An American’s take on the Spanish football experience

I’m a geriatric millennial born and raised in Miami—yes, that Miami. I grew up among a diverse community of non-Cuban Latin Americans (Scarface is fiction, folks), and back then, my only connection to soccer (yes, soccer) was through EA Sports’ FIFA video game. Years of playing FIFA introduced me to global football long before I could tell a corner kick and a free kick.

Fun and little-known fact: Americans call it soccer because of the British, who invented the game and subsequently the term. According to a 2014 paper by University of Michigan professor Stefan Szymanski ¹ the word “soccer” is a British invention that fell out of favor in the UK only about 40 years ago.

My passion for the sport ignited in earnest in 2002 when the U.S. Men’s National Team (USMNT) reached the quarterfinals—their best performance in my lifetime. Co-hosted by Japan and South Korea, that tournament had me staying up late or waking up early to catch matches on ESPN or Univision, including the US’s heartbreaking loss to Germany. I thought every World Cup would be like that, with the USMNT consistently reaching the quarterfinals. Little did I know, disappointment awaited for decades to come.

Even after the U.S. loss, I was captivated by the eventual winner – Brazil. Their flair on the pitch, from Ronaldo’s goals to Ronaldinho’s wizardry, mesmerized me. Later, watching the vibrant Carnival scenes (if you know, you know) on satellite TV locked Brazil in as my favorite national team not named USA.

After the 2002 World Cup and a semester of Portuguese language studies in undergrad, football became my new passion. Ronaldinho, dazzling for FC Barcelona, became my favorite player. He played along greats like Xavi, Valdés, Puyol, Iniesta, and a young Lionel Messi (sorry, Rafa Márquez, my US-Mexico rivalry won’t let me add you to this list). I joined the Barça bandwagon at precisely the right moment. Supporting the Miami Fusion, who didn’t even play in Miami, was never an option. (Something we may revisit in a later article as Inter Miami follows a similar playbook.)

Fast-forward to 2023; I’m living in Valencia, Spain, and visiting Mestalla - the football temple of the locals (sorry Levante) – was a top priority. Mestalla, home to Valencia CF, is the oldest stadium still in use in La Liga’s top division; its vintage charm is on full display. A Nou (Valencian for “new”) Mestalla has been in development for years with no clear completion date—much like Miami’s Freedom Park for Inter Miami.

I attended a match in October, early in the season. Kickoff at 21:00 on a Tuesday? Unthinkable for an American used to East Coast prime-time games.

Growing up with Miami’s sports teams—the Marlins (two-time MLB champions in 1997 and 2003), the Heat (three-time NBA champions, 2006, 2012, and 2013, including their run with LeBron James), and the Dolphins (mostly irrelevant during my lifetime)—I come from a peculiar fanbase competing with beaches, nightclubs, and a world-class food scene. Miami’s fan attendance heavily depends on team success; if you’re not winning, the bleachers are empty.

Imagine my surprise when over 50,000 fans packed Mestalla on a chilly, rainy midweek night to watch Valencia face another mid-table team, not Real Madrid or Barcelona. (Though, as David P. Samson, former Florida Marlins president, has said on his Nothing Personal podcast, attendance numbers can be inflated.) Regardless of the numbers, one thing was undeniable: the energy provided by the crowd never waned. The chants were loud, coordinated, and universal. I envied the supporters banging drums and leading cheers. If only there were a guide for first-time visitors to have the chants learned ahead of time.

The crowd’s diversity also stood out—families, kids of all ages, and women filled the stands. I couldn’t help but wonder: what are these kids doing at a late-night game on a school night? Ah, life in Spain.

Another surprise: no alcohol sales in the stadium. I later came to learn that alcohol is only available in select suites with the purchase of specific tickets, and even then, you can’t drink while watching the pitch—you’re confined to a walled-off suite area. This rule, aimed at curbing rowdy behavior, reminded me of last-call ordinances in Miami, which often lead to people binge drinking before the cutoff—hardly the intended safety measure.

While I support safety, banning alcohol in stadiums feels overly restrictive. With my background in international sports business, I believe setting beers at a premium could fund more security while boosting league revenues and enhancing the fan experience.

Beer or not, the match was thrilling. Valencia secured a 2-0 victory, making my first Mestalla experience unforgettable. The electric atmosphere created by fans turning up for a non-marquee match was simply impressive. I soaked in every chant, cheer, and whistle—yes, they whistle their dissatisfaction here, instead of booing, which feels considerably less hostile. This regular-season game had the intensity of an NBA finals match.

Halftime brought an unexpected twist: a local Valencian marching band parading around the pitch. What’s more American than a marching band at halftime? Thinking back on that match, I can’t help but think—despite the miles and cultural differences, maybe we’re all not so different after all. The passion for sport, the sense of community, and the shared rituals make football, like all great sports, a universal language.