Manolo and Me
When people ask about my 2018 World Cup trip, they expect me to talk about Cristiano Ronaldo’s hat-trick against Spain. And eventually, I do. But the first image that comes back is the large red-and-white drum beside my seat.
The drum caught my attention before its owner did. It was attracting attention from everyone around it – Spanish supporters stopping to photograph it, while others walked over to shake his hand or exchange a few words. I didn’t immediately understand why.
Then I looked at the man next to me.
It was Manolo el del Bombo.
For over four decades, Manolo had followed the Spanish national team to every corner of the world – he had become part of the matchday experience. His drum, his red beret and his presence in the stands had become inseparable from Spanish football itself. He was one of those rare supporters who stop being fans and become part of football’s own folklore.
And on this particular evening in Sochi, he was sitting in the seat next to mine.
What struck me immediately was how approachable he was. He greeted everyone with a smile, happily posing for photos and chatting with fellow supporters. But he was also exactly what you’d expect from Spain’s most famous fan: loud, passionate, and impossible to ignore.
Sochi itself had been a surprise – palm trees and the Black Sea rather than the grey Russia I had imagined – but the biggest surprise was still waiting inside the stadium.
Before kick-off, Manolo was surrounded by friends and fellow Spanish supporters. There were constant conversations, photographs and plenty of laughter. We Portuguese watched from close distance, joking among ourselves that we were about to spend the next 90 minutes listening to that famous drum. We didn’t really mix before the match; each group stayed with its own supporters, saving the rivalry for the game.
What followed on the pitch exceeded every expectation. Ronaldo scored early. Spain responded. Portugal fought back. Spain took the lead. With every swing in the game, the stadium split between elation and despair depending on what shirt you were wearing. Through all of it, Manolo’s drum kept rhythm – it provided a relentless soundtrack.
Throughout the match, Manolo rarely stopped drumming. Every Spanish attack seemed to bring a faster rhythm, and whenever Spain took the lead, the drum became even louder, echoing around our section of the stadium.
By the final minutes, Portugal trailed 3-2.
Then came the free kick.
Ronaldo placed the ball just outside the penalty area. That strange silence descended that sometimes occurs before extraordinary moments. Almost without thinking, I looked sideways.
Manolo had both hands resting on the drum.
Then Ronaldo struck it – the ball curling into the top-right corner – and the Portuguese supporters erupted.
When I turned back to Manolo, he smiled and shook his head. There was no frustration on his face. Just the quiet expression of someone who knew he had witnessed something extraordinary.
Between drumbeats, Manolo chatted constantly with his Spanish friends. Around us, the Portuguese and Spanish supporters exchanged the sort of football banter that is probably best left untranslated. There was plenty of teasing from both sides as the score kept swinging. But when the final whistle blew, the rivalry disappeared. We shook hands, smiled and congratulated one another. After witnessing a match like that, it simply felt like the natural way to end the evening.
For 90 minutes we had been on opposite sides. For 90 minutes we supported different teams. Yet when I think back to that evening, I don’t remember rivalry. I remember a man, a drum, and the only moment all night when neither of them made a sound.
