Futbol or Fußball: How It Feels to Be in the Stands
I’ve done the math , and soon I’ll describe the difference in how match-day mornings might look. Now it’s time to calculate the incalculable: what does it mean to shout Tor! in Munich and GOOOOOAAAAAL! for Colombia in Glendale?
Copa América in Glendale: USA Matchday Experience
We arrive sweating, having walked through 110-degree heat from the Uber drop-off. The refreshments on offer: an overpriced hamburger, popcorn, and Church Music IPA. Breakfast from that morning isn’t going to fuel this afternoon, so we cringe as we swipe our cards.
It feels like airport rules apply at State Farm Stadium. The price of food and beer is simply part of the cost of the event, money essentially already spent.
Had Honey Bear’s BBQ or Someburros been open that day, I might have better things to say than “mediocre hamburger that cost as much as a fantastic one elsewhere in the city.” Or maybe I’m just bitter about the price of the beer.
Church Music IPA is a staple Arizona beer, refreshing and malty With just a touch tropical bitterness from the hops. It is a hazy Indian Pale Ale even my dad, a West Coast IPA loyalist, appreciates. Maybe appreciated slightly less when served in a disposable plastic cup for fifteen dollars a pint. Dos Equis cans were going for nearly the same price. Faced with no affordable option, we enjoyed our beers, appreciated the cupholders on the seats, and relished the view of the field right in front of us.
Really, RIGHT in front of us. Eleven rows up from the midfield. I could make out the details in the grass and read the players’ jerseys with ease.
The fans were loud, always passionate. The atmosphere felt real, even as the stadium was only just over half full. Dynamic pricing had kept away anyone who might have planned to travel into Glendale. Even though ticket prices dropped at the last minute, it was hard to believe I was at a Copa América quarterfinal.
I found myself impressed by the small clusters of Panama supporters among the scattered seas of yellow. Those seas of yellow, perhaps what made the match. Colombia fans in Glendale donned traditional hats and yellow jerseys, hearts on their sleeves. Thrilled to be there, happy to chat.
The couple in front of us struck up conversation once they realized that, despite our poor decision to leave the jerseys at home, we loved soccer , fútbol, Fußball,
We talked about drinks. We had beer. He had what looked like a pint of whiskey. I think he called it a quadruple shot. I don’t know… I don’t recommend it. It lasted him the whole game, and at least he didn’t have to finish it. All is fair where airport rules apply.
They asked us to take a photo for them and even worried their hats were blocking our view (they weren’t). We talked predictions. Colombia would win, obviously.
My dad predicted five goals for Colombia. They thought we were a bit crazy. It was a quarterfinal, after all, and Panama had played its way there. But when that fifth goal sank into the net, they turned and met our eyes.
South American fútbol has the flair, dazzle and heart born from barefoot dirt pitches.
I became a Luis Díaz fan right there, shouting
“GOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAL!”
at the top of my lungs after watching him take the ball, dribble through defenders, and score. It happened right in front of us. Even if he was playing for Liverpool at the time, I could feel why the “Vamos Colombia!” chants got louder when he walked onto the field.
The color, the noise, the joy, it is fútbol in full force. I loved that Colombia vs Panama match. It was one of the coolest experiences I’ve ever had… until I boarded a flight to Munich.
Bayern Munich from Block 221, Row 24
When the gates from the stadium bistro to the main corridor opened exactly at the promised time, it felt momentous. Okay, this isn’t Augsburg, there are no gladiator-style gates at the Allianz Arena. The link from the bistro to the corridor and stands had simply been an open door, guarded by a lone steward reminding people to wait until the designated time.
I returned my tray and plates from coffee and cake to the rack and stepped into the chaos of the main corridors. It was exhilarating a little overwhelming. We were being pushed in every direction by the crowd. My dad jostled too much to get anything better than this blurred photo. Bright-vested stewards stood at each entrance to the stands, ensuring fans entered only where their tickets designated.
My dad’s ticket was on my phone, and I was nervous that he just had a screenshot. So I showed both, blurting out accidentally, “I can’t believe I’m here.” Not an explanation for why I had my dad’s ticket, Just the truth that escaped me.
He smiled, turned, and reached one hand toward me, making it abundantly clear which way this nervous tourist should go.
