The law of the most alive tarnished the final of the Copa America / Chronicle by Diana Pardo

The long journey from the parking lot to HardRock Stadium seemed like a yellow riverfull of Colombians selling t-shirts, caps, ponchos, flags, as well as beer, water, corn on the cob and even suckling pig. Entire families set up their business in the trunk of their pickup truck or under the shade of a tree, with improvised stoves and loudspeakers playing reggaeton and salsa.

Not even in El Campín, in Bogotá, had I seen so much activity outside the stadium.. Nor at other sporting events I have attended at the Hard Rock. At that moment I thought about the ability Colombians have to make a living. That creativity of being at the right time with the items that people need.

My family and I went to the stadium to support our national team in the dream of embracing the Copa América.

We arrived about three hours early, excited and anticipating what would be a memorable match, judging by the quality of our team’s play in recent weeks, thinking that we would have enough time to enter calmly and meet up with other friends to celebrate. Football is also a celebration.

We never imagined how difficult it would be to get into the stadium. The usual thing at these kinds of events is to line up at the door, scan the ticket and go up the steps to find the assigned seats. But here, to begin with, there were no lines: just a crush of hundreds of people trying to squeeze through the entrance gate.

The amount of people made it difficult to move, let alone breathe, under a sun of over thirty degrees Celsius and the smell of nearby bodies sweating as if we were in a Turkish bath.

There were young people, old people, children on their parents’ shoulders, men and women excited to be there.. However, in the midst of the crowd, there was a sense of fear, an anticipatory panic at the thought of what could happen in spaces full of people like these. Screams, pushes, complaints that someone had their cell phone stolen and that the ticket was still there.

When we finally crossed the barrier An officer reluctantly told me that my purse could not be brought in and that I had to return to the car. It was a kangaroo bag that you carry across your shoulder and inside I only had my ID, a credit card, my cell phone and my house keys. You can understand that in that crowd it was unthinkable to turn back, so the only other option was to throw my wallet in the trash, as the officer suggested, which the guy did with delight.

My husband and I managed to get in, but my daughter and her husband stayed behind, and we watched as the inertia of the crowd itself carried them to one side, away from the exit of the funnel. Until a few minutes later they managed to get through the barrier.

Bad organization, no doubt. But well, up to that point, Colombians had not been the protagonists of what was to come.

Once inside the situation outside got worse. People began to get desperate, to push harder, to demand to be let in. We watched from above as people tried to get in by any means possible, even jumping over the fence if necessary. Most of them were wearing yellow shirts, so it’s not hard to deduce that they were Colombians.

In the line where I was with my family, a row of only about twenty seats, we saw at least three Colombians who had to get up when those who had a ticket claimed their place.

People began to get desperate, to push harder, to demand to be let in. We saw from above
how people tried to get in as much as possible: even jumping over the fence if necessary

At one point I heard a woman in a yellow T-shirt, black miniskirt, and a sombrero vueltiao say to her companion: “Let’s act like faggots, let’s sit over here.” Another guy occupied any empty space he saw and begged the neighbors to let him stay there until the owner of the chair arrived, who had surely stopped for a few minutes to buy something. Getting to the bathroom was a feat due to the number of people who stole from the toilet in the hallways. No authority was enforcing order.

From outside we received videos of friends who were waiting in the midst of chaos to be able to enter.with images of people sneaking through the air conditioning duct. And seeing the smiles on all those people’s faces: as if breaking the rules was an achievement.

The chaos was so great that the organisers decided to close the large black doors that gave access to the stadium. This made people even angrier.

The game was about to start, and friends who had arrived later than us had not been able to get in. Until the force of the crowd and its fury knocked down one of the gates and thousands of people entered like an avalanche, with or without a ticket. People were crying, falling to the ground, screaming. And then there was that feeling of lack of security, because if at the beginning when I entered they were checking bags, by then nobody was checking anything.

The officers themselves were recording videos instead of controlling the situation. It had gotten out of hand. At the Hard Rock they were not prepared for a situation like that.Perhaps Sunday’s experience will serve as a pilot plan to better prepare them to host the World Cup, in which seven matches are planned to be held in the same stadium.

Forty-five minutes after the scheduled start time, the Colombian players came out, led by the great Néstor Lorenzo. Our senses were focused on that moment, on supporting our team, oblivious to everything that had happened a few hours earlier at the entrance to the coliseum.

And we sang the anthem, and we saw the national team give it their all on that pitch.And we feel grateful for being there, for the joy they have given us, for filling us with hope, because they embody the best of our country.

The writer Sara Jaramillo wrote her latest column about the fact that Colombians are hit-and-run drivers. Her text emphasizes the mobility aspect, the way cars run over pedestrians, a metaphor that extends to other spheres of daily life. Hours after reading the column, I witnessed actions at the Hard Rock that confirmed her words. Why do we Colombians continue to be the protagonists of scenes like those experienced on Sunday in Miami? Why does the law of the quick prevail in our culture? It is true that a handful of vandals do not represent us. But their actions project a very bad image to the rest of the world. A society is measured not by its most talented individuals, but also by the way we behave. We can have a selection of

luxury, but the behavior of the fans is a disgrace.