I’m a 16-year-old kid about to enter an arena made for football fans during the Euro 2016. Portugal was in the lead to the final against France. No signs of french people around. Not a ça va bien?, a comment est-ce possible?, nor a just simple CONARD!. It was a beach stadium full of Portuguese people where the french wouldn’t dare to step in. As I entered, I could hear a weird loudspeaker echo shouting this catchy yet irritating song that promoted the competition. So loud. As passed by people I could listen to snippets of phrases being transmitted with joy, enthusiasm, excitement. People were preparing themselves for what was about to come. I wasn’t focused on what people were saying – I was paying attention to my steps in the sand and trying not to step on anyone. Me and my friends were making a line crossing over these people and unintentionally making a 4/4 beat with some swing in it. Bro, bai práli quià espaço (Bro, go that way ). We sat in the middle of the stadium. Till the beginning of the match, everything that I could hear was merely the sounds of liquids splashing against bottles, people shouting at the phone to find their friends – TOU AQUI!!! TÁS MA BER?? OLHA AQUI EU!!! LEBANTA OS BRAÇOS!!! TÁS MA BER??? TOU NO MEIO A SALTAR!!!! JÁ ME BISTE??!! (…) (I’M HERE!!! CAN YOU SEE ME??? LOOK AT ME OVER HERE!!! RAISE YOUR ARMS!!! CAN YOU SEE ME??? IM JUMPING IN THE MIDDLE!!! HAVE YOU SEEN ME ALREADY??!! (…)) – cigarettes, my mother calling, people steps behind me raising the sand, people playing with each other – oh filho tá queto caralho, AHAHA, olha qu’apanhas não tou a gozar.
The screening started: SENTA-TE CARALHO JÁ COMEÇOU (…) OH ZÉÉ! SAI DA FRENTE CARALHO! OH FILHO CONTROLA-TE. TÁS A MINHA FRENTE CARALHO NAO CONSIGO BER FODA-SE (SIT DOWN FOR F*CK SAKE (…) ZÉÉ!! GET OUT OF THE WAY GODDAMN IT! AYO CONTROL YOURSELF BRO. YOU’RE IN FRONT OF ME F*CKING HELL CAN’T SEE SH*T). Whistling started from both sides. Here and there. Not too intense. Echoed slightly. The final opening ceremony was overwhelming. Nobody cared. But as soon we saw the face of french players for the first time, there was an amalgam of shouts coming from all ends, either mocking or insulting the french.
The players aligned to sing their anthem, and so do the crowd. An intense cloth foley reverberated in the arena. We all sang so loud that we couldn’t hear our voices. The crowd roar to the air, screaming every word of the hymn where some of us got emotional. I remember feeling my ears shaking, as well as my chest.
The midgame was complicated to get through, although the typical football ambient was settled. Chants were sung, drums were played. Trumpets and some long-forgotten vuvuzelas could be heard, and of course, there was the leader with a megaphone who conducted this all orchestra.
Nevertheless, this sonic experience is most unique when Eder’s goal took place: almost 2 hours in the game a no side had scored. The crowd was exhausted and craving for the game to end to culminate with that overgrowing anxiety. Everyone was seated in the sand, reacting with fear to most of the plays. Our animosity was down. All it could be heard was again those loudspeakers throwing the Portuguese commentary to the arena, which in that case meant silence. Suddenly, out of what was considered to be impossible, Eder, the most hated player in the squad, scored a goal outside of the box. In a swoosh, everyone jumped and screamed unpronounceable words like if war and a lottery had been won at the same time. I remember falling to the ground and feeling it being shaken like an earthquake. I felt my body being dominated by that sub-bass sound, shaking my bones and organs. All those combined made my face exalt happiness and joy in a couple of drops of salted water coming out of my eyes.