Even though I am Italian by heritage, I have never had a huge interest in soccer because the wogball gene was never passed onto me – I am completely uncoordinated, with my best effort in any sport being a two wickets for nine runs bowling effort in the rather Anglo sport of junior cricket. I was on a hat-trick because of this outstanding effort, but eternal glory had eluded me on that day as the next ball went straight through to the keeper. However, one experience was going to change my view on ‘the beautiful game’ forever. I witnessed a soccer game on a recent trip to Argentina between Boca Juniors and Estudiantes (The Students). I attended a game during my last weekend in Buenos Aires before embarking on a special deep vein thrombosis flight back to Australia . In my infinite wisdom, my brain tricked me to think it was a fantastic idea to experience a soccer game from the La Apertura competition before heading back to Brisvegas. After forking out a bit extra to sort of guarantee that I returned alive, a mini-bus arrived in front of my backpackers, full of other Antipodeans willing to subject themselves to the unknown debauchery that was about to occur. Like me, they were not sure what to expect. We discussed this whilst dodging the ruthless Buenos Aires drivers, and while scoffing down our respective grilled-chorizo-over-hot-coals sandwiches at an outdoor kiosco just outside the Boca Juniors stadium. The warning signs were ominous as I walked past the team of fully geared riot police complete with bullet proof vests, helmets and big leather boots. They looked liked a multiple cloned military version of the Village People cop character. This was my last chance to escape, but that quickly disappeared after two full body searches by the Village People police before entering the crumbling, 1940s built Alberto J. Armando Stadium, otherwise known as ‘La Bombonera’ (The Chocolate Box), home of Boca Juniors. This was not going to be an ordinary game of wogball. I could tell by spotting the hooligan-detecting helicopter hovering overhead that this was more than a game of soccer – the chopper was there solely to ensure a quick information transfer to the riot police to respond to fights between the opposing teams. My closest brush with this form of maniacal soccer beforehand had occurred when watching an incomprehensible 300 words a minute commentary on the box, including the characteristic and mandatory: ‘GGGGGGGOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL!!!’ blood curdling scream for five minutes if the white round thing was squeezed through the back of the net like an overweight calf through a set of fishnet stockings. This commentary was toned down in the version SBS would play in Australia on a Sunday afternoon on ‘The World Game’ (or was it ‘The Wog Game’?). Based on the large amount of wogball devoted to their television programming, I thought SBS was a cheeky acronym of Silly Bloody Soccer, and not the Special Broadcasting Service. The game between Boca Juniors and the top of the table Estudiantes had promised to be a spiteful clash. Boca had been reeling after a two-nil defeat by their arch rivals River Plate in the superclasico the week before, leaving them languishing in mid-field on the La Apertura the ladder. However, this had not subdued the passion of the 44,000 strong crowd that had turned up to see their heroes play. Whilst scanning around the stadium, I noticed an empty seat directly above the Club Atlético Boca Juniors (CABJ) sign on halfway – it is reserved only for Diego Maradona, the great cocaine snorting soccer genius who single-handedly beat the Socceroos more than 10 years earlier during World Cup Qualifying. He is the man that every English soccer hooligan detests because of his infamous ‘Hand of God’ Goal that knocked the Poms out of the 1986 World Cup in Mexico . I was not lucky enough to have his presence grace the stadium that day and I can only assume he did not feel like making an appearance from his rehab bed. Above Diego’s holy seat was a digital display that extraordinarily did not show the score, but instead was counting down the seconds to the exact moment of when Boca Juniors reaches its Centenary. Before the game had even commenced, a number of dedicated fans risked almost certain death by scaling the tall black steel barriers and barbed wire to place their feverishly hand-painted banners on the other side. The wind caused their banners to flap dangerously, almost causing the completely bonkers Boca devotees to lose their footing - not that the police were watching anyway. This banner placing procedure occurred simultaneously with the preparation of marching tunes by the Boca Band, surrounded by a stormy sea of blue and yellow flags. The band, which consisted of at least 10 bass drums and an entire horn section, gathered in regimented