Bang! One-nothing Real. Just like that, 31 seconds in. The second-fastest goal in El Derbi history. Stunning, you’d have to say—but so … Atleti? “What happened?” my girlfriend cried. “Which player scored?”

“I don’t know!” I cried back, clutching my head. Live soccer is one of the great spectacles, but unless you’re down in the club president’s box, details are tough to follow. No TV replays or commentary—even the reporters alongside us were checking the Internet coverage to keep informed.

The stunned crowd buzzed and bayed. Atleti found some equilibrium and started to attack, but Robinho kept dazzling down the left side for Real. Then Atleti surged, time and again they swarmed Real’s goal, young Kun Agüero lashed thrilling shots—but either Casillas, the goalkeeper, inhumanly saved them or the ball hit the woodwork. Close to halftime, while I was looking down at my notes, Real managed a corner kick. When I looked back up, Real players were rushing around deliriously. Two-nothing.

“Who scored?” I asked my girlfriend. She held up bewildered hands.

At halftime all the beery chant bellowers around us stood munching the big bocadillos (sandwiches) they’d brought—a venerable Spanish halftime tradition. Food is part of everything in Spain, which perhaps explains why Spanish football waxes passionate but rarely violent. Tough to fight with your mouth and belly full. But no alcohol is served at the Calderón, to be safe.

In the second half, the action slowed. Atleti pressed, coming close once or twice. Robinho kept speeding, with twinkle-toes touches. Frustrated, Atleti started fouling. White uniforms tumbled, and the crowd taunted a Real player (who?) as he lay on the ground writhing. But the score just wouldn’t change. As the final minutes wore down, the jinxed ones roared, “ˇATLETI! ATLETI!” everyone still there till the bitterest end, baying into the heartbroken, losing, defiant night.

A couple of days later, I met the mayor of Madrid. A pro-Real sniggerer informed him that I was for Atleti. He smiled sadly. “Acostumbrado a sufrir,” he declared (You’re used to suffering). Spain’s Prince Felipe, they say, is an Atleti fan; perhaps the mayor has smiled sadly at him, too.

I rang up Bardem. He was on an Andalusia beach having suntan lotion applied. “Man, don’t make me suffer remembering the fucking game,” he groaned. Is everyone in your family for Atleti? I asked. The Bardems are sort of the Barrymores of Spain. No, he said. His mother, Pilar, was for Barça; his sister, Mónica, was for Real (!). “And my brother, Javier, doesn’t give a shit.”

Our driver back out to the airport was another Atleti fan. I could tell from the potbellied mascot in an Indian headdress on his dashboard. “We played like never before—and lost like always,” he said. What else was there to say? Nothing. So we just shrugged and fell silent. And my girlfriend played happily with her new Real cigarette lighter.

"ˇGOL!" originally appeared in the May/June 2008 issue of Culture+Travel. For a complete list of articles from this issue available on ARTINFO, see Culture + Travel's May/June 2008 Table of Contents.