After the full-time whistle blew and spectators began to dissect the final moments of yet another re-match while on their way home, I can honestly say that I am a convert to this yearly sport. This annual get together of colour, spectacle, heart-pounding drums, and raucous music has just come to an end in Guardamar Del Segura - about ten minutes drive from Torrevieja, my adopted home.
The word spectacular just doesn’t cut it. It is a breathtaking display of the finest regalia to be seen in the area. Not being a spectator sports kind of guy, I foolishly took up the support of the Christians and their wonderful catholic taste in robes, gowns and armour. Even their music was sensible, middle-of-the-road stuff - imagine BBC Radio 4 as opposed to Radio 1. Thinking this was the equivalent of a medieval catwalk, I cheered wholeheartedly as the players took to the field. Well, Guardamar main street actually.
But as they always say, it was a game of two halves. As the Christians dispersed triumphantly into the changing rooms for a long, cold shower to celebrate another victory, the Moors began a heroic defense of their honour.
Everything they did, wore or played was just on an entirely different level. From the crowd-pleasing strikers who showed the dexterity of their nimble footwork by dribbling back and forward across the street, to the serious-faced rows of scary centre-forwards swaying - no, sashaying - in a strong defensive line behind their front man. Bringing up the rear of each wave was a cacophony of north African based music, helping to raise claps and chants from the trance induced crowd.
It was around this point that I realised that I had been sitting behind the wrong goal so to speak, and surreptitiously changed my shirt to the opposing team. I don’t think anyone noticed as my chanting and applause was really still the same - Referee! Your blind mate! Penalty! X@@***!? As I said I’m not a spectator sports kind of guy.
As an artist, the most striking things for me were, of course, the colours. Under the stadium arc lights, well okay, streetlights, they shone like the feathers of a very colourful feathery bird. You may have gathered that I’m not much of an ornithologist either.
After taking over one hundred photographs with my new digital camera, I was disappointed to find that the majority were either underexposed, overexposed, blurred or simply close-ups of my left nostril. Well, it was a new camera, but I did manage to get some dramatic images to come out reasonably well. Professional photographers please look away now. I have omitted the left nostril shots for reasons of health and safety.
In the end, although the Christians were the apparent victors on t
he night, I have changed history by renaming the Moors as the winners, if only for their sheer bravado in the face of ultimate defeat. In my mind, I can see the Moor defense rushing towards the goal in support of their dancing horse mid-fielders and extravagant forwards to take the lead in the dying seconds of the game. ‘We thought it was all over … It is now!’ Well, it was over by 12.15am, actually.