We took the stairs, settling into our seats as the stands slowly filled up around us. The Südkurve already burst with energy. I recognized the package-specific scarves on the couple beside us and struck up a conversation with the girl next to me. I asked if she spoke English. She did, and I learned they were from the Netherlands. We had fun trying to decipher the Bayerische dialect in the sign below us. We think it means someone, at some point, was allowed back into the Südkurve.
My dad decided to brave the corridors in search of beer and my long-dreamed of Käsbrezn.
Apparently, every stand in sight had a line. A long line. My dad asked the steward if there was a best spot for beer. The steward kind of shrugged. All the stands around had an “endanger kick-off time” sort of line.
Nodding his thanks anyway, my dad pushed forward. Line or no line, he had a cheese pretzel and beer to find. He’d only taken a few steps when he was suddenly grabbed from behind. A friendly arm guides him in a near one-eighty turn.
Tucked beneath the stairs: no line, just Paulaner beer and pretzels waiting.
“That one,” the ticket-checking steward told him as he ushered him forward.
My dad returned victorious, grateful for the help, with special cups in hand. The reusable plastic cup he handed me, filled with Radler, commemorated Franz Beckenbauer. Who is a true football legend of Germany.
“Is there Pfand?” I asked.“Yes,” he said, waving his hand. “Just a few euros.”
I nodded, relieved. The Pfand meant I wouldn’t have to feel guilty every time I pulled the plastic cup from the cupboard when Bayern win… I mean, play. It’s hand-washed and put carefully back in place after every use
Our food and drink vouchers included with the package either didn’t count at the stand or we forgot to use them. It didn’t feel like a huge loss because the prices were fair. As if the stadium cared more about supplying beer, to rain down in the stands and pretzels to soak it up, than testing how much it could make fans pay.
Paulaner beer, one of the few true Bavarian lagers available in cans and sometimes cheaper than craft beer in the U.S., deserves its place as the beer served at Bayern games. Malty, light, refreshing. Simply one of Munich’s greats.
As for my Käsbrezn: delightful. Sorry again to the fans in front of me, those cheese crumbs really flew when I tried to bite into that chewy, flaky pretzel. And to the fans above me, I totally get it , those crumbs travel.
My dad disappeared later in the match. He claimed he’d gone to the bathroom, but he returned with a Wurst in a bun for me, and that beats even a true Chicago dog. Maybe things just taste better sitting above the Südkurve, in a stadium at capacity, where every seat is a good seat.
The stadium rumbled, a rolling blaze of red. No cupholders in close quarters, and no one seemed to mind. The fans below us in the standing zone had as much energy , maybe more, than the players on the field. A thumping chant carried through the match and never stopped.
Bayern in full force. We saw: The sweeper keeper himself, Manuel Neuer, catch a pass misplaced by the turf with a wink, a Harry Kane penalty, Musiala dribbling through defense and Davies running fast , really fast.
And then, in the most unbelievable way, Thomas Müller scored. He caught a high pass, trapped it, and shot it into the net right in front of the Südkurve.
“Tor!”
YabadabadOOO! Bayern’s playfully obnoxious goal anthem intro leading into the Can-Can blared from the speakers, but this was Thomas Müller. The crowd roared right over it.
Soft, astonished exclamations followed. My dad and I’s awed voices among them
“A Müller goal!” our reverent echo beneath the roar.
On Müller’s record-breaking appearance, no one knew it would be his last Bundesliga goal for Bayern Munich. Yet the entire stadium, even Freiburg’s fans, celebrated. Thomas Müller is FC Bayern.
He’d later climb into the stands, handing his shoes to someone in the Südkurve, Just another sharp reminder of why we traveled.
Fans, players, andFußball in full force.
The math might get fuzzy when ticket prices drop, or a match appears suddenly close enough to touch and an airline runs a promotion.
It doesn’t matter. My budget for the 2026 World Cup is already spent. Matches in Munich, in Cologne, and maybe Munich again.
Because the Bundesliga offers the beautiful game as it’s meant to be: stadiums at capacity, that Bavarian helping hand toward the nearest beer, and a Südkurve that feels as alive as the players on the pitch.
Bayern may feel like the heart of Bavaria, but Garmisch-Partenkirchen would like your attention. Before we head to Garmisch, we’ll have to pack next week for a rail expedition.
Block 222, just above the standing fan zone on match night. It’s the place I traveled to be. Where’s your spot? The one that pushed you into booking that first plane ticket? A tower in a castle? The edge of the Grand Canyon?
You know the one, the place that still acts as a compass.