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In-depth conversations with the voices shaping culture, calcio, and society. Explore unique perspectives, personal stories, and inspiring journeys from around the world.
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Words and Images: tonpotdemoutarde
In Saint-Étienne, football is rarely a solitary love. It is handed down.
For photographer tonpotdemoutarde, supporting AS Saint-Étienne was never a decision to be made — it was part of the fabric of family life. His grandfather stood on the terraces. His father followed. At six years old, he was taken to the stadium for the first time, walking into what locals don’t simply call a ground, but Le Chaudron, the cauldron.
My grandfather was a fan, my father was a fan, and he took me to the stadium when I was six years old. It was only natural for me to support Saint-Étienne. I lived in an apartment where you could hear the chants on matchdays. Every time, it amazed me. I didn’t care about the results — I just wanted to see Les Verts.
More than just a stadium, it’s Le Chaudron. You have to come and hear the two ends singing, to feel the fervour, to feel a city in unison — to truly feel a wave pushing the players from start to finish.
One of my favourite memories is ASSE vs Châteauroux in 2004. If we won, we would be Division 2 champions. The stadium was full, with a tifo stretching across the entire ground. We won thanks to a goal from Bridonneau, a defender, who scored with a scissor kick right at the end of the match. I have never heard such a deafening noise in a stadium.
I would also mention the first European matches I attended, the 100th derby victory in Lyon, and the last promotion back to Ligue 1. But more than anything, the matches spent with friends remain my greatest memories.
What makes the club special is that, despite the passing years and the results, the passion has never changed. The loyalty remains. Personally, I haven’t seen many trophies or European nights, and yet the passion is still intact.
It is also a club people can identify with — a club that has remained popular and proud of its city’s past.
And in Sainté, no one cares where you come from, how much you earn, or who you are. If you’re a fan, you’re family.
Words and Images: tonpotdemoutarde
For Kate Carter-Larg, the Cheesy Toast Shack is a story of love, risk, hustling, triumph, tribulations, early mornings and late nights. It represents a dream that was worth putting everything on the line for. “We’d put all our savings into it, so failing was not an option,” Kate explains. “We hustled, we worked every day, we went to every event that was viable for us. We didn’t take on any staff until we were a few years in, we posted on social media every day, multiple times a day, and we shouted about our business and made people listen.”
Born in Dorset, in the South of England, the adventure of a lifetime would begin for Kate when she found herself travelling to Bali, in South East Asia. It was there she would meet Sam, her future husband and business partner.
“After a fleeting holiday romance, where we never thought we’d see each other again, he followed me down to Brighton (where I was living at the time). He decided he couldn’t live down there (distinct lack of surf) so got me to visit him in Scotland. I fell in love with it straight away, and pretty much decided to just not leave.
We had another year of travelling around a bit, including heading back to Bali to spend a few months of more beaches and surfing, before heading back to Scotland together with the idea of starting our own business.”
With only a small amount of savings between them, they knew that any kind of fixed cafe would be out of the question. “It just seemed so obvious, everyone loves a toastie, but not some dry, thin crappy Costa-style one. Instead, we wanted to do big, filthy, oozing with cheese-level toasties, with fillings that you don’t get just anywhere.”
With that idea, the wheels were set in motion. Scared, but with an unrelenting desire and determination to succeed, Kate and Sam put their life savings into everything and set off in search of their dream.
That dream would become a reality and take them all across the UK, to events, festivals and Glastonbury. They would be crowned Street Vendor of the Year, and earn the accolade of Scottish Street
Finalist. They would establish two sites, receiving visitors from all over the globe and go viral across social media. Renowned food critic, Jay Rayner, would give his seal of approval. Celebrities would come far and wide to taste their manchego with chorizo, red pepper and jalapeno chutney, or delight in their New Yorker made with sliced Swiss, pastrami, American mustard and sauerkraut. It would become a place that is now part of the family, with Kate, Sam and their two wonderful children.
