“El que no salte…” – the one who doesn’t jump. This is a setup for a typical stadium chant in Latin America. It is followed by “es un inglés” –is a British, “es un botón” –is a snitch, or “es una gallina” – is a chicken. Though varied, they are all connected because each version characterizes those who don’t jump –in some form or another– as the enemy.
Each section of this sticker book has been a response to the chant – a punchline. “[…] es un agrandado.” The one who doesn’t jump is “too big.” They are too big to jump. They are above us, too good to participate. Each sticker is a vague response to the response – varying between challenging and supporting. “Que Grandes Que Somos” – or, a boast about ‘our’ greatness. An injured player lives by the honor of his badge. In presumably his lowest point, he is above it all. Too big.
This collection is a metaphor, riddled with wordplay, idioms, and language tricks that maybe only I understand. A jump as action – initiated in football but now going beyond and around it, into smaller, personal crevasses. This collection is a theatricalized personal narrative as a reflection of larger national and cultural issues. A catalog based on a chant, evaluating football and devotion through a larger non-football lens. Chapters as themes guiding the discourse. And finally, stickers as mini portraits of mini-stories broad enough to be relatable but also exclusively mine.
I spent an entire book using football as an analogy, so I hope it’s not lost in translation.
I wasn’t sure what language I should write this in. But there’s a game I left out in the introduction: our win.
It was the final of the Copa América –South America’s largest nation-level competition. The tournament was held every four (ish) years, hosted by a different country every time. This time we played at home, in Colombia. We were never really meant to be champions. We barely should have made it past the group stage. This was a year before Brazil won their fifth (!) World Cup and their usual rival Argentina had as many stars as ever. But they didn’t show up. Apparently, Colombia wasn’t safe enough at the time and we almost lost the chance to host the tournament altogether. Argentina and Canada forfeited, while every other contender sent their b-teams. Amidst the accusations, Colombia cruised through their group and playoffs into the final.
Estadio El Campín. Bogotá, Colombia. 2001. It was a quiet game for the most part, at least based on the official recap. A few shots and the typical arguing with the ref. Until the 65th minute. An unassuming free kick was crossed into the box. Ivan Ramiro Córdoba rose up and lifted our spirits. He heads the ball home. 1-0. The rest of the game was always a mystery to me. I only know the jump, the header, the goal, and the celebration. We beat Mexico and the cup was ours for the first (and so far, only) time.
I’m not superstitious but I always thought there was something meaningful about being born a few months after that match. I was born a champion of South America. Unfortunately, our win was clouded with controversy and fear. Our celebrations felt tarnished. I’m not sure if this was self-inflicted, but there was a feeling that our win –our one win out of hundreds or thousands– didn’t really count.
Finishing and printing this collection is my Copa America. If you are reading this, I won my trophy. Does it count? Maybe the uncertainty is hereditary. Maybe we got so used to celebrating the heartbreaks and the ties and the almosts, that we forgot that’s not the only option. Either way, you got this far. Thank you for coming this far. Thank you for joining this journey and peeling back the layers. Thank you for the jump.