fashion, willing to play and die for their beloved team who were about to take the field of play. A thunder of drums commenced proceedings, and then, as one, the entire Boca crowd religiously chanted a series of club songs, without resting, punching the air with clenched fists in unison. It was then at this point in time in the universe I realized that Catholicism is not the official religion of Argentina . It was soccer. These soccer nutcases made the most hard core die hard Collingwood fan look completely pissweak. As the referee blew his whistle, a shower of white shredded paper exploded from the Estudiantes section of the crowd and onto the pitch, obscuring any chance the Boca goalkeeper had of distinguishing the ball from yesterday’s news. The Estudiantes faithful lit their red flares and smoke drifted over their unsuspecting fellow supporters, most likely causing a new pandemic of asthma sufferers. Back in Boca land, constant shouts of ‘Puto!’ (Whore!) and ‘Mierda!’ (Crap!) were belted out by the Boca brigade that obviously indicated their team were not doing as well as they should be. A barrage of high pitched whistling pelted the referee whenever his decision displeased these one eyed supporters. There was many times where I questioned the stability of La Bombonera as the Boca faithful jumped up and down and sideways, somehow willing their side to score. The concrete seats, of which I had developed fresh haemorrhoids from sitting on, had taken on a flexible consistency. There was no choice - I had to place my faith in the Argentine structural engineers who had passionately designed and built La Bombonera more than 60 years earlier than this game. At half time, prospecting young Maradonas would take to the field to display their impressive ball skills in front of the appreciative crowd, while the Boca Band continued to play their obsessive tunes. The sound of the rhythmic drums had now become addictive, and I was convinced I should try to smuggle a bass drum into Lang Park for the next rugby or State of Origin game I attended. Then I realised that the fun police would confiscate this item if I attempted this great way of generating crowd atmosphere. It was more of same maniacal chanting, cheering, whistling and singing in the second half. I was filthy that a goal was not scored, but maybe that was not such a bad thing as I had received a vivid description from an Italian backpacker of the before mentioned superclasico – he had torn the shirt of some unknown in the crowd whilst a sea of River Plate fans surged towards the steel barriers after a goal had been scored, trying to somehow maintain his footing. Eventually, the full time whistle blew, and I think the Boca fans were happy they got away with a draw. However, no one was moving because the stadium doors were shut to prevent fights between the opposing teams. I sat there for 30 minutes watching the Estudiantes fans pour through the tiny portals, leaving behind their burning rubbish that ironically looked pretty in the twilight. A cold wind swirled around the stadium, picking up cigarette ash and miscellaneous matter and depositing it into my eye whites. Finally, after a chaotic exit from the stands, I cast my eyes to the dreary slums of La Boca in the background, reflecting on the complete madness I had just witnessed. I had loved every second of it.

The Chocolate Box is home to the craziest atmosphere in the world. Their rivalry with River Plate is second to none. In the moments preceeding the arrival of the Boca players onto the pitch, the sights and sounds you will observe will absolutely overwhelm you, be prepared for a great time!

I´m not crazy about fútbol and didn´t have the chance to attend a game... but, my favorite part of the Boca Juniors stadium is all the flags. Legend has it that when the city fútbol team split into two they had a playoff game to decide which of the new teams would keep the original colors. The Boca Juniors lost and had to find new colors. To do so, they decided to take the colors of the first ship that came into port. The first ship happened to be from Sweden, thus their new colors became blue and yellow. It appears that there are Swedish flags flying all over La Boca and perhaps they are indeed Swedish flags, but they are not for Sweden... they are for the fútbol team!

World class atmosphere at home games, the stadium physically rocks to chants, threats and songs "Boca, mi buen amiga...". The circulating chants when El Diego is in attendance, the jetfighter taking off when Boca score a "GOLLLLLLLLL" are essential parts of the Argentina experience.

Don't just visit it for a tour, go to a soccer game!! Amazing atmopshere!
And don't buy the tickets in a travel office or something like that, just go the the stadium and buy it like all the Porteños at the ticket counter, much more fun!!