It is a story that not even in her wildest of dreams could she have imagined. But it all happened. It really did. And it was a pleasure to sit down with Kate and talk about the journey she’s been on, her biggest challenges, being her own biggest critic and her proudest achievements.
We knew we wanted to be self-employed…we understood it’d be high risk and high stress, but we wanted to have a lifestyle where we could spend time together, and not have to answer to anyone else (we’ve always been quite headstrong and neither of us like being told what to do by someone else!)
We only had a small amount of savings between us, so we knew any kind of fixed cafe etc would be out of the question, so that immediately put us in the market for a food trailer. We just jumped on Gumtree and found a practically new trailer near Glasgow. A guy had bought it and then decided to not bother pursuing his burger van career, so we grabbed it and towed it back over to Fife.
We’d been looking at what was available street food-wise in Scotland, and the scene was starting to blow up. So many great options and traders, but no cheese toasties! It just seemed so obvious, everyone loves a toastie, but not some dry, thin crappy Costa-style one. Instead, we wanted to do big, filthy, oozing with cheese-level toasties, with fillings that you don’t get just anywhere.
Sam and I worked on the trailer, whilst getting everything else set up, and within a couple of months, we were good to go. We secured a pitch at a local beach and then would tow the trailer to events all over Scotland in between working Kingsbarns beach, to get the word out there about our brand and our business.
This did us wonders, as within our first year of trading we managed to secure a pitch at The Edinburgh Fringe Festival, where we got named the Best Place To Eat at The Fringe by The Scotsman newspaper.
Off the back of the popularity we experienced from being at such a huge event, we were in a position to apply for a pitch at the next Glastonbury Festival in Somerset. After doing this, our following took a massive jump, and we found we had people reaching out to us from all over the UK, saying they’d tried us and couldn’t stop thinking about our toasties.
During this time we were also doing every other event: street food markets, food competitions, music festivals, weddings….anything we could get our hands on. This eventually led to us then being offered the lease on our now main hub, in St Andrews. So at this point, we had our Kingsbarns pitch, our St Andrews kiosk, as well as multiple street food setups, allowing us to have 5 pitches across the Edinburgh Fringe Festival for the years running up to Covid, making us the biggest independent traders across the city for the Fringe.
Covid was a huge challenge at first. There were grants for some hospitality businesses, however, because we sublet our kiosk we didn’t pay rates, and we weren’t entitled to the first few rounds of grants. So trying to keep our heads above water really was a challenge, bearing in mind we had staff to think about, and at that stage, a 1 year old as well.
As initial lockdown measures eased, we were able to open up shop again, and thankfully, the rules dictated by the Scottish Government just so happened to mean we didn’t need to change much about our operational setup. We were always a takeout unit, from a hatch. We just needed to work with fewer staff on shift at once to keep numbers down, but it was good for us that people were allowed to go for a walk and meet a friend outdoors, as that matched the description of what people did anyway when they’d come to one of our beaches.
It did, however, have a massive impact on the events industry, meaning it was the first time since we started that we weren’t doing any street food at all, or weddings. This obviously meant the income of the business took a massive hit, which was certainly a negative. However, in hindsight, it made us re-evaluate how lucky we were to still have the pitches we were able to trade from.
When the grants that we did qualify for eventually came out, we used that money to invest in the business, by upgrading our equipment. We bought a decent coffee machine, a soft-serve ice cream machine, and high-quality grills. We felt if we could get our products out at a much faster speed and even better quality, then we were utilising what we could, given the restrictions put upon us by the pandemic. And just to make things that little bit extra stressful, we decided it was a good time to have our second baby.
Our biggest achievement would have to be the Glastonbury Festival. We loaded up our campervan and towed our trailer all the way from Scotland. We were located at Worthy View which is the “posh” campsite at the top of the farm, with the pre-erected tents (not that we were allowed to stay in those).
