My first experience with Spanish fútbol was a Fútbol Club Sevilla game in September 2007. My grandma and I melted like butter in the sun and got seats high in the grada, next to a man who spilled over his seat and shouted COÑO every time the rojiblancos lost possession of the ball.
Helen asked how I liked it, and I pined for Hawkeye Football.
For me, fútbol was little more than an excuse to get some friends together to drink beer and casually comment on a game. I had played as a kid for years, hanging up my shin guards to focus on school and gymnastics in 2000, years before Spain’s national team was even on my radar.
In the summer of 2008, however, I spent my months missing Spain and working at Banana Republic Factory Store. My boss, Erik, approached me one July morning with a proposition: Work my 90 minutes of break simultaneously and call with updates. What updates?
The Euro Cup tournament had begun, and my boss assumed I’d be interested in watching it. I obliged, and found it was me who was then yelling COÑO and TIRA, COÑO and ME CAGO EN LA MÁ! as Spain battled Germany in the finals. After 90 grueling minutes, la Furia Roja came out on top, a taste of what to expect in South Africa two years later. I was impassioned.