Rayo Vallecano’s long-awaited return to their home ground on the Avenida de Albufera lasted just 13 minutes of football, as a protest by supporters against the club’s president, Raúl Martín Presa, forced the abandonment of their match with Athletic Club.
It had taken 147 days for Rayo to walk out for a competitive game at Vallecas, and 24 minutes and 56 seconds for them to walk off again. Half of that time was spent watching thousands of paper planes touch down on the turf, with play suspended while the message was delivered over and over, until it was impossible to avoid. Forced from their home, the team from the barrio had been away for five months.
The last league game staged there had been a victory over Villarreal in May. Much had happened since: Rayo had played a European final, with 11,000 supporters travelling to Leipzig, where a banner declared that they knew no greater victory than being with you in defeat. Iñigo Pérez, the manager who had taken them there, had departed. Óscar Trejo, who had given up the captaincy over the treatment of staff, had retired and been immortalised in the way the barrio does best — in graffiti four storeys high. Then, in late July, the Madrid government suspended the agreement that allowed the club to use the ground in return for €81,784 a year.
Presa said he was furious with the council, locking the gates to keep the club’s technicians out and accusing them of condemning Rayo to Segunda. But a report describing the ground as unsafe and unhealthy was met with agreement from Rayo’s supporters, who had been saying so for years and were relieved to finally be heard. The upkeep of the ground was the tenants’ responsibility but, like so much else, it had been abandoned and left to ruin. Fans’ anger is aimed at a president they believe condemns them to a fate far worse than relegation, and whom they ask, as often as they can, to leave.
They have not been alone in their complaints. Last season players had spoken out about conditions, forced to train at Getafe and play at Leganés, and the new campaign began the same way. Three home games were played 20km south, attended by 4,280 against Alavés, 4,529 against Racing and 3,742 against Espanyol — collectively fewer than in a single afternoon in Vallecas. Leganés had been left three-quarters empty, boycotted by supporters, though in football terms it had been good to them: last season’s victory over Atlético there was followed by two wins and a draw this season. Striker Sergio Camello says the football is the least of it; what matters is what the club stands for.
Athletic were the ideal opponent for the occasion, their supporters allies of Rayo’s, packing the bars around the ground and the plaza in front of the Mercado Numancia and singing in the sunshine. The protest had been planned from the start. Green stickers reading “SOS Rayo Vallecano” appeared on surfaces all around the stadium, while images of Presa with familiar Mickey Mouse ears were put up on walls and scarves. From bags, supporters handed out small plastic balls in many colours; from boxes, they handed out flyers.
Printed on grey A4, the sheets declared: “Today is a day to protest.” After “years of putting up with this”, the fans said they had reached a “point of no return”. In the 13th minute everyone was invited to chant “Presa, go now!” and then to turn the paper into a plane and fly it on to the field. On the back of the sheet were instructions for those who did not know how to fold one.
An Athletic corner arrived with perfect timing. The whistles began bang on the 13th minute, and so did the planes, swooping in from all three stands. The referee, José María Sánchez Martínez, stopped the game and shrugged. Small, multi-coloured plastic balls came down too, bouncing and rolling across the pitch, while a banner unfurled in the main stand declared the ball to be in Presa’s court. A first warning was announced; after two more strikes, the players were sent off — for now.
Ballboys dashed across the pitch, applauded all the way, to do what ballboys do and pick up the balls, while planes were pushed off the turf and players kicked about among themselves. After a pause of eight minutes and 43 seconds, Sánchez Martínez sent them back to take the corner, Pathé Ciss congratulating a ballboy on a job well done as he returned to his position. The corner came in, Yuri Berchiche volleyed just wide, and then the planes came down again. Two touches, strike two, and the referee took them off. The stadium clock was reset as they headed down the tunnel to chants of “Presa, go now!”
They had been out there 24 minutes and 56 seconds. In the shadows of the narrow corridor under the stand, conversations unfolded; in the sunshine, so did the tinfoil, supporters happily eating the sandwiches meant for the break. Half an hour after kick-off came an announcement: they would begin again in 20 minutes, and if more objects were thrown, the match would be abandoned. From the tunnel, Isi Palazón and Óscar Valentín came out to speak to fans behind the goal. The message was bad — if it happened again, the game was over — but a clear protocol was now in place, making a postponement easier to force and the statement more visible and powerful than ever.
Thirty-eight minutes and 16 seconds after kick-off, the players reappeared, Athletic first. Sánchez Martínez bounced the ball, said it was flat, swapped it over and gave it to Emil Audero, whose goal-kick would be the new kick-off, 43 minutes since the first. From behind him, someone started a countdown: five, four, three. As the ball flew into the air, so did more paper planes. Sánchez Martínez shrugged again, while at the other end Unai Simón watched it all happen from his post.
The referee called over the captains, then the coaches. A circle formed on the pitch: the referee, his linesman, two captains, two managers, a delegate, La Liga’s match director, the security adviser and a police officer. Rayo’s coach, Beñat San José, translated for Edin Terzic, whispering in his ear; Terzic nodded, while Álvaro García argued to no avail. At nine minutes to three, 49 minutes and 18 seconds after the game had started, Sánchez Martínez signalled towards the tunnel. Thirteen minutes of football had been played.
Rayo’s players departed to applause, Ivan Balliu first. The referee stood with his hands on his hips. Athletic’s players went to their fans in the far corner and then back towards Rayo’s supporters, who chanted: “Athletic! Athletic!” Iñaki Williams and Simón were the last off, stopping for photographs with the ballboys, Williams giving someone his shirt and signing another, Simón handing over his gloves. As they disappeared, the stadium launched into the Vida Pirata, usually a victory song.
Negotiations followed over when to replay the game, probably behind closed doors. Athletic wanted to return the following morning but that was rejected, and so at 4.23pm on Saturday afternoon their bus pulled out for Barajas, applauded up Payaso Fofo street and on to Avenida Albufera.
Rayo’s supporters’ association described the abandonment as “the inevitable consequence of exhaustion, frustration and anger” after “15 years of abandonment of the facilities, chaotic management, a loss of identity and a continuous contempt for employees and fans, as well as the club and its values”. It called Presa “dictatorial” and the protest “peaceful and democratic, necessary”.
The captain, Valentín, posted: “An unsustainable situation has reached its limit. This has got worse and worse bit by bit for too long without anyone doing anything to stop it getting this far. We have to listen to and understand the fans’ discontent. We need to find a way to bring everyone together for the common good and the good of Rayo Vallecano above all. That’s the only way we will ever live great moments together again.”
Presa says he will never leave, even if the club fall to the third tier. The club has attacked the “ultras” and called the rest of the ground “victims”, a reading the rest of the ground rejects as it flies its paper planes and heads off happily into the afternoon. The question hanging over Vallecas is what happens if they do it again, and again — and at what point someone steps in.