We were only allowed the bare minimum of staff passes (the cost of a ticket per staff member is factored into your pitch fee so we couldn’t afford many). We got a few friends to come down with us to work, thinking we’d get to spend a decent chunk of the festival watching music and enjoying the festival…how wrong we were! We were mobbed from the minute we opened the hatch in the morning, doing breakfast toasties to the hungover masses, all the way through the day, with a small window where it quietened off when the headlining acts were on, and then went crazy busy again through to the early hours. We came back to Scotland exhausted but with an amazing feeling of pride and achievement.
Another of those pinch-me moments was when Jay Rayner, the famous food critic who writes for The Guardian / The Observer, came to visit us. He left a glowing review and then featured us in the Guardian’s best-value places to eat around the coast of the
Abi, who’s our manager at the St Andrews shop actually asked me the other day if I ever think how wild it is that people drive so far to come to our shack and hold it in such high regard. And that this is all for something that we have created. It really made me stop and think how cool that is. We’re so well received, and people really do make huge trips just to come and try our food. It’s very humbling, although I do still find myself being my biggest critic. If I know a famous person is coming down, I panic, and worry that they’ll just think “What’s all the fuss about?” However, that has not actually happened yet!
We love how, generally, everything is received really well on social media. We know we post a lot, but it’s paid off. Every single day we get at least one customer coming down to the hatch, to say they’ve come because they’ve seen our silly/cheesy videos online and it’s made them want to visit. We get the occasional troll which always blows my mind, but I just need to remind myself that our socials are free marketing, and it’s obviously working, because we get customers and followers from all over the world. Just this week alone, I’ve posted t-shirts and hoodies to New York, and Philadelphia
Our followers and likes have taken a huge surge in the last year since we’ve really picked up our efforts online. We find now that simply posting a photo of a toastie doesn’t get the same levels of interaction as when we post videos, so it’s just about continuing to follow trends and posting videos, and just trying to make our page something a bit silly and fun.
I would advise anyone looking to set up their own business, to just go for it. We always get people asking us “Weren’t we scared it wouldn’t work?” Of course we were, we’d put all our savings into it, so failing was not an option.
We hustled, we worked every day, we went to every event that was viable for us. We didn’t take on any staff until we were a few years in, we posted every day, multiple times a day, and we shouted about our business and made people listen.
I honestly don’t know if I’d have it in me now to hustle as hard as we did back at the beginning, but I’ve also got 2 small children now who I love spending time with, so I couldn’t be towing trailers back from Edinburgh at 1 am, as I love that I can be present for them and be the one that does every bedtime and that I get to see them every morning.
If I’m not working, I try to start the day off by getting to the gym. A couple of years ago, after having my youngest daughter, I got into CrossFit, which I just fell in love with. I’m still not very good at it but it helps my headspace as well as my physical fitness.
Sam and I try and get out for a walk together; our favourite place being Tensmuir Forest, where we love to stop for a crepe from Salt and Pine. We may have to answer a few emails/go and film some videos for the pages, and before we know it 3 o’clock rolls around and it’s time to grab our girls from school/playgroup
If they’ve not got after-school clubs then they may ask us to take them to the skatepark to practice their skateboarding. If it’s not a school day then we try and get them for a surf at West Sands (if there is any) followed by live music at Dook and a few Aperol Spritz’ for us. Whatever we do, it’s hugely family-oriented. With 7 cousins living close by, and 3 sets of aunties and uncles, as well as Sam’s parents, we’re invariably hanging out with other Largs.
Every Christmas we have raclette on the menu, which is raclette cheese, served over garlic potatoes with charcuterie meats and dressed salad. You basically scrape the melted cheese over the potatoes, and it’s just amazing. It’s such a treat, and can’t help but make you feel festive.
For the year ahead, we want to keep concentrating on giving the best possible products to our customers. We feel that we’re on a really positive trajectory at the moment. Our team’s collective hard work is getting more and more recognised, with a greater following online and more customers coming to the shops. We want to concentrate on keeping this at a high level, and who knows, if the market is right, maybe even opening up some more locations.
With all our thanks to Kate Carter-Larg
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All words and images by Guirec Munier
Guirec Munier made his way to Tynecastle Stadium, home of Heart of Midlothian, to witness a club who are in the midst of a dreamlike campaign, which could see them break the Old Firm monopoloy which has existed in Scotland for over 40 years.
