This article originally appeared on VICE Sports Germany.The Penya Barcelonista Berlin Cule are a funny bunch at the best of times. A motley crew of expatriates and locals, they gather to speak Catalan, eat paella and show their devotion to the Blaugrana in an open-air cinema, a sort of Sagrada Familia-by-the-Spree hidden behind Ostkreuz station. Usually a game would draw perhaps 100 enthusiastic souls, but Saturday was no ordinary day. Their heroes were in town to face Juventus in the Champions League Final, being held at Berlin's Olympiastadion, and, as you might imagine, people were pumped. Barca supporters from all over the world converged on Berlin. Some 700 fans were crammed into the sold-out cinema, and VICE Sports headed down to catch the game, chat to the fans and soak up the atmosphere.
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I arrived a full four hours before kick-off, but still a queue was already snaking down the street. In line ahead of us were Eric and Christina, who had come from California to watch the game. Lifelong Barca fans sporting matching Suarez jerseys, they were impressed by the atmosphere in Berlin: "There are Juve fans staying in our hotel, and we saw them on the S-Bahn. [There's been] nothing volatile; hopefully that nature will continue". Behind us was Pablo and his family of South Americans who had come from Denmark to be in Berlin for the final. Nobody got a ticket — clearly UEFA's 26,000-strong "family" doesn't include Pablo and co. — but they weren't too disheartened. "There's a similar gathering in Copenhagen, but we had to be here. Barca fans, they love football to the heart."
As I talked to more and more people, the same phrase kept coming up: "mes que un club" (more than a club). Barcelona's motto can often seem more like a corporate slogan than a club ethos, but the assembled cules in Berlin were living this particular dream. Marc, wearing a Catalan flag, described the atmosphere and an example of the slogan in action: "It is more than a club, of course, it is a social movement. Usually there are more Germans here than Catalans, but I think a lot of people came and couldn't get a ticket. Now it's like a little Catalunya in Berlin." Surrounded by the senyera flag of independence, with smell of bocadillos and paella in the air, it was pretty difficult to disagree with him.
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One of the Germans present was Karin, a native Berliner and the mother of a fanatical Barca fan, accompanied by her family. Her son had managed to get a ticket for the game, but she and her daughter had to settle for the next best thing. "It's great to be a fan and to participate in this love for Barcelona. The most important aspect is that it's peaceful, you never see any hooligans there." Irony insisted that a group of Barca fans began a round of "Juve, Juve, Vaffanculo" behind us, but Karin laughed it off. "I wish for a very nice game, and that the best team wins". That's very diplomatic, I say. "Well, of course the best team is Barcelona", says Karin with a cheeky smile.
It was noticeable how confident the Barcelonistas were. As I asked around for predictions, we heard a range of 4-nils, 3-1s and 3-nils, with nobody even countenancing defeat. The game began to the sounds of the Cant del Barca, the Barca club anthem, and within 4 minutes the confidence was proved to be well placed, Ivan Rakitic sweeping home after a slick passing move. In the outside screen, the singing continued relentlessly. Vidal, the combative Juve midfielder, fouled and fouled, each transgression greeted with air-cards and outrage. The Blaugrana went forward in waves, Juventus unable to cope with the movement of Messi and Suarez. Iniesta reigned in central midfield; Pirlo was misplacing passes, for the first time in what seemed like decades.
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As the half-time whistle blew, the only disappointment was that Barca had not added to their tally. So far, so good, but there was always worry. Shortly into the second half, the fears became reality, as Marchisio released Lichtsteiner with a backheel. The Swiss turned the ball inside to Tevez, whose shot was saved, only for the rebound to fall to the feet of Morata, the ex-Madridista, to equalise. For the first time that evening, quiet fell on the Kino. An elderly gent behind me broke it. "Madridista, puta de madre!" he shouted. Now it was Juve who attacked. Morata headed over, and should have scored; Ter Stegen in the Barca goal flapped at crosses but stood firm to a shot from Pogba. The confidence of the cules, previously unshakeable, took a bloody good shaking.
Before the game, it was billed as a contest between attack and defence, a question of whether Juventus could keep the Messi-Neymar-Suarez trio at arm's length, and whether Pirlo, Pogba and Vidal could impose themselves on the midfield. With Pirlo finally spraying passes in the way that makes grown men go weak at the knees, the time had come for the main man to make his presence felt. Lionel, running like a hare with a magnet in his boots, took the ball by defenders and unleashed a shot, parried by Buffon, but returned with interest by Suarez, who set off over the hoardings. One of the few arguments in favour of running tracks in football stadiums is that it looks great when a goal goes in and the scorer hurdles the advertisements towards the crowd, and Luisito was not going to let the side down on that front. The Penya Berlin rose accordingly. A man dressed as a referee, who had previously insisted to me his neutrality, split his beer celebrating. The chant went up again: "Madrid, cabron, salud el Campeon!"
There could be no doubts now. With 20 minutes remaining, Juventus had to throw men forwards, and Barca wasted chance after chance on the break, before Neymar managed to finally put the game beyond doubt with a last minute goal, throwing his shirt off as he made the customary trip across the track. Nobody heard the final whistle blow, Cuneyt Caykir's blast lost in the popping of champagne corks, the lighting of flares, the tears of men and the noise of the crowd. Each player was pulled up on the screen and saluted, with special cheers reserved for Xavi, playing his last game for Barca. They clapped Juve's Buffon and Pirlo, also living legends of the game, though it is awfully easy to be sporting when you've just won the Champions League. As the champagne flowed and the paella continued to be doled out, I passed Eric and Christina, who had travelled from the U.S on their honeymoon. They greeted me with a "Visca el Barca!", before returning to the throng. I couldn't possibly comment on mes que un club as an ideal, but mes que un party was just getting underway, in a cinema behind an East Berlin train station that was, for one night at least, a little corner of Catalunya.
