Keep Pounding!

I went to the Copa America and all I got was a kick between the legs

Written by: Rob Conlon
Artwork by: Eamonn Dalton
An image of Marcelo Bielsa putting his hand to his head and looking at the ground during Uruguay's 1-0 defeat to Colombia in the Copa America semi-final

The omens are bad when I land in Charlotte. Having not rained for weeks, the heavens have opened and the plane touches down in the middle of a storm. Itโ€™s chaos at the airport, with flights being delayed and cancelled. In the taxi to my hotel, fire engines hurtle past in the opposite direction: a house has been struck by lightning.

Itโ€™s an inauspicious start, but it wonโ€™t stop me falling asleep as soon as my head touches the pillow. The jet leg is finally easing off. Itโ€™s the first time Iโ€™ve slept properly in days. I wake up to a clear blue sky and a sunny morning. After the scorching fever dream of Vegas, itโ€™s a relief to be somewhere โ€˜normalโ€™. Walking into a food market downtown โ€” or uptown, as they call it here โ€” Iโ€™m overjoyed to hear โ€˜How Soon Is Now?โ€™ by The Smiths playing on the speakers. Sometimes all you need to relax is a good nightโ€™s sleep and a song about going to a club on your own, failing to pull, and returning home to have a nice big cry. Thereโ€™s a bar in the market with a beer fridge covered in stickers. I give the bartender a TSB Marcelo Bielsa sticker to add to the collection. He inspects it, bemused, and leaves it to one side.

Iโ€™m staying a twenty-minute tram journey from uptown, in what just so happens to be Charlotteโ€™s brewery district. The night before Uruguay play Colombia, I sample the local delicacies and watch the other semi-final โ€” Leo Messiโ€™s Argentina vs Jesse Marschโ€™s Canada. Apologies to any Canadian readers, I have nothing against your country, but when Marsch appears on screen singing the national anthem I make a note on my phone: โ€˜I hope they get fucking battered.โ€™

The game is laughably reminiscent of watching Marschโ€™s Leeds. Canada start brightly, miss a half chance, then go 1-0 down after being undone by a straightforward pass down the middle of the pitch. Marsch walks off the pitch at half-time raging at the referee and, as Messi scores to double Argentinaโ€™s lead after the break, continues unravelling on the touchline.

To Jesseโ€™s credit, heโ€™s clearly got his ideas across quickly โ€” whenever an Argentina player gets the ball in their own half, four Canada players charge at them and, if theyโ€™re lucky enough not to be passed around, commit needless fouls as petulant as their manager. Former Leeds flirt Rodrigo de Paul is more than happy to accept the second option as the game nears its end, buying free-kick after free-kick, fluttering his eyelashes towards us once more by telling Marsch he yaps too much. Jesse is eventually booked on the sideline and is widely praised online afterwards for showing so much passion, but those of us who know the truth will always recognise he really is just Neil Warnock with a German phrasebook.

On the morning of Uruguayโ€™s match, I have a coffee with a Leeds fan called Will who lives in Charlotte. Heโ€™s from Tennessee originally but moved here to study and never left. Ironically, Will has Jesse Marsch to blame for his love of Leeds. He always wanted a European club to follow, so Leeds hiring an American manager and signing American players like Tyler Adams and Brenden Aaronson made his decision for him. โ€œIt was weird seeing Marsch with Canada and thinking, โ€˜Heโ€™s one of the reasons I started supporting Leeds, but heโ€™s also a dick,โ€™โ€ he says. Marsch might have gone, but Will is loyal to a fault. Heโ€™s stuck with us through relegation and a play-off final defeat โ€” which coincided with the first meet up of a new Charlotte Whites supportersโ€™ group โ€” and hopes to one day take his newborn son to Elland Road. โ€œSupporting Tennessee is just like supporting Leeds,โ€ he says. โ€œYouโ€™re just waiting to be kicked between the legs.โ€

Itโ€™s around 10am when I walk into the city centre and past the Bank of America stadium, where the semi-final is going to be held that night. Colombia fans are already setting up stalls selling shirts and sombreros. A big group of Colombians are gathering outside a hotel next to the ground playing drums and singing songs. One kneels down in the middle of the road and kisses the concrete. I walk past quickly, hoping they donโ€™t notice my Marcelo Bielsa t-shirt.

Thereโ€™s the small matter of Englandโ€™s semi-final with Netherlands first, and I meet up with another local Leeds fan, Tony, for a beer before kick off. Heโ€™s wearing a Leeds United t-shirt to make it easier to spot him and, like Will, moved to Charlotte and never left after falling in love with the place. He started following Leeds in the late nineties, experiencing all the ups and downs from across the Atlantic โ€” the highs of the Champions League and the lows of League One. The appointment of Bielsa made it all worthwhile. Heโ€™s even started coaching his eight-year-old sonโ€™s soccer team, and since all he knows about coaching comes from what heโ€™s read about Bielsa, theyโ€™re going all out attack and not caring if they lose 6-2.