Usually, we don’t choose our family — but we do choose our friends. In the case of Hearts, the two are one: inseparable, intertwined, beating with the same pulse beneath maroon scarves and winter skies.
As I stepped off Lothian Bus number 25 and walked up Gorgie Road towards Tynecastle Park, something unspeakable — almost unfathomable — hung in the air, as though the bricks themselves carried memory. A quiet sense of fraternity was palpable — not loud or ostentatious, but steady and enveloping, like a familiar embrace. The warmth of the Scottish people isn’t an empty phrase or a tired cliché for visitors; it reveals itself in passing words and knowing smiles — and goes beyond politeness to become something closer to communion.
To be honest, I hadn’t done my homework before heading to Hearts v Livingston. I had no idea that Heart of Midlothian is the largest fan-owned club in the UK. The atmosphere around the stadium suddenly made perfect sense, as if the stands themselves were breathing with collective ownership and pride. Hearts is a family affair — not metaphorically, but structurally, spiritually, almost genetically. And family is sacred.
Transgenerational, and with a strong feminine presence, the crowd of the Gorgie Boys resembles a photograph taken at a family reunion — slightly chaotic, deeply affectionate, wonderfully ordinary. Men, women, and children gather not merely to watch a match, but to share a slice of life, to pass down traditions, to stitch memory into the fabric of a Saturday afternoon.
All words and images by Guirec Munier
All words and images by Guirec Munier
First Sight
Standing on the footbridge spanning the railway line that separates Harrington Street from Cleethorpes Beach, my gaze falls upon a stadium nestled in a sea of terraced houses.
Love at first sight.
The exact representation of what a stadium is — or should be. A ground deeply rooted in its community, one that hasn’t sacrificed its soul on the altar of prosperity.
Blundell Park.
Grey Skies, Haddock and Anticipation
In the windswept streets of Cleethorpes, the colour of the sky seems to have rubbed off on everyday life. Grey. On this day, only Grimsby Town appear capable of brightening reality.
As the minutes tick by, Mariners supporters converge on McDonald’s on Grimsby Road and the local chippy, The Gr8 White Fish. Cleethorpes obliges: haddock and chips are on the menu.
Sated — my thumb and forefinger still greasy — I take Blundell Avenue back towards Harrington Street. There, Bradford City fans disembark from coaches specially chartered for the match and head towards the second impasse leading to the away section. In front of the wooden façade of the Main Stand, sandwiched between back gardens, four turnstiles reserved for Bantams supporters sit beneath coils of barbed wire.
From the outside, Blundell Park seems frozen in the pre-Hillsborough 1980s. From the inside as well.
An architectural gem to be preserved for some; the ugliest stadium in Britain for others. Blundell Park divides opinion.
“The Ugliest Stadium in the World”?
How can a stadium arouse such contrasting feelings?
In 2016, talkSPORT put the cat among the pigeons when it published a ranking of the worst and ugliest football stadiums in the world. Blundell Park placed a dismal second.
According to GiveMeSport, with stands of completely different sizes and lengths, the ground looks skewed and poorly conceived. In desperate need of refurbishment, with parts appearing to crumble, it is deemed unattractive and unfit for modern football. Considering it opened in 1899, they argue, it is remarkable that it is still standing.
In short, talkSPORT and GiveMeSport advocate standardisation and endorse the quiet sterility of modern football.
Character Over Comfort
Standardisation and sterility? Nothing of the sort.
Mighty Mariner, Grimsby Town’s mascot, greets me with open arms. The Main Stand — a vestige of football’s early days and the oldest stand in the English Football League — brims with character. Admittedly, the view is restricted by timber framing and wooden pillars, but what pleasure there is in sitting on a folding wooden seat on a cool spring afternoon.
