Gavan Casey Reports from Barcelona

TO STROLL THE streets of Barcelona a couple of hours before kick-off, one could be forgiven for believing this was just another unremarkable Monday evening.

On no discernible level does there exist a sense of anticipation for a World Cup knockout game between Spain and Portugal. This city spins on its own axis, and World Cup Fever tends to present itself only on days on which Mexico, Morocco, or one of the major South American countries are in action.

A contributing factor, certainly, is that over 40% of people in this region identify as either ‘Catalan only’ or ‘more Catalan than Spanish’. To watch Lamine Yamal — already a cultural colossus in his hometown — or the likes of Xavi and Carles Puyol before him thrive for the Spanish national team engenders in them a sentiment akin to that felt by Irish people watching Eoin Morgan star for England in cricket, albeit there is no direct Catalan translation for, ‘Sure look, fair play to him.’ Many of them would like to see Yamal, Pau Cabarsí, Pedri and Dani Olmo play well for a losing team on Monday night.

Around 42% of inhabitants, however, feel equally Catalan and Spanish, while the remainder of natives identify primarily as Spanish. This apparent apathy towards a World Cup last-16 tie against Spain’s Iberian neighbours, then, is broader than an issue of national identity. Indeed, it stretches beyond Catalonia and even the Basque region. The Galicia-based Irish writer, Brendan Boyle, noted ahead of Spain’s round-of-32 tie with Austria that he had strolled through A Coruña for half an hour before kick-off and counted only six Spain jerseys.

The Spanish, much like the broader population of Kerry, demand victory of their team as a default state but they don’t really bother their arse with the whole thing until they reach a final.

From this writer’s terrace in Barcelona, Spain’s goals against Austria evinced only a faintly detectable hum from neighbouring buildings. The streets afterwards teemed with more Spanish jerseys than would be typical, but passersby in red — or, more commonly, the fashion-neutral white away jersey — were invariably American tourists who hadn’t seen the game at all.

That said, young people of all persuasions still pack out pubs for a big game: around 90 minutes before Spain and Portugal kicked off, the countries’ respective fans kicked off in the massive sports hall, L’Ovella Negra, leading the bar security to segregate those in national colours and move all Portuguese supporters to the upper floor.

McCarthy’s bar on Via Laietana, meanwhile, was at near capacity long before the first whistle. The venerable Ken McCarthy, who opened his bar over two decades ago, reprised his occasional role as doorman, turning away countless disappointed locals, many of whom frequent Irish pubs for big games involving Barcelona or Spain. Shortly before kick-off, however, he opened the door to 12 or 13 huge physical specimens, a majority of them wearing Spanish jerseys; the Cork senior football team had wandered towards McCarthy’s on their end-of-season holiday following their defeat to Mayo at Croke Park last weekend.

Owner Ken, a silver-tongued Mayo native, expressed his sincere sympathies towards The Rebels, of course, as he closed the door behind captain Ian Maguire and his teammates before the scorned Spanish fans could scream injustice from outside.

In truth, the bar needed the Cork lads: not only did their occasional renditions of Shakira’s 2010 World Cup song, Waka Waka (This Time for Africa), inject a bit more life into the place, but they actually bought rounds of drinks; many local punters prefer to make their first pint stretch the full 90-plus minutes, much to the frustration of McCarthy and his peers in the city’s 30-odd Irish pubs.

A complication, too, has been the kick-off times in North America. As is heavily enforced by the ‘the Mossos’, or the regional Catalan police, bars in Barcelona are licenced to stay open only until 3am from Sunday to Thursday, and 3:30am on Fridays and Saturdays. As such, they lost out on the windfall that would have been Mexico-England, which kicked off at 3am on Monday local time. The city’s massive Mexican population, as well as its many English residents and tourists, were forced to book tickets for nightclubs to watch their countries’ all-time classic last-16 encounter. Meanwhile, hundreds of confounded Americans spilled onto the streets at half-time of Monday night’s defeat to Belgium, left to seek streams on their phones or, perhaps more wisely, move on with their lives altogether.

Spain’s late victory over Portugal was hardly a stirring endorsement for their World Cup credentials and, while Mikel Merino’s goal was celebrated fervently, the reaction to the full-time whistle in McCarthy’s was subdued — at least until a group down the back of the bar began to chant, ‘CR7, where are you?’ in their native tongue.

Outside on Via Laietana, Monday night continued as it would in January or March or whenever, the scenes conspicuous in their absence.

Ahead of Spain’s Euro 2024 final against England, the local council put together a fan-zone on Plaça de Catalunya, a five-hectare square in the city centre. It was duly rammed, but it’s said that the subsequent celebrations paled in comparison to those by the tens of thousands of Argentinians who rejoiced at the Arc de Triomf following their nation’s 2022 World Cup success.

Throughout this tournament, Barcelona has often felt more like Buenos Aires or Mexico City or Rabat than it has a ‘Spanish’ city, and this flexibility is one of its great charms: the supposed anti-tourism sentiment here is greatly sensationalised, manifesting itself only in small, infrequent protests and crude graffiti. The city at large embraces its internationality to the point that passing-by supporters of all teams are routinely congratulated or consoled by natives.

But a Spain fixture has yet to feel like an event here, and a quarter-final against Belgium — albeit rejuvenated by their spite-infused destruction of co-hosts USA on Monday night — is unlikely to cause disturbance to anybody’s Friday night.

A semi-final against France next week would perhaps stir something in those who consider themselves Spanish, if only to prevent their city from becoming Paris for a night.