Before arriving to Jordan, a friend had messaged me, relaying that Faisaly, the most successful club in JPL history, was playing the league-winning match my first weekend in Amman. As a massive football fan, the chance to see not only another team play, but potentially clinch the league also, was a chance to not pass up. Before even seeing them play, I had to overcome several obstacles to even enter the stadium.
As he was getting tickets, I was sent the address of a large shopping center in Amman, close to the stadium. Taking a taxi was the easiest course of action. After hailing a taxi and knowing the going rate from downtown to the mall was around 3 JD, the driver and I made charades small talk. This was due to the fact that his English was as extensive as my Arabic. That’s to say, nearly non-existent. As some drivers will often make fares up to scam travelers, I insisted on using the meter. This was to be the start of an expensive journey. After not more than 10 minutes, the driver pulled over and showed 14 JD – around 20$. Arguing in English wasn’t working, as I realized he had sped the meter up x4 and was blatantly scamming me. Empty threats to the police weren’t working either, so I gave him 10 JD – 3x the normal cost – and got out of the car. He continued to yell, but understood no more money was to change hands. So he sped off, my wallet lighter than intended.
The mall was smaller than commercial centers back home, and was air-conditioned, a nice change from the heat. As I didn’t have a Jordanian SIM card, I pantomimed making a call to several locals in football kits passing though, as an attempt to reach my friend. No response. Even turning off airplane mode and sending messages from a US SIM – nothing. With the game close to starting and him nowhere in sight, I began slightly panicking. We hadn’t agreed on a set time, just the mall, and not even a specific stall. I opened the wifi network and none were open. However, one near the top was named “12345678”. Taking a shot, I entered the same numeric key, and somehow got access. After that, a quick facebook message and confirmation brought my friend over. He had gone to buy tickets in person, and the long wait impeded his arrival time. Nonetheless, we had tickets and scarves, as we set out towards the pitch.
Unlike football stadiums in the West, alcohol isn’t sold in their Jordanian counterparts. Furthermore, women are not allowed inside. We picked up a few snacks for the game – off-brand chips, Coca-Cola, and sandwiches. Back home, the pre-game meal would’ve consisted of numerous beers, burgers, and hot dogs. Not quite the same in the Middle East.
Arriving to the stadium, we pushed our way through the crowd, and made our way to the section. Plastic bottles were not allowed inside, so out went our snacks. Shame. In the sun, behind the home goal, with a perfect view of the pitch, we took our seats. As the only foreigner in the side, if not the entire stadium, locals took numerous photos with our small group. One clearly out his element, sunburnt, non-Arabic speaking tourist amongst groups of Jordanians young and old, congregating to support their club. Countless “welcome to Jordan” and “Faisaly good?” sprouted around me, with locals practicing whatever English they knew, regardless of fluency. Regardless of language, we we were able to understand the game. Football doesn’t need a common language – it is one.
Local fanfare was quite similar to games back in the US. Waving flags, singing songs, yelling insults at the other team, and dressing in your teams’ colors seem the same the world over. In Jordan, instead of beer, vendors would sell cups of water. As there was no shade, these vendors would make quite a handsome profit every game. Also, it was single-sex. Zero women were present at the game, something unfamiliar in the West. Albeit peculiar, it made for a communal bonding experience for the throngs of men in the crowds. My friend demonstrated a few local chants and customs, to be able to get more connected with the game.
The site The New Arab posted a match summary, as follows:
On top, Al-Jazeera, Al-Faisaly and Al-Wehdat fought for the title. Al-Jazeera, who led the league all season, played Al-Ahli in Zarqa, while Al-Faisaly, hosted the lowest-ranked Sahab squad.
The Blue Eagles of Faisaly needed to defeat the minnows from Irbid by more than two goals, all while hoping Jazeera would lose points or win by only one goal.
Sahab, fighting relegation, desperately needed to defeat Faisaly at the Amman International Stadium. But 20 minutes after kick off it was clear that wasn’t going to happen. Faisaly were 2-0 up by halftime, with goals from Polish forward Lukasz Simon and his Libyan strike partner Akram Zuway.
On the other side of the city, meanwhile, Al-Jazeera couldn’t get even one shot in on goal in the first 45 minutes against Al-Ahli. As the afternoon went on, Zuway secured the title for Faisaly with a second goal and an assist completing a famous 4-0 victory, condemning Sahab to relegation.
Cue balloons, celebrations, kuffiyehs adorning the heads of the winners, songs, tears, and general feelings elation. Faisaly had won the league. And in the midst of the madness, stood one sunburned, joyful foreigner. Repeating words and songs I knew not the meaning of, accepted as a fan by the general masses, today was to celebrate the league champions. And celebrate did the fans, streaming down Amman’s streets with flags, horns tweeting, a sense of general relief and excitement. As we exited the packed rows, one question was asked. “Did you have fun?”. Second to El Clásico, the most I’ve ever had.
Dispatches by Alec 