To the left stands the Osmond Stand, financed by proceeds from the 1939 FA Cup semi-final at Old Trafford — an attendance record that still stands. Its L-shape, formed at the junction with the Main Stand, reflects periods of sporting success: promotions to the First Division in 1902 and 1929, and that famous 1939 cup run.
To the right, the Pontoon Stand was also built with funds raised by Grimsby Town supporters. The Findus Stand, financed by the frozen food brand that sponsored the club between 1979 and 1984 and served as a major local employer, offers a panoramic view of the Humber Estuary, where trawlers once returned laden with cod, pollock and haddock.
Even the floodlights tell a story. Standing 128 feet tall, these second-hand pylons illuminated Wolves’ first floodlit match at Molineux in 1953.
“It was the floodlights that made football magical for me — it turned football into theatre,” recalled a seven-year-old boy who attended that evening. His name was George Best.
Every element of Blundell Park carries its own narrative. Together, they crystallise the essence of the town.
A Town and Its Image
The town of Grimsby — and the bleak image that clings to it — mirrors the trajectory of its storied stadium.
The former largest fishing port in the world has indeed endured economic decline. But should we draw a line through its past to improve its present and future?
Like talkSPORT, one could imagine a tabloid peremptorily declaring that Grimsby is unfit for the modern world, that its horizons would be clearer after the arrival of bulldozers, or that Parliament should consider re-enacting the New Poor Law of 1834 for this corner of Lincolnshire.
But progress without memory is amnesia.
What Is Profit Worth?
If Grimsby Town ever decide to turn its back on more than 125 years of history by building a stadium resembling a shopping centre, the soul of the local community will have been traded for a vast car park, an unobstructed view, and shorter queues for overpriced pints.
It is not all profit, for fuck’s sake.
Blundell Park opened in the same week in September 1899 as White Hart Lane, Highfield Road, Hillsborough and Fratton Park.
Will it share the fate of the first two?
All words and images by Guirec Munier
All words and images: Luca Miscioscia
Luca arrived in Florence for the Fiorentina–Pisa derby, but not for the match alone.
He came to walk the streets of the Renaissance, to sit at a traditional Florentine table, and to feel how a city of art responds when football becomes urgent. Because in Tuscany, rivalries stretch beyond ninety minutes, they are written into bread without salt, into civic pride, into history itself.
This is his experience of Florence: the food, the view, and a derby decided by fine margins.
We’re in Tuscany, central Italy, in the legendary city of Florence, cradle of the Renaissance, a city of art and history that welcomes millions of visitors from all over the world each year.
The Ponte Vecchio stretches across the Arno like a symbol of permanence. The Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore dominates the skyline. The Uffizi Gallery holds centuries of artistic genius. These are just some of the treasures you find here.
From Piazzale Michelangelo, in the upper part of the city, Florence opens up completely. You can admire it in full — rooftops, domes, towers, and the Arno River dividing the city into two. It’s a view that reminds you how much history lives within these streets.
But Florence is not only art and architecture.
It’s also food.
At the Table
I visited Trattoria Da Mario, a traditional Florentine restaurant where the atmosphere feels unchanged by time.
I started with ribollita.
Florentine ribollita is a rustic dish of peasant origin — a “lean soup” made with vegetables, legumes, and stale bread. It comes from a tradition of wasting nothing, especially bread. Originally, peasant women prepared large quantities of vegetable and bean soup, often on Fridays, the traditional day of fasting. The following day, the leftovers were “reboiled” in a pot with a drizzle of olive oil — hence the name ribollita.
Even the bread tells a story. Stale bread, known as pane sciocco, became popular in Florence when Pisa held a monopoly on salt. In response, Florentines began making unsalted bread — still called “sciocco” or “raffermo” today.
Even in cuisine, the Florence–Pisa rivalry runs deep.
Next came the rib-eye steak — locally called ciccia. Rare and delicious, just as it’s prepared in Florence. Paired with baked potatoes and a glass of red wine, it was simple, direct, and deeply satisfying.
To finish, I had a typical Florentine dessert: cantucci col Vin Santo, dry almond biscuits dipped into Vin Santo, the Tuscan dessert wine made from carefully selected grapes. It’s not just dessert; it’s ritual.
