I’ve always been an obsessive note-taker. From scribbling in the margins of school notebooks to jotting down quick reminders on my hands, I capture words that resonate with me. A former boss of mine, notorious for his bad leadership and worse decision-making, was oddly a master of quirky observations. His insights weren’t academic, but often unforgettable, like this one about Boris Johnson during his term as the bumbling British Prime Minister: “If you’re beyond parody, you’re safe.” The phrase stuck with me. It’s the kind of expression that lingers in your mind, even shaping the way you see the world.
For me, it has an unexpected application in football, a sport I love passionately. The idea that something can transcend its normal confines rings true when you think of what lies beyond the pitch. In modern football, players, coaches, and even stadiums seem as replaceable as the latest smartphone. Sponsors and team badges evolve at such a rapid pace that keeping up almost feels futile. But one thing remains constant and unshakeable: the culture of the fans.
Fan culture, especially in a place like Caracas, Venezuela, is something eternal. It’s the heartbeat of the game, passed down through generations, steeped in memory, and lived out in every matchday experience. Unlike the fleeting moments on the pitch, the stories and experiences of fans become woven into the fabric of the club, immortalized through word of mouth, beer-fueled conversations, and shared memories. That’s the essence of football: community, connection, and culture.
A Gringo in Caracas
Although I’m a lifelong Saints fan, it’s Caracas Fútbol Club that holds a special place in my heart now. After moving to Venezuela three years ago, I’ve become deeply entrenched in its fan culture. To be clear, I’m not just a casual “fan”—I’m a supporter. There’s a difference, and it’s one that matters. Caracas, despite being one of the capital’s four top-flight teams, is the only club with a truly passionate fan base, a barra—Los Demonios Rojos—that rivals any ultras group in Europe. It’s that sense of dedication, not just to the sport but to the community, that drew me in.
Make no mistake, Caracas hasn’t been a beacon of football excellence lately. The club has struggled, sitting at the bottom of the league and on an embarrassing winless streak. But if you’re going to the games just for the football, you’re missing the point. The stadium isn’t where I go to witness greatness on the field—it’s where I connect with my community, with the city I now call home, and where I introduce my daughters to a sport that has meaning far beyond goals and victories.
The Heart of the Barra
There’s something unique about Caracas’ supporters. Los Demonios Rojos aren’t just about chanting for 90 minutes or stealing the opposition’s flags on away days, although they do that too. They embody what it means to be a community. These are people who fundraise for one another, offer support in tough times, and engage in the local neighborhoods—visiting old folks’ homes or helping small businesses survive. This spirit, to me, represents the soul of football, a stark contrast to the sterile, commercialized versions I’d seen develop in England.
Take a typical matchday. If I’m not bringing my wife and kids along—an increasingly rare event given their growing love for the spectacle—I might arrive early, sipping cheap beer in the UNESCO-protected plaza between the football and baseball stadiums. I’ll chat with Fagundez, a regular fixture, or sit down with Jorge and Giorgina, two figures who have deep ties to Caracas’ footballing history. Giorgina, for example, once dated Venezuelan football star Salomon Rondon, and together with her partner, Canario, they run an iced tea stall near the stadium entrance.
These personal connections make the matchday experience unique. Even when I’m not in the mood for football, I’ll meet people who bring the energy, the stories, and the history that keep me coming back.
Matchday Rituals and Family Traditions
Matchdays are steeped in ritual. Arriving too late to join the barra’s walk-in—where drummers and trumpeters ramp up the atmosphere outside the South Stand before leading the fans inside—would be an unforgivable oversight. Standing shoulder to shoulder with the likes of Moises (whom I once had a misunderstanding with but now consider a friend) and Cholo, one of the barra’s unofficial leaders, feels like part of something bigger than a game. It’s a community in motion.
One of my favorite parts of this matchday culture is how family-friendly it is. My daughters, still young, have already made friends in the stands, often drumming along with Bob, one of the barra’s key percussionists who wears a Spider-Man mask to the delight of the children. Venezuelan football is deeply family-oriented, with young dads like Armando regularly bringing their kids to games, not out of necessity, but because it’s simply what you do. Football here isn’t just for the boys—it’s for everyone.
Even outside the stadium, the connections run deep. I’ve been invited to Monday night football games with the barra, ticking off a personal dream of playing on Caracas Fútbol Club’s training ground. This sense of inclusion, of belonging to a family within the wider fanbase, is something I’ve never experienced in quite the same way in other football cultures.
A Community That Endures
It’s a good thing I don’t go to the stadium for the football, because Caracas has been terrible this season. But that doesn’t matter. The game itself is just a backdrop to the friendships, the shared moments, and the deeply ingrained sense of community that football fosters here. Caracas might lose match after match, but the fans? The fans are timeless. And as long as they’re there, cheering, drumming, and keeping the spirit alive, football will continue to be about so much more than just what happens on the pitch.
In the end, that’s why I keep coming back. Not for the wins (or lack thereof), but for the people—the faces I’ve come to recognize, the stories I’ve become part of, and the community that’s embraced me as one of their own. Football in Caracas is more than a sport. It’s life, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
4o
