Unique in the World: A Soccer Pilgrimage of Epic Proportions!

What a beautiful Sunday for a trip, a morning so radiant it practically slapped you in the face with its cheerfulness!, the kind of day that makes you want to leap out of bed and seize the day. But before I could dive headfirst into my epic adventure, there was a little speed bump on the road to glory, one crucial task looming over me: fetching J from her workplace.

Why, you ask?

Well, my dear friend, to spare us the agony of battling LAX airport traffic, of course!? LAX traffic it's so diabolical that when J offered her friend Laura some cash to chauffeur us, Laura countered with an even bigger wad of bills just to keep her wheels away from that traffic nightmare. To give you some context – she wouldn't even drive her own fiancé to the airport!

And he was flying to take care of wedding plans, and now he's alone, wandering around Europe without pants, thanks to a lost suitcase. It has nothing to do with the story, but I imagine him wandering around "commando", muttering to himself about Laura's betrayal: "First she refuses to take me and now this!" Ah, the Italian drama!

Now, J was getting off half an hour early from work, fueled by the solemn oath to her boss that if, by some miraculous stroke of luck, I laid eyes upon Cristiano Ronaldo, I'd snap a photo quicker than you can say ‘Goal!' Although Seville’s cultural Muslim heritage stretches back over five centuries how do I dare to break it to her that Ronaldo's probably lounging in Qatar, getting pampered with a pedicure and perfecting his eyebrow game, rather than casually sauntering through the streets of Sevilla like a regular mortal?

As we jumped in our ride to the airport, J was channeling her inner accountant, tallying up the numbers like she was auditing a budget. "Let's see, we've got 2 planes to catch, one train…any subway? I’ve never been in a subway, there better be a subway. I don’t care much about buses though. What's with the coffee that's so good? Like Colombian coffee? She mused, clearly envisioning a caffeinated odyssey of epic proportions.

Anyways, the sun rose lazily over Los Angeles, a city that dozed in this Sunday in absolutely quietness. However, my heart beat with the strength of a thousand drums, because today was the day. The day we would embark on a pilgrimage to the promised land, Seville. A modern pilgrimage in search of the Holy Grail of Athletic Club de Bilbao. The Kings’ Cup Trophy!

CONTEXT. Through life I changed my political views and flip-flop on some of my political stances, I hopped from city to city like a frog on a hot pavement, and even switch partners quicker than Cristiano Ronaldo switches up his hairstyle – and let me tell you, that man's got more hairstyles than a Chia Pet!

I changed your mind, changed my address, heck, changed my wardrobe, but there’s always one constant that never wavers: my soccer team. It's like your forever love, your rock in a sea of uncertainty. No matter what curveballs life throws your way, your unconditionally love to your team remains as steadfast as a koala clinging to a eucalyptus tree. Is a visceral love, something that goes beyond logic or reason. It's like trying to explain why pineapple belongs on pizza – you just can't, but you love it anyway!

It's a bond that ties you to your roots, to your identity, to your people. It's about the philosophy it represents: playing with local players, the David against the Goliath of petrodollars, thumbing their noses at the big spenders waving their petrodollars around. For 126 years, Athletic Club of Bilbao has carried with it a unique philosophy in any sports around the world: playing only with local players, defying the odds and showing to the world that the love for the game and for the homeland can move mountains, or at least score some goals. We are the scrappy underdog that refuses to play by anyone else's rules. For over a century, they've been waving the flag for hometown heroes, proving that you don't need fancy imports to kick some serious soccer butt. It's like watching a bunch of local kids take on a team of supermodels – sure, they might not have the looks, but boy, do they have heart!

(Lines from Athletic Club’s Anthem)

Erritik sortu zi?alako maite zaitu erriak

(We, the people love you, because you were born among us, among the people)

So, in an odyssey of a true devotee, J and me embarked on a journey of almost 12,000 miles that seems taken from the pages of the Iliad, but instead of warriors with swords, they are fans with scarves and team jerseys. And so, with that same conviction in my soul. And then there's J, bless her heart, a convert to the cause with about as much enthusiasm for sports as a cat does for water – and yet, there she was, traversing over 12,000 miles (round trip) just to humor me. Now, if that ain't love, I don't know what is!

After enduring what felt like a journey longer than the lifespan of a tortoise, we finally touched down in Madrid, with a pitstop in London that made us fashionably late by a mere 40 minutes. In an attempt to outsmart J's stomach's timekeeping skills, I dialed up my cuz faster than J’s stomach could say "hangry" to secure us a spot at a restaurant for a quick bite, we had an early train to catch the next day, and the last thing we needed was J's hunger turning her into the Incredible Hulk.