Before leaving, I stepped into the kitchen to watch the chefs at work. A memorable moment in a traditional restaurant where the air carries the scent of history and regional identity.
If you’re passing through Florence, this is a place worth seeking out.
The Derby
And then, football.
Not just any match — Fiorentina–Pisa. A true Tuscan derby between two historic cities.
This season, Fiorentina has struggled and sits in the relegation zone, as does Pisa, who returned to the top flight after 34 years away. The stakes felt heavy before kickoff.
I was seated in the Maratona stand, opposite the press box. Due to maintenance work, the Curva Fiesole has temporarily relocated to the Curva Ferrovia, but the intensity has not diminished.
For this match, maximum support was required — and the fans delivered, pushing the team forward without pause.
Fiorentina won 1–0.
It wasn’t just three points. It was a derby victory. A step toward survival. In Florence, the idea of relegation to Serie B is not something anyone wants to contemplate.
The opening choreography, with red and white flags — the historic colours of Florence — was striking. Simple, powerful, popular. Working-class in spirit.
The visiting ultras were absent due to the limited away allocation of 300 tickets and the requirement of a fan card — a system the Pisa ultras have consistently opposed.
Florence offers beauty, history, and culinary tradition in abundance. The city is well connected by train to other destinations such as Bologna, making it easy to explore the wider region.
But if you want to understand Florence beyond the postcards, combine the art and the food with a match at the Artemio Franchi.
In Tuscany, culture and football are never separate. They live side by side — in the streets, at the table, and in the stands.
All words and images: Luca Miscioscia
Words and Images: Joey Corlett
From Middle of the Road to Champions
Watching on from Europe in May 2025, as Club Atlético Platense finished sixth in Group B of the Apertura season, it wouldn’t have been shocking to miss the news in Argentina — let alone anywhere else in the world.
They ended the group stage with a record of six wins, five draws and five losses — about as middle of the road as you can get — yet into the knockout rounds they went all the same. By finishing lower in the table, they were burdened with the pressure of playing away from home, without the support of their fans in the stands.
Despite that disadvantage, they produced a remarkable run, defeating three of Los Cinco Grandes — Racing Club, River Plate and San Lorenzo — all in their own backyards, to set up a historic opportunity: their first-ever Primera División title.
They headed north to the province of Santiago del Estero for the showpiece final against Huracán. In a nail-biting contest, they snatched a 1–0 victory to become Apertura champions.
A Decade of Transformation
Just ten years earlier, Platense had been battling in the metropolitan third tier of Argentine football and only returned to the top division in 2021.
Seeing them put together such a grand run and celebrate with an open-top bus parade through their barrio felt incredibly heartwarming in this era of predictable winners and expectation-driven modern football.
However, fast forward a few months, and I arrived in Buenos Aires. Their title-winning managerial duo had left the club, and they sat bottom of Group B in the Clausura campaign with just two wins in fifteen games.
With the league phase of the Clausura coming to an end — and hopes of reaching the knockouts long gone — I made it a priority to visit the Estadio Ciudad de Vicente López.
One Last Chance
The fixture list offered one final opportunity: the closing match of their dismal run, with Gimnasia de La Plata visiting. Gimnasia themselves weren’t certain of a knockout place, with five teams separated by just three points.
Linking up with Amos Murphy, we hopped into a taxi and headed north. Platense’s home ground is located in the neighbourhood of Florida, right on the northern border where the capital ends and the greater Buenos Aires province begins. Situated alongside one of the main motorways out of the city, we arrived quickly.
A Quieter Corner of Buenos Aires
It was immediately noticeable that this was a quieter, more residential part of town.
Wandering towards the ground, there was a calm atmosphere as we searched for refreshments. We stumbled upon a large group of fans preparing for the evening — trumpets in hand, drums resting at their feet. They were curious about where we were from, made sure we were okay getting tickets and warmly welcomed us. A brief but lovely encounter.
