When I found out we were moving to Beijing, I began plotting how I could attend a Beijing Guoan match. There wasn’t a desire to be a fan of the team per se, though I am certainly open to the idea. Instead, I wanted to experience how fans consumed the beautiful game here.

I’ve been to enough matches in different places to see how fandom manifests differently across countries. And I knew that soccer’s role in China was, at best, struggling to maintain a foothold–at least when it came to the domestic game. The national teams–especially the men’s team–have seen a dramatic decline in interest. But, as is the case in many countries where many see the domestic game as unsophisticated, locals tend to follow teams from Europe, with fan clubs of major teams cropping up in every major city.

Even though I didn’t grab tickets for the match last week (they sold out before I could buy any), I did manage to scope out the ground and mingle with folks as they waded into the stadium. What I saw told me that the early obits of Chinese soccer this spring were premature. If the game has experienced a prolonged hiccup due to myriad factors (covid among them), then the interest was at least renewed or reinvigorated this season.

Last weekend, fans wearing green filled the streets around Beijing Workers Stadium. Street sellers hawked the latest in knockoff kits or even the real thing. Often three generations deep, families walked along quietly, killing time before entering the ground.

A familiar buzz was palpable around Sanlitun, the subdistrict of Chaoyang where the stadium sits. It’s the same one you get walking up to Anfield, Goodison, or Audi. Anticipation. Energy. Hope. A collective sense of will.

All of these factors strengthen my desire to attend a match. I was more proactive this time around. I set my alarm and moved quickly once tickets became available. Suffice it to say I was successful.

The matchday started inauspiciously when I woke to the forecasted downpour. It was raining so heavily that I was unsure it would end by kick-off twelve hours later. I worried I would be deterred from seeing the Beijing Guoan at their brand-new stadium for the second week in a row.

It was around 3 pm when the rain cleared, and the sun crept out from behind sodden clouds. I rechecked the forecast. No rain in sight, and temperatures would hover around 75 degrees. Perfect soccer weather. Normally, It would be hot, humid, and nearly unbearable on a typical mid-summer day in Beijing. The Footballing Gods had approved of my plans.

I left around half past five to start my walk to the stadium. It was a familiar walk, one that takes me south, then west, and crosses my favorite intersection in the city–if you’ve been following along, you’ve seen it