two big and well-supported football clubs, Real Betis and Sevilla, each with a large stadium in town and thousands of fans who, for the most part, exist in a neutral state of banter that leans slightly towards whoever won the last game between the two, or whoever is higher up the table.

It’s the kind of place where your waiter, your taxi driver, the clerk at the hotel desk, the person scooping your gelato, your tour guide at the royal palace … they can all be asked a simple question with a black-and-white answer: Sevilla or Betis? And when they answer, along with the binary choice there is a look in their eye that says a few things: Oh, so you know a little about our city? You know that we’re a little crazy? And do you happen to support (the wrong) one?

Stating that you’re neutral always relaxes things a little, even if there’s a hint of wonderment to their reaction: How can you not care either way? You explain that you have a team somewhere else, and you make a joke like “I have enough trouble with that lot,” then you say the games are more fun when you don’t care who wins, and then they give you a look like, “Yeah, it’s nice to not be crazy. And neither of us is crazy right now. But we all go crazy, don’t we?”

I had come to Seville earlier in the year, hoping to see El Gran Derbi. I didn’t have a ticket, and at the time our brokers didn’t either, so I was left to experience the atmosphere outside, which was an absolute carnival of whatever Spanish people call lads: beer, crap food, weed, fireworks, flares, explosions, obscene chants, police on horses, away fans parading down the street flashing middle fingers, and for good measure a giant bouncing pink bear, because why not? Let loose the insanity.

When I couldn’t get into the game, I went out to dinner instead, where I found the entire staff huddled around, listening to a radio broadcast, with looks of real concern on their faces. I assumed their team was behind, so I checked the score, and in fact the game was suspended because after Sevilla scored the opener, a Betis fan threw a flagstick that hit a Sevilla player in the head. Eventually the referees sent everybody home and the game was completed a few days later in an empty stadium. I watched that one in a bar, and even the most hardcore fans seemed a little embarrassed by the whole thing.

So when I returned, this time with a ticket, I was excited but also a little … what? Nervous? Aware? Not scared, exactly, but when you’re about to be surrounded by tens of thousands of intoxicated crazy people setting off explosives and with the capacity to hurt one another, you just want to pay attention. Normally, people in Europe are a little more calm about this stuff than in the UK, but not at derbies.

Pregame festivities.

The scene outside was much the same, and I parked myself with a good view to watch the Betis team coach roll in: fireworks, singing, green smoke, and a forest of lifted phones made for a surreal scene as the giant bus rolled slowly through. It was a massive expression of tribal solidarity, and I could only imagine what the sight of red in that moment would have turned the crowd into. The Sevilla fans and team coach had approached the stadium on closed roads lined with police in riot gear.

Inside the stadium, all of the anger and anticipation was focused first into pregame singing like nothing I’ve heard. There’s singing, then there’s the whole crowd singing, and then there’s a sound backed by generations of love and hatred, a sound that wants to smash all that stands before it. It was awesome. It also made me wonder if everything was going to be okay.

A small indication that maybe it wouldn’t was the Betis pregame tifo, which featured the Sevilla player who was hit by the flagstick, holding his head while sat on a bench … next to Pinocchio.

Everything that happened in the game was just bursting with energy. Betis hit the post twice within seconds, and people around me were hanging onto each other to keep themselves standing. A Betis player put a good chance way over the bar and people nearly exploded with rage and confusion. Then a Sevilla player went in late on a Betis player, got a yellow, but the ref went to VAR. The roar and anticipation built as he looked, jogged back across the pitch, waved off the yellow, and produced red. The whole place went temporarily mad, like an army probably does when they see a line of defense give way.

Goal celebrations; the guy on the left had run down from somewhere else to get his hugs in.

When Betis scored a few minutes later, it was bedlam: people hugging their neighbors, people running around to other sections to hug friends over there, people winding up in bouncing piles of arms and heads. The collective sense of “We’ve got the bastards” was as thick and loud as a thunderstorm sitting right on top of you.

In the middle of all this, internally detached but externally playing the part of Betis fans, were myself, several Brits and two loud, drunk French guys who had been entertaining everyone by yelling the favored Spanish obscenity with their French accents. We were all there, but not really part of it: tourists or anthropologists, you might say.

But there are lines you have to respect in there. You have to understand the people around you are not performing for your entertainment. That guy locked in a long post-goal embrace with his buddy really is having a special moment. The other one, flashing the finger at the red corner of the stadium, really does hate them in this moment. Whoever threw the flagstick probably did hope it hit somebody.