We grabbed refreshments from a corner shop called The Martini’s, draped in brown and white flags. With a busy grill out front and fans snacking on choripán, it did the job perfectly for us. Two cans of Schneider before kick-off.
Welcome to the Home of the Champions
Following the waves of fans over the bridge, we could hear the barra brava already in position. The beautiful musical noise spilled back out of the stadium — the perfect appetiser.
We collected our tickets from a classic little window in the wall, handing over pesos for two paper stubs slid back to us. A small ritual you don’t experience much anymore.
Passing through police and ID checks, the man tearing tickets smiled:
“Where are you guys from?”
When we answered, he ripped the tops of our tickets and simply said:
“Welcome.”
Two gringos were welcome in Platense.
Underneath the popular terrace, we looked out over the green turf. The advertising boards and scoreboard both displayed the message:
“Bienvenidos a la Casa del Campeón.”
(Welcome to the Home of the Champions.)
After a few rounds of chants, we tuned in more closely to the barra brava.
“Are they singing about calamari?”
Yes. Yes, they were.
El Calamar
Platense picked up their nickname back in 1908. Their pitch at the time was close to a river and prone to flooding. Uruguayan journalist Antonio Palacio Zino wrote that the team played its best matches on muddy fields:
“Are they going to play against Platense? In the rain and mud? Then we already know who will win! Platense, in the mud, are like squid in their ink!”
And so, they became El Calamar.
Sunset and Defeat
Despite relentless effort on the terraces — one fan in front of us spent the entire match perched atop the crush barrier, seemingly with calf muscles of steel — the match itself didn’t live up to its side of the bargain.
Both sides struggled for control, but Gimnasia capitalised on Platense’s mistakes. The home goalkeeper failed to claim a simple cross, and Manuel Panaro nodded home after just 20 minutes, setting the tone.
We were treated to one of the best sunsets of my month in the Argentine capital — a stunning backdrop in stark contrast to the lack of quality on the pitch.
The visitors added two more without reply.
As the third went in, right in front of us, one Platense fan turned, wincing, head in his hands:
“This team is horrible.”
Yet when the final whistle blew, contradictions defined the night. That same fan was singing his team off as:
“¡Campeón!”
From the Neighbourhood to the Continent
We watched as banners were taken down — perhaps for the last time as reigning champions — before heading out to finish the night with cervezas and milanesas in a local spot. The perfect way to round off a Monday night in Buenos Aires.
Thanks to their Apertura heroics, El Calamar will play Copa Libertadores football, with “Del Barrio al Continente” (From the Neighbourhood to the Continent) currently emblazoned across the stadium.
After a disastrous Clausura campaign, a fascinating South American adventure awaits.
For one final match, Platense were champions — and they took every second of that last opportunity to celebrate it.
If you get the chance, head north and experience this authentic slice of Buenos Aires football.
Words and Images: Joey Corlett
Words and images: Markus Blumenfeld
For Markus Blumenfeld, football is more than a spectacle; it is a shared language spoken across continents. As the creator of The Global Game, a docu-series dedicated to capturing the stories, fans, and fleeting moments that make football special, Blumenfeld uses the sport as a lens through which to understand the world. His work explores the idea that football is an unspoken dialect, one capable of connecting people across borders, backgrounds, and belief systems. A uniting force in a divided world.
In Brazil, that language takes on its purest form.
From the concrete pitches of Rocinha to the thunder of the Maracanã, from São Paulo’s Várzea grounds to the red earth of Vila dos Sonhos in Minas Gerais, Blumenfeld traces football not as entertainment, but as inheritance — Patrimônio Brasileiro. Here, the game is survival and celebration, escape and expression. It is passed from father to son in the favelas, sung into the night by thousands in the stadiums, and defended fiercely by those who believe in the enduring spirit of Joga Bonito.
Through personal encounters — with young dreamers, devoted ultras, and barefoot street players — Blumenfeld reveals a country where football does not simply reflect culture; it shapes it. In Brazil, the beautiful game is not just played. It is lived.