Thanks to Karletti's (my cuz) magic, we found ourselves dining at the illustrious and eccentric establishment known as La Rosa La Loca…It was like stepping into a culinary wonderland, delicious food raining down upon us at record speed, as if the kitchen staff were competing in the Olympics of gastronomy. It was a feast devoured in the blink of an eye – or rather, the slurp of a Sangria-soaked olive. Ah, yes, the Sangria. A jug brimming with fruity goodness, garnished with an extra splash of Gin, because why not? It was a divine concoction, a symphony of flavors orchestrated by the gods themselves. And nestled between the clinks of our glasses, J and I knew that this was merely a warm-up for the culinary adventures that awaited us in Seville. In hindsight, that Sangria was like a boot camp for our taste buds, preparing them for the gastronomic marathon that lay ahead.

Back at the hotel, J experienced headfirst into Madrid's nightlife, trying to catch some shut-eye amidst the cacophony of revelers stumbling down the streets like confused penguins was like trying to nap in the middle of a soccer match – impossible!? So we decided to spend the night playing cards. Obviously after more than half a year practicing, our skillsare more polished, so we decided to add a couple of jokers to the deck to make the whole thing undeniable entertaining.

Now, for all you mischievous minds out there who've let your imaginations run wild. This night was strictly PG-rated – well, mostly. We were making so much noise that the drunken folks outside were screaming at us to keep it down so they could enjoy their libations in peace. They must've thought we were holding some sort of sacred ritual – "Oh my god” in here, “Jesus” there, they muttered, as we basked in the glory of the beautiful card game.

The next morning at the Atocha station, J could immediately sense that the color of the weekend was going to be a striking blend of red and white, like a peppermint candy cane on steroids. Two entire trains chugging their way to Seville, overflowing with enthusiastic Athletic Club supporters. It was like witnessing a migration of zebras, except instead of stripes, it was scarves and jerseys as far as the eye could see!

Cruising along on the AVE (Spanish bullet train) at a cool 300 km per hour, it's like being in the fast lane of luxury! And there's J, living her best life, snoozing away like she's auditioning for the Olympic sport of synchronized napping.

Arriving in Seville was like reaching paradise after a long journey through the desert. The city welcomed us with open arms, with its warmth, joy, and hospitality. And we, the soccer pilgrims, delved into its narrow streets and bustling squares, eager to reach the stadium where the magic would happen. And so, amidst laughter and chants, we immersed ourselves in the exodus of the faithful. With each step, the excitement grew, fueled by hope and the camaraderie of those who shared the same dream.

We hopped into the taxi in our way to meet my friends, we were greeted by a jovial driver who seemed determined to exceed all our expectations. He whisked us away from the shortest route, instead opting to give us a whirlwind tour of the city – all while the meter sat idly by, ensuring us that this wasn't a ploy to drain our wallets, but rather a genuine attempt to make us fall in love with Seville. And then came this comedic gold:

Taxi Driver: Your wife is very quiet.

Me: My girlfriend, and she doesn't speak Spanish.

Taxi Driver: Where is she from?

Me: Nebraska.

Taxi Driver: And she doesn't speak any Spanish?

Me: Nope.

Taxi Driver: But she'd like soccer at least?

Me: Ha, she's allergic to sports.

Taxi Driver: And it's her first time in Spain?

Me:Yep!

Taxi Driver: Brother, marry her!

Who knew a simple cab ride could double as a matchmaking session? the wisdom of a Seville taxi driver – always ready with sage advice, even if it comes with a side of ribbing.Talk about service with a smile!

As my friends welcomed J into the fold, they did so in the most divine manner possible – with a heavenly concoction of Kalimotxo to ensure he felt right at home. And let me tell you, nothing says "welcome" quite like a refreshing sip of Kalimotxo! Because, you know, nothing says "hello" like a refreshing beverage made of wine and cola. And of course, before any proper introductions could be made, there were the obligatory cheek kisses – because in Spain, even greetings come with a side of smooches! Now, onto the master plan: grab a couple of kalimotxos and some tapas on the? road.

While take a leisurely stroll through Seville's historic streets, and then make a beeline for the stadium. The game wasn't until a leisurely 10 pm, and here we were, lounging around at a modest 1:30 pm. Now, if my calculations are correct – that leaves us with a gloriously excessive amount of time to drink. We call it: Bilbao’s Happy hour! As we made our way through the city, the atmosphere was electric. Everywhere we looked, there were seas of red and white t-shirts, and the boats gliding along the Nervión River were like a sneak peek of LA Gabarra.

