As any American living in Europe knows, football here is serious business. If you’re trying to adapt to European life, you better pick a football team. And once you do, that team automatically becomes as dear to your heart as family and country. You sport the team colors, and memorize the chants and songs. You swear on your life not to miss that big game, and game stats suddenly take up space on your phone.
And for god’s sake, you better learn the rules of offsides quick.

I grew up with friends who played soccer (there, I said it!) but I never got into it. I watched the last World Cup with as much passion and fever as any other red-blooded American; but actually taking the time to learn the intricate rules of the game? Nah. In retrospect, I probably should have learned a little about the “World’s Favorite Sport” before I moved abroad. As punishment, I have thus spent a good year enduring snarky comments from my European and British friends regarding my ignorance of the sport.

“Soccer? Do you mean football? Real football. Not that handball sport that you Americans call football.”

“You don’t know who he is? Come on, he’s world-class, Charlotte.”

The list goes on. I can’t really blame them. Since the Premier League has started up, I’ve watched most of the games, and I’ve even done a little research regarding the rules. I have to say, it truly is a Beautiful Game. I’ve even (gasp) picked a team! I’ve chosen to support England’s Everton, considering that the great Tim Howard stands as their impenetrable goalkeeper.

Recently, I have also attended a couple Hungarian football games. Unlike other European countries, Hungary can’t really boast about their team. The funny thing is, Hungarians don’t seem aware of this fact. They are just as die-hard in their fandom as any other European. In fact, I’d daresay that they are even more hardcore, to a terrifying, riot-causing level.

Ferencvárosi Torna Club is the most successful and beloved team in Hungary. Founded in 1899, they have since won the Inter-Cities Fairs Cup 1964-65, and have won the Hungarian National Championship I 28 times and the Hungarian Cup 21 times. I told you I’ve been doing research. The green and white shirts of Fradi can be seen all around the team’s home turf of Budapest.

Last year, I cheered on Fradi as they annihilated Videoton during a wild thunderstorm. It  was an intense immersion into Hungarian fan culture, to say the least. I tried to chant along in the ever-impossible Hungarian language, and I hesitantely learned the hand gestures. One gesture uncomfortably resembles a Nazi salute.

It was a great time, and I decided there and then to become a hardcore Fradi fan. This was my team now. This was my chance to bond with Hungarians, and to show support for a city that I have grown to love. I therefore did not hesitate when asked to buy tickets to the next big game; the Ferencevaros vs Ujpest match on September 12th.

This derby as they call it, apparently exemplified the brutal rivalry between Fradi and Ujpest. According to legend, fans on both sides often engage in fist fights, and games can end in riots. 

Ohh this sounded exciting. 

On the days leading up to the game, I happily bragged to my coworkers. I thought that my Hungarians friends would be happy for me, even proud that a foreigner like me wanted to support their team. Instead, I received shocked expressions, and furrowed brows.

“You’re going to that game? Oh my god, please be careful.”

“Oh wow. Um, don’t wear green or white. Or the Ujpest colors. Just wear black. And don’t speak English.”

“I’m not even going to that game! You know that the away-game Fradi fans are dangerous right? Neo-nazis and the like.”

Well, that backfired. In hindsight, I should have received their words of caution with careful consideration. Instead, I took them as a sign of adventure. I was going to a game that Hungarians didn’t even dare to attend! I was going to experience a part of this culture that I had never witnessed before. I wasn’t about to let fear ruin this for me.

The game was set to be played in Ujpest, a sad little part of the city in the northern part of town. On the evening of, Meret and I caught the metro to Ujpest-Kozpont. Dressed entirely in black as advised, we avoided the crowds of football hooligans as best as we could. At one point, a large crowd of young men ran into the underground pass, and exploded into wild dances and loud, indistinguishable chanting. We narrowly escaped, and ran toward the nearest bus stop.

Our first mission was to meet up with Patrick and John, who somehow had already made it to the stadium. Immediately after calling them, our bus stopped in the middle of the street. An army of police cars blocked the intersection. Armed policemen decked out in riot gear stared back at us with dead, souless eyes. Suddenly, Meret and I found ourselves trapped in the hell that is Ujpest (no joke, it is bleak in those parts). Oh the horror!

It wasn’t long before they simply let us off of the bus. “Well, I guess we will just walk allll the way to the stadium” we whined. Then, just as we were about to commence, distant chanting suddenly filled the air. An army of men slowly marched toward us. Rows of riot-police surrounded the crowd of chanting men. As they inched toward us, I identified them for what they were; green and white Fradi fans. The warnings of my coworkers flashed in my mind as the crowd came closer. Should I run? Should I hide?

Never! Realizing that this crowd was marching to the stadium, Meret and I jumped in. Joining that crowd was like joining an army. Surrounded by steely-eyed men, I felt like we were marching to war. One man somewhere would shout out in a booming voice, and the crowd would then passionately break out into song. Every now and then someone would let off a green smoke bomb. With fists raised and hearts pounding, we joined in as best as we could to avoid suspicion. Check out my video of the march in my instagram!

  

    

When we finally reached the stadium, I saw that the police had prepared for battle. They had fenced off every entrance to the stadium. I had to find a policeman who spoke English, and then I had to convince him to let us through to our section in the stadium. Luckily I play the part of the lost foreign girl quite well. Once inside, we marched up to the Fradi section with beers in hand, ready to watch the game. Ujpest had already scored a goal! The crowd was already hungry for blood. Soon we found Patrick and John, just as the game became serious. Hungarians leapt onto the fence bordering the field, craning their necks for a better view. Drunk men behind us screamed obsentities in Hungarian. Oh, and I should mention that we actually spotted a man with a Hitler mustache.

The game started out dismally, but we cheered on Fradi like true fans. Hajra Fradi, Hajra Fradi (Let’s go, Fradi)! Then Fradi scored a goal! The crowd went nuts, and so did Ujpest fans. So deep was their anger, that one part of their section suddenly set off red flares, as bright as the fires of hell.

Fradi eventually beat Ujpest 2-1. The crowd became an absolute zoo after the final goal secured our victory. Men were dancing in the stands. Patrick ran around hugging strangers (typical), and I proceeded to jump up and down, chanting Hajra Fradi over and over again. Throughout the long bus ride home, we sang and laughed with fellow Hungarian fans.

All in all, it was an experience of a lifetime, and one that may define Hungarian culture for me. Hungarians are passionate, fiery people, and they don’t play by the rules. Above all, they are fiercely loyal. Their love for Fradi is completely infectious. I look forward to the next home game! Hajra Fradi!