Every generation has a Brazilian legend who made them fall in love with football. Before my time, it was Pelé. For me, it was Ronaldinho. Next came Neymar. The way they play — with flair, improvisation, and joy — turns football into a love story. Football is the “Brazilian heritage” (Patrimônio Brasileiro).
Brazil had always been a dream of mine — a football pilgrimage to the birthplace of Joga Bonito. I started my journey in Rio to experience the different layers of that history. In Rio, life and football bleed into each other. You feel it in Rocinha, the largest favela in Latin America. I went there to understand what the game means to people in these communities, and it was through personal stories that it began to make sense.
Through the eyes of Vitinho, a young father, football becomes the ultimate connector — a passion he is already passing on to his son. For him, the game represents freedom, community, expression, and opportunity.
He told me:
“The difference with football here in the favelas is that children need to have a dream to survive. And of course, the dream of every kid in the favela is to one day be a great player, to have the opportunity to improve life for your family. This is the Brazilian heritage, the culture of dreaming, to live with hope.”
Following Vitinho and his son gave a voice to Rocinha. We climbed narrow alleys and steep staircases to a concrete pitch hanging over the city. There, I played barefoot, witnessing a level of joy and intensity I had never seen before. Football here is both escape and pathway — a way out of poverty and violence in a place where there are so few other routes.
But the game does not live only in the favelas. It is the heartbeat of the carioca lifestyle, and in the stadiums, it feels unlike anywhere else. Outside, a sea of people — drinking, grilling meat, singing for hours before kick-off. On this trip, I saw SPFC, Santos, Corinthians, Fluminense, Botafogo, Vasco, and Flamengo. The Maracanã shook as Flamengo won, the whole of Rio spilling into the night. I experienced Corinthians’ infamous Gaviões da Fiel, one of the most intense and intimidating ultra groups in world football.
Still, it was Vasco da Gama and the iconic São Januário that stole my heart — intimate, historic, and beautiful. The stadium is carved into the working-class bairro de Vasco, in the heart of a favela. The club and its home ground are built on resilience and diversity in a way that feels deeply Brazilian. At half-time, you slip through a tunnel into a tiny Portuguese restaurant hidden inside the stadium walls.
In São Paulo, you feel a different rhythm: pelada on concrete courts, Corinthians shirts everywhere, and then Várzea on the edge of the city — muddy pitches, smoke from barbecues, local heroes who will never be on television but play as if their lives depend on it. I played pickup with some of the most talented street footballers I have ever met. There, Vinni tried to explain what Joga Bonito means to him and his friends.
“Don’t kill Joga Bonito,” he said. “Joga Bonito and street football in Brazil — it’s almost like our soul, you know? It’s our way of playing. We’ve been doing this since we were kids, when we didn’t have shoes. I think now Brazil is trying to follow the European way of playing, but we must remember we won five World Cups playing Joga Bonito — playing with joy, just expressing ourselves. I think we can win and play beautifully. And for those of us who came from poor backgrounds, it’s tough, because this is the only way we know how to express ourselves.”
Outside the cities, I travelled with Marcos Vinícius and Terra FC. We drove into the hills of Minas Gerais to Vila dos Sonhos — the Village of Dreams. It is a small football sanctuary where kids from the favelas come to play, learn, and breathe a different kind of air for a few days. No glamour, no stadium lights — just red earth, green pitches, and the sense that the game can still build something instead of simply selling it.
If Rio’s favelas and São Paulo’s Várzea show football as survival and expression, Vila dos Sonhos reminds you that it can still be a tool for possibility. Together, they form a full picture of what Brazilian heritage truly looks like: a ball, a dream, and a country that still believes in the soul of the beautiful game.
Words and images: Markus Blumenfeld
Markus Blumenfeld is the creator of The Global Game, a docu-series that captures the stories, fans, and moments that make football special. Using the beautiful game as a lens to view the world, the series explores football as an unspoken language—one that connects people from different places, backgrounds, and cultures. A uniting force in a divided world.
You can also find The Global Game on YouTube