When Tony has to go back to work, I move on to a bar next door for the England game. The street is rammed with Colombia fans, who are jokingly booing anyone brave enough to wear a Uruguay shirt whenever they walk past, but the bar is full of expat England fans. There are two brothers sitting at the bar. They have American accents but were born in England and grew up for a time in Germany, near a small town where my grandma and her family were raised called Celle. Itโ€™s the first time Iโ€™ve felt a buzz following England all summer, at least until a lad draped in a St Georgeโ€™s cross wearing a Burberry bucket hat and sunglasses indoors starts leading the usual repertoire of songs about sniffing gear and the RAF of England shooting down ten German bombers. The brothers stare at the bottom of their pints, and I join them. Given who is playing in the city tonight, I wonder if the England fans have ever heard the Half Man Half Biscuit song, โ€˜What made Colombia famousโ€ฆ has made a prick out of you.โ€™

Still, none of that is Gareth Southgate or Ollie Watkinsโ€™ fault, and I stumble out of the bar delirious from the late winner. Charlotte is overrun with Colombia fans. There are yellow shirts everywhere. People are barbequing meat and selling beer out of coolboxes on the street. As I get closer to the stadium, the sulfuric smell of flares gets stronger. A stand is emblazoned in huge lettering with the slogan, โ€˜Keep Pounding.โ€™ There are tens of thousands of Colombia fans already outside, singing, dancing, trying to buy tickets, and rushing to celebrate their heroes as the team bus arrives. Itโ€™s the maddest pre-match experience Iโ€™ve ever been a part of. Whenever I cross paths with lonely souls in blue, I mutter โ€œvamos Uruguayโ€ and receive relieved smiles and thumbs up in return for indulging my dirty little secret.

The stadium has a fittingly South American style for the occasion. There is no roof; the rows of seats simply stop where the sky starts. If it wasnโ€™t for the Bank of America office blocks looming even higher behind one of the stands or the cup holder in front of my seat, I could be in Buenos Aires. Iโ€™m sitting up in the gods, and as the ground fills up I can spot two blocks of Uruguay fans. The rest has been taken over by Colombia supporters, with the odd blue shirt dotted around, no doubt trying their best to keep a low profile. The Uruguayan national anthem is respectfully observed. The Colombian national anthem is belted out with a roar that belongs in a colosseum.

A photograph of Rob's view from the gods at the Bank of America as Uruguay and Colombia line up for the national anthems with Marcelo Bielsa on the big screen
Photograph by Rob Conlon

If Bielsa pulls this off, it should go down as one of his most famous wins. Colombia are unbeaten in a record-equalling 27 games. Uruguay are missing half their defence from the quarter-final win over Brazil โ€” Barcelonaโ€™s Ronald Araujo is injured and Nahitan Nandez of Atletico Madrid is suspended. Bielsa restructures his team like only he does: ladies and gentleman, Uruguay will be playing three-three-fucking-one-three.

As soon as Uruguay touch the ball, the whistles and boos from the stands are deafening. Liverpool striker Darwin Nunez is tasked with dragging Uruguay up the pitch and helping them get a foothold in the game. Itโ€™s easy to see why Bielsa is so enamoured with him. He plays like Pat Bamford with a ponytail, scrapping for every ball, stealing it from defenders, and missing three big chances in the first half hour. After his second miss, a supporter wearing a Leeds away shirt flashes on screen, his head in his hands. If Marschโ€™s Canada played with all the stupidity of Marschโ€™s Leeds, Bielsaโ€™s Uruguay are playing with all the vulnerabilities of Bielsaโ€™s Leeds: their striker canโ€™t score, their midfielder gets injured, their goalkeeper looks nervous, and towards the end of the first half Colombia score from a corner. Of course they fucking do.

Bielsa tells his players to calm down as they kick it straight out of play. Just before the break, theyโ€™re given a lifeline. As the teams wrestle for the ball following a foul, Colombiaโ€™s Daniel Munoz elbows Manuel Ugarte and is sent off. Bielsa makes two subs at half-time. Itโ€™s a case of attack, attack, attack, but the second half is the perfect illustration of why anyone who wants to be a referee is a weirdo. Colombia play every trick in the book to kill time, chasing after the ref and screaming at him when he doesnโ€™t let them while the crowd chant โ€˜hijo de puta โ€” son of a bitchโ€™.

With twenty minutes remaining, Bielsa calls for Luis Suarez from the bench โ€” heโ€™s 37 years old and has played a total of eight minutes at the tournament. It feels like bringing Izzy Brown on in the play-off semi-final against Derby. Everyone wearing a yellow shirt in the stadium, young and old, unites in giving him the middle finger. Suarez doesnโ€™t have to wait long to get a chance, but his shot hits the post. Iโ€™m squirming in my seat, finding it difficult to hide my frustration. Luis Sinisterra comes on for Colombia, and the more Uruguay push forward in desperation, the more chances Colombia create on the break. Somehow, they conspire to miss them all, even when Uruguayโ€™s goalkeeper has rushed forward to join the attack at a set-piece.

As the referee blows the final whistle, I escape the hail of pints being thrown by celebrating Colombia fans and head straight for the concourse. I miss the fighting in the stands, where Darwin Nunez steams in swinging punches as trouble kicks off around the Uruguay playersโ€™ families and friends, and instead catch a small pocket of fans scrapping between themselves on the way out. An older Uruguay supporter tries to get involved and is immediately caught by a punch that sends him staggering backwards and onto his arse.

Itโ€™s a wild night that belongs in the Wild West rather than the East Coast. Colombia are destined for the final in Miami, while Bielsa and Uruguay have to settle for a third-place play-off against Marschโ€™s Canada back in Charlotte. Apologies to any Canadian readers, I have nothing against your country, but I hope they get fucking battered. โฌข

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