And the party? Oh, it was in full swing. So much so that even a wedding in the heart of the city couldn't escape its clutches! Picture this: a newlywed couple stepping out of the church, expecting to be greeted by their nearest and dearest, only to be met by a throng of 3,000 chanting Athletic fans. Talk about a wedding crasher of epic proportions! The groom quickly rallied with a spirited "Bilbao!" while the bride, perhaps sensing the need for diplomacy, promptly amended her response to “Athletic Club of Bilbao" before tossing her bouquet into the fray. Ah, the power of football fandom – it knows no bounds!

After a solid six-hour session of Kalimotxo sipping, J decided to call it quits. With all the authority of a seasoned drink connoisseur, J declared,

"Enough! Either bring me a margarita with an espresso martini chaser, or I'm defecting to Mallorca!”

And so, our quest for the perfect libation to appease J's demanding palate began. We scoured the streets in search of that magical elixir, like a band of boozy knights on a noble quest. But our search led us to a quaint terrace, where we decided to rest our weary feet and have a drink. As luck would have it, we found ourselves seated next to none other than LARRAINZAR, former Athletic player and all-around party animal. His wife couldn't resist poking fun at yours truly.

"Your wife is very quiet," she quipped.

Quick as a whip, I retorted, “Girlfriend, actually. And no, she doesn't speak Spanish –or Euskera, for that matter.”

But she wasn't about to let me off the hook that easily.

"Where's she from, then?" she pressed.

"Nebraska," I replied, with a shrug.

Her's eyes widened in disbelief: So let me get this straight – she willingly traveled all those miles just to hang out with you and your drunk friends?

"Yep!"- I exclaimed proudly, puffing out my chest like a peacock in a parade.

It's all just history repeating itself, t's like déjà vu all over again, so with a hearty laugh, LARRAINZAR delivered his sage advice:

And what are you waiting for?

And just when you think the moment couldn't get any better, J, who's been silently soaking up the absurdity of it all, decides to throw her input into the convo, with a twinkle in her eye and mischief in her grin saying "I got this” said –

"A margarita, or perhaps an espresso martini!"

We all laughed, and then Larrainzar's dad swooped in. A true knight in shining armor, and sought permission to bestow upon J a token of their esteemed appreciation of such a gesture of traveling all this way to watch a game– a handkerchief adorned with the colors of my beloved team, emblazoned with the rallying cry:

"Aupa Athletic!”

And then, the moment finally arrived, when the referee's whistle announced the start of the match, the stadium became a sacred altar where our dreams came true. The warriors who step onto the battlefield, the players on the field, are not just professional athletes representing our city, they are our brothers, our sons, our nephews, our neighbors, or our classmates. They are one of us. That's why year after year, despite the continuous defeats in the last 7 finals and a drought of important titles over the last 40 years, we accompany them on this journey. And we travel from city to city like a Christian pilgrimage, in waves, massively and almost mystically, in numbers that no other team in any other sport can even dream of.? Minutes turned into hours, and hours into an eternity of contained emotions. And then, when victory became ours, tears flowed uncontrollably. Tears of joy, of redemption, of pure love for that team that unites us, that defines us, that makes us who we are.

In Seville, there were around 100,000 fans. And this time, finally, what we had been waiting for, what we had been longing for and imagining so much, arrived.

And perhaps that's why, because it was so desired, or perhaps because of the weariness of 40 years of waiting, or because of the terrifying penalty shootout. The ecstasy of victory turned into tears of redemption, tears that we had accumulated for four decades began to roll down our cheeks without anything we could do to stop them. All this miles on our backs, the two planes, the? train, all of it was worth it, just to celebrate it with those who have always been there, with those who have been with us through defeats, Sunday after Sunday, year after year.? Berenguer's scored penalty allowed us to escape the anguish that had been choking us for so many years.

It is worth noting once again that with Athletic Club in the final, football wins, the other football, the football of the people that has not been sold to the mercenaryism, the football that belongs to the people.

And once again, the fans of Bilbao team gave a lesson on what it means to attend a football match. Not a single incident, despite the fact that there are always hooligans and radicals everywhere, the Athletic's fans have shown, once again, to be the best fans in the world. The Mallorca fans are not far behind, I watched the match among them and celebrated the victory with them, not a disapproving face or a bad gesture. Long live Mallorca. I want also to thank Seville, not easy to bare all these thirty throats.

This adventure transcends sport and becomes a symbol of what it means to be human: to love, to suffer, and to celebrate together, regardless of distances or differences. Because at the end of the day, we are all brothers in this passion that unites us. And even in the face of adversity, we will always stand together, chanting and cheering for our beloved team, because that's what true fans do.

But hey, if you're itching for a little more excitement beyond the realm of soccer, well, strap in, because Part 2's got it all. From J's unexpected transformation into a cave-hopping expert to her newfound love affair with olives, it's a tale so wild, you'll swear it's straight out of a telenovela!