From Spain to the Stadium: My First American Football Game

I don’t watch sports. Back home in Spain, “football” means something entirely different. So with my European roots and little knowledge of American sports, I anticipated crossing the river this past weekend to watch my very first game. I left the stadium on Saturday in awe, having watched Harvard dominate Brown 41-7 at their home stadium for the Ivy League opener. 

At 4:30 p.m. on a warm Saturday afternoon, I set out for the stadium. Making my way over the bridge, I paused to take in the view—the sky stretched with clouds, the sun breaking through to cast everything in gold. The walk itself felt cinematic, but the real show began once I stepped into the athletic complex.

The moment I stepped inside, I was engulfed by a sea of crimson. Everywhere I looked were Harvard T-shirts, hats, and faces painted with bold H’s. I had never witnessed so much “school pride” gathered in one place. Music blared, people danced, and drinks splashed carelessly onto the ground. I threw myself into the crowd, dancing with my friends until my hair stuck to my face from the humidity. It was messy, loud, and sweaty—but I could not stop smiling.

By the time the crowd started to dwindle, the clock had already slipped past 6 p.m. The game had started, but no one seemed to care. We left the field and walked through the concourse, weaving past Coop booths selling even more gear. Concession stands loaded with popcorn, hot dogs, and nachos were all around us, filling the air with the scent of fried dough. After my friends decided on a section, we started slowly making our way up the stadium stairs. Decked solely in a Harvard cap, I could not have been more excited.

The stadium alone left me speechless. With an ocean of bodies rippling in the stands on both sides, voices were echoing like thunder. Announcements blasted over the speakers, but we could barely hear a thing. I had not done my research before the game, so the rules were a mystery to me. From my seat, all I could see were armored players slamming into each other. In a matter of seconds, bodies were colliding until six men were suddenly piled on the ground. At other times, when nothing seemed to be happening, the crowd exploded in cheers. This sudden change was how I realized Harvard had scored.

While the game progressed, my understanding did not. My friend attempted to shout over the noise and explain the rules to no avail. I tried to follow between downs, yards, and possessions; however, every time I thought I finally understood, a whistle blew, stopping the game. The players marched around like chess pieces that I desperately tried to follow. Eventually, all I could do was smile and nod in defeat.

But then. Touchdown. The crowd sprang to their feet, clapping in rhythm, stomping against the bleachers. I didn’t know what a touchdown was, but the eruption of the crowd told me it was monumental. People jumped, hugged, and screamed. We scored six points, then a seventh.

Suddenly, the stadium flooded with blinding white beams as drones began rising into the night sky. They swarmed together, shifting to form a multitude of shapes. First, the Harvard Athletics logo, followed by Tim Murphy Field and “Welcome Class of 2029.” As the crowd roared, the drones assembled into a single symbol as their finale: the Veritas logo.

At that moment, I felt something I had not expected to feel at a football game: pride. Not the kind that comes from winning, but the kind that comes from belonging. Between the drones, the cheers, and the music from the band, I was reminded that I deserve to be here. I belong to this school as much as every person sitting next to me.

When the final whistle blew, Harvard had dominated Brown 41-7. The scoreboard lit up as the crowd erupted one last time, their cheers just as loud as at kickoff. I still couldn’t make sense of the strategy or the stats, but it didn’t matter—I had felt the moment, and that was enough. 

Walking back across the bridge after the game, the Charles was dark with sprinkles of city lights. I felt exhausted while simultaneously exhilarated. What made the night unforgettable wasn’t the football itself, but the way the community came alive. I felt folded into a tradition I had never known, discovering that even here, on unfamiliar ground, I belonged. As I ended the night with a slice from Pinocchio’s, one thought lingered in my mind: Roll Crim.

Laura Cremer ’29 (lauraperezcremer@college.harvard.edu) still doesn’t understand American football.