So you don’t want to mock, or even express too much fascination. Instead, you just stand and applaud the goal, enjoy yourself, and try to get some good photos and videos. At this point, you’re just glad the people around you are having fun.

And then things turned.

A Betis player kind of threw an elbow, got a yellow, and the ref went to the screen. The Brit behind me whispered, “It looked pretty bad.” The ref came back, showed red, and anger erupted. Halftime came, and even with the hosts ahead 1-0, the crowd was indignant with the referees, booing and whistling as if all the joy in the world has gone, because they are supposed to batter Sevilla but now it’s frustratingly close to even.

In the second half, it turned again — in the wrong direction from our foreign perspective. Another yellow for Betis. Another VAR. And another red!

The crowd went full meltdown. Now the win itself was in real danger. We may lose, and it’s all the ref’s fault!

The game, now 10 v 9, settles into a simple pattern: Sevilla on attack, in front of us, Betis defending for dear life., and every foul greeted with insane displeasure and chants of “VAR!” Sevilla come close once or twice, but with 10 minutes to go, they were getting desperate. Their big center back launched one from about 30 yards, and it went 30 rows up into the seats. The crowd erupted with joy.

A few minutes later, it came to him again, 30+ yards out again, and as he set up another shot, the defenders made no effort to get out to him. Pass, put another one into the seats, what do we care? Instead, after he hit it, the ball seemed to disappear for a moment, like it vaporized, and then the Betis goalie was diving, and the net was rippling, the ball was bouncing back out of it, and I had my hand over my mouth, and I was shouting “Oh my god!” I had just seen a human do what I didn’t think humans could do, especially that human in that moment.

Immediately I realized I had just yelled “Oh my God!” in the middle of some very shocked and angry people, and that my “Oh my God!” was dangerously close to happiness, or at least not nearly a sufficient “Oh shit.” I was awestruck, bewildered, overjoyed and amazed. I looked at the Brits behind me, and their eyes were wide, looking at me so they didn’t look around, because wide eyes and wonderment were not the local currency in that moment. Around us was disgust and fear and angst, but in our little pocket of not-Seville, it was a kind of groundhopping bliss which could easily be misinterpreted into something more subversive. No sir, angry green-clad person, we did not enjoy that goal!

Corner kick in the Seville Derby.

The game then became, from the Betis perspective, a desperate clinging and hanging on. Just don’t lose. But a few minutes later, the ball fell to the same guy, in a similar place, and he launched another one, this time a volley that looped and headed for goal, where the Betis keeper could only watch … but it hit the crossbar and bounced out, and all I could think was “Holy shit, he almost got another one!” I looked back at the Brits, and one was just shaking his head, as if to say if that had gone in we might have had to run for our lives.

In the last minute, with Sevilla again on the attack, and the Betis fans whistling and booing and praying and holding onto each other, the ball came down the right side, got cut back, and there was the same guy, not 10 yards out, and he pounded it — right at the keeper, who put it over the bar. Game over. After all that, a draw.

Relief, exhaustion, anger, and resignation were all around us. Betis fans looked like they didn’t know what to think or feel. Players were lying on the pitch. The centerback had his head in his hands, clearly sobbing.

Sevilla fans being held in the stadium postgame to avoid chaos outside.

And then the spell broke, and we all started to come back to Earth. The postgame rituals began, players and fans clapping for each other, scarves held up in solidarity, coaches shaking hands, refs being booed off the pitch, and people making their way to the exits. Outside, you might have thought it was just another game letting out, with people grabbing another sandwich and gathering in small groups to discuss what had happened. Emotions were spent, and there was much shaking of heads.

For me, it was entirely a feeling of “I’ll always have that one.” Like you found a jewel, dropped it into your pocket, and need to scurry on home now. It’s the kind of game you travel for and hope to see, when for a couple of hours the concepts of normal and sane are suspended and you enter a world where lights are brighter, colors more vivid, feelings more intense, and everything seems to teeter on the edge of chaos in every moment.

But within that space, there are lines to cross and not. Sing loud, but don’t throw things. Curse and gesture, but don’t riot. Watch and enjoy, but don’t affect. And very much for your own safety, if the enemy lands a rocket in the middle of home territory, do not do what you want to do, which is jump out of your seat and yell “Are you kidding me” and then high-five everybody around you.

Love the game, respect the passion, but fear the crazy.