Among the Ultras

A trepid Mirror writer immerses himself in the world of the Montreal Impact’s most rabid fans

TRADITIONALISTS’ TERRITORY: In designated seating

by RAF KATIGBAK
photos by SHARON DAVIES

When Daniel, a casual reader of my Mirror column, invited me to sit in on a soccer game with his Montreal Impact supporters group the Ultras Montreal, I didn’t really know what to think. Truth be told, I’m not really a sports fan. Claiming allegiance to anything other than family or friends seems a bit daft to me. Not because I think it’s beneath me or sophomoric—some of the smartest people I know are obsessive sports fanatics—but I just don’t get it. Then he sent me videos. And they actually kind of scared me. There’s just something disconcerting about a mob of dudes going apeshit, lighting flares, waving flags, screaming and jumping up and down. The calm calculation of the madness was further counterpointed by the soundtrack of Lou Reed’s “A Perfect Day” and made me feel uneasy, to say the least.

It didn’t help that I had just read an excerpt from Among The Thugs, the non-fiction classic where author Bill Buford recounts his time travelling with English football supporters—packs of louts who like to get drunk, get into fights and smash things. Given that this is Montreal, and one of our favourite pastimes is drunken rioting, it was a behaviour that I felt could easily be embraced here. I had to wonder: how crazy are these guys? If it came down to it, would I also join in the insanity? The rioting? Was I going to turn over a cop car or set something on fire? What if they can tell I’m not a soccer fan? Would I get outed and shunned, or worse, be the recipient of a Glasgow Kiss (the British term for the popular hooligan head-butt)? There was only one way to find out. I agreed to meet with the Ultras at a bar before the game.

NOT FASCIST, FUN!: Full-throated fans

Drums, scarves and beer

Brasserie 99 is a typical east end bar; the smell of stale beer wafts up from the carpets and metal riffs blast from the speakers as male patrons with ponytails and cargo pants debate the finer points of their favourite Iron Maiden albums (Number of The Beast vs. Powerslave). It’s a strange place to call home, but the Ultras settled on it as their meeting spot for three important reasons: it was within walking distance of the stadium, it had cheap pitchers, and the last bar they scouted turned out to be a biker hangout where recent reports indicated it was getting a little too stabby for their tastes.

When I first walked in, I half expected the frenzy to already have started: boisterous people clinking pints together and spontaneously breaking into chants of “Olé-Olé-Olé-Oléééé.” Instead, the mood was rather sombre. A table of eight was sitting quietly, nursing their pitchers. Unlike the videos I had seen, their telltale ULTRAS MONTREAL scarves weren’t being frantically whipped around, and hung limp around their necks. A few guys arrived with drums but quickly dropped them unceremoniously in the corner with the sluggish huff of a carpenter dropping his tool belt after a long day.

When Daniel arrived, he seemed a bit on edge. Apparently this was a make-it-or-break-it game, and he was nervous. It wasn’t looking good for his team, which accounted for the muted vibe in the bar. Daniel helped start the Ultras in 2002. He loved going to watch soccer as a kid, and, proud of his city and his team and inspired by supporters groups in Europe and South America, at 17 he felt the Impact needed the same kind of fanatical support. When he started, it was just him and two other friends waving a homemade banner and banging on a drum. Over the last eight years, the numbers have grown to over a couple of hundred strong. They’ve negotiated with the stadium to have their own standing room section without seats, and are even given a small stepladder for the capo (the guy who leads the chants) to orchestrate from. With the team looking to expand into the bigger MLS league in 2012, Daniel sees only growth in their future. But right now his mind is on the game. “This is a big one,” he says solemnly.

Apparently the Impact had a string of lousy games, losing to teams that they shouldn’t have. “We’re reigning champs,” he says. “We should be doing much better.” It also doesn’t help that the Impact are the highest paid team in the league—players can make from $30- to $100K, depending on their experience. But like any true fan, Daniel has faith.

THE VIEW FROM DOWN HERE: The Capo...

On the corporate fantasyland pitch

Our march up to the stadium is, again, nothing like the videos. There is no giant gang of screaming men lighting flares, chanting and waving flags, just a few pockets of people, two or three together at the most. I’m starting to wonder why I came. Where are the flares? Where is the intensity I saw in the videos? I learn from Daniel that the videos were taken from the playoffs, when they were poised to be champs, and when they finally took it. Right now, they’re not doing so hot and it’s a bit discouraging. When I ask him what makes him and every other Ultra come back every game, despite the losing streak, he laughs and goes, “If your wife gets fat, do you just leave her? No, you give her a treadmill and a kick in the ass. That’s what we have to do.” Words to live by, I think.

He explains that all you need to do to be an Ultra is love your team, your city and just show up and bring your voice. But there is more to being an Ultra, I discover. There is a secret battle going on, between soccer traditionalists and what Daniel describes as the new corporate face of the sport. And the Ultras are on the front lines. “The corporate side wants to make it a family fun atmosphere, which is fine, but when that takes away from the enjoyment of the sport, that’s where I disagree.”

As we walk into the stadium I see exactly what he means. The stadium grounds look like any other Montreal tourist experience: a homogenized whitewash of spectacle. If it weren’t for the large green pitch, you wouldn’t know you were at a soccer game. Purists who would complain that the Jazz Fest has no jazz would likely find fault with the row of bouncy castles adjacent the stadium.

...the supporters

Madness in Section 114

You likely won’t find anyone in Section 114—the Ultras’ designated seating area—frequenting any of the bouncy castles. Maybe because the section is like a bouncy castle itself, for grown-ups. As we walk in, the energy is electric. The game is about to start and I suddenly hear a slow rumbling like a million dump trucks driving by at high speed. I look down to see it’s the sound of hundreds of feet stamping on the bleachers like thunder. Shit is about to go down.

It’s hard to describe how I spent the next hour and a half of my life. After initially being scared of the borderline fascist flag waving, drum beating, screaming and yelling, I looked around and saw big smiles on everybody’s faces. I relaxed and let myself get into it. There were several choreographed chants, all based on popular tunes like “Guantanamera” or “Yankee Doodle” and whose lyrics were various combinations of “Allez” and “Montreal” (the “Olé Olé Olé” chant, by the way, is banned from the repertoire). It was infectious and I joined in. I’m pretty sure I got whipped in the face with a flag a couple of times, but I didn’t care. I felt good. At one point, at the capo’s instructions, we all turned around to face the giant screen. Arm in arm, shoulder to shoulder, we started to move in unison. We bunny hopped three steps to the left, then three to the right over and over, chanting the whole time. Yes, it was kind of silly to be doing that, facing the wrong way, hopping with strangers, but we were silly together. Unified. That’s when I figured it out. These were not bloodthirsty punks, looking to start trouble, but people from all kinds of places, coming together to find a sense of belonging and enjoy being part of something bigger than themselves. It was pride in their community. It was Montreal.

After the 90 minutes were over, I was exhausted. The game was a bust (0-0) and some of the Ultras were going back to the bar to drown their sorrows. But I was spent. It’s hard work being a supporter. I walked home sweaty and exhausted with a smile on my face and a song stuck in my head. It wasn’t something catchy like “Yankee Doodle” or clichéd like “Olé Olé Olé,” but rather it was the sound of Lou Reed’s pained and broken voice singing, “Oh it’s such a perfect day…”

THE MONTREAL IMPACT HOST THE
ROCHESTER RHINOS AT SAPUTO
STADIUM ON FRIDAY, AUG. 27