Greek Soccer Monsters

First division Greek soccer or the 'Superleague' leaves much to be desired for a soccer enthusiast. It is a third-tier league in Europe where players who can't hack it elsewhere in Europe fizzle into ambiguity and 35-year old has-beens wind down their careers. Level of play is comparable to the MLS with more fouls, fights, and dramatics. Aris, one of Thessaloniki's professional teams, signed two American players -- Freddy Adu and Eddie Johnson -- in January so I've followed the league more closely and attended several matches in the past few months. Due to the low level of play on the field, Greeks have turned spectating into an extreme sport and the primary means of entertainment at games. Having attended professional and international soccer matches in nearly ten countries, I can unconditionally say that Greek fans are the most deranged.

To label Greek sports supporters as fanatics or hooligans would be a massive understatement. I put 'fanatic' into an online thesaurus in search of the correct term to describe them -- but zealot, extremist, militant, dogmatist, devotee, adherent, sectarian, bigot, partisan, radical, diehard, and maniac all come up short. Simply put, they are monsters. Thus I will henceforth refer to them using the synonyms for monsters. Some teams may have less-extreme savages, however the brutes of the two major clubs in Thessaloniki make the Green Street Hooligans (movie about a group of binge-drinking, trash-talking, brawl-seeking British soccer enthusiasts) look like girl scouts. Supporters of visiting teams are not allowed inside of stadiums because the atmosphere at 'matches' (perhaps better described as riots) are too barbarous.

Thessaloniki has three first division professional athletic clubs: PAOK, Aris (the Greek God of War), and Iraklis (Hercules). Each club has basketball and volleyball teams as well, but the soccer barbarians are the most outrageous. Of the three, PAOK and Aris are most noteworthy because they have larger followings of ogres (not the friendly kind like Shrek), they are bitter rivals, and I have attended 'matches' at both of their stadiums. I will focus on the PAOK monsters because I recently attended a match, but I'd like to make clear that Aris beasts are equally unruly in their own stadium.

As in any metropolis, Thessaloniki features copious amounts of graffiti; ninety percent of the graffiti relates to soccer. 'PAOK', 'ARIS', and profane attacks on the two teams are spray-painted on office buildings, schools, buses, churches, stores, baby strollers, bridges, historic monuments, and foreheads throughout town. Team allegiance seemingly trumps loyalty to God, country, and family in Greece.

My experience at a PAOK vs. Aris playoff match last week was surreal; I legitimately thought I was witnessing the apocalypse. PAOK hosted the match at the Toumba, their anything-goes home stadium. I attended the match with Becky, an American friend who had been to the Toumba once before. Apparently tickets were unnecessary because it's Greece and laws don't exist, so we approached the stadium about an hour before kick-off donning black shirts in a feeble attempt to blend in with the PAOK crazies.

As we neared the stadium, we waded through a sea of screaming, chanting, burping, eating, boozing PAOK thugs. Dozens of fires burned in dumpsters and random areas around the stadium. The sidewalk became a carpet of broken glass, and a haze of smoke engulfed us -- but not the typical cloud of cigarette smoke that cloaks the rest of Greece; this smoke was different. All of a sudden, my respiratory system was on fire. I started violently coughing due to inhalation of a mystery toxin. I looked at Becky as tears began to pour from both of our faces. Disoriented, we crouched and staggered blindly around the perimeter of the stadium. We both instinctively rubbed our eyes hoping to stop the burning until a deep voice bellowed from somewhere in the haze. "Don't rub. Don't touch your eyes. Don't put water. Never rub your eyes after tear gas. Only lemon juice can help." My mind raced. Is that you, Zeus? Tear gas? We just got tear gased?

We removed our hands from our faces and glanced up to see a mountain of a man among a group of hard-nosed, large, hairy Greek PAOKites. They sized us up, then the giant spoke again in English with a hint of a Greek accent, "Where are you from?" They know we're not from here. They don't like outsiders. We might die.

"Uh. We're Americans."

"Are you here alone?" The next question could easily be 'What do you want on your tombstone?' I would answer 'cheese and pepperoni' to honor the brilliant mid-90s ad campaign by the frozen pizza company, but I'd prefer to continue living.

"Um. Yep."

"Are you trying to go to the match?" Not if it in any way offends you, sir.

"Yes."

"Do you have tickets?"

"No."

He leans in and whispers to his cronies, then turns back to us.

"You're Americans, you came alone to the Toumba without tickets, and you want to go to the game?" Busted. Becky and I could only grin and shrug. Hearing him sum up our current situation made the idea sound much riskier and foolish than when I'd hatched the plan a few days prior. He continued, "You two are insane. You must be PAOK fans. You're coming in with us."

"Sweet. Game on."

And off we went into the notorious Gate 4, the fabled home of the wildest fans in Greece. We walked directly into the gate in a group of about thirty; nobody had tickets but the gate employee was apathetic and powerless against the mob. A massive bottleneck ensued in the stadium tunnel and we got pushed, humped, carried, and swept into the crowd. Our enormous escort led the way through the horde of demons directly to the epicenter of the chaos.

Glass bottles, fireworks, water bottles, streamers, burning flares, and nonstop profanity flew through the air toward the field. Aris shirts and flags burned everywhere. The only man I saw dressed in security garb waved his hands ecstatically to pump up the crowd rather than discipline anybody. When the Aris players ran to the tunnel after warming up, they were showered with debris from the stands. Not cool. When an Aris player went down injured during the game, the crowd emphatically heckled and jeered. Pathetic.

It was absolute bedlam. Everybody had blood-shot eyes: some from the tear gas, some from the joints that were circulating throughout the stands, some from both. During the match, I felt like Helen Keller at a rave. It was impossible to see anything because seemingly everyone lit flares so a thick cloud of yellow fumes enveloped the stands. Although it was a hot night, the majority of the demons sported black hooded sweatshirts to shield their heads from the flare sparks. Some radicals went shirtless to show off their PAOK tattoos (I saw about twenty PAOK tattoos in our immediate vicinity). It was impossible to hear anything because we were directly next to two maniacs pounding on bass drums, not to mention the 30,000 wailing lunatics surrounding us. It was impossible to smell anything because the tear gas was still percolating in my system.

PAOK won 2-0. After each goal, the number of flares multiplied and the already-booming stadium physically shook; it was electric.

I'm glad I had the experience, but I don't think I'll be returning to the Toumba any time soon. I have respect for their passion and spirit, however there comes a point when the line is crossed. The PAOK monsters probably crossed that original line decades ago and continue to plummet farther into the depths of anarchy; I will not be surprised if I hear that cannibalism emerges as a fad at future Superleague matches. Throwing objects onto the field and maliciously mocking injured players is simply inexcusable. It turns the game from a display of athletic ability and pride into savagery and sadism. I wonder what these monsters outside of the Toumba. Do they lead normal lives or simply inject steroids, organize covert spray-painting missions, and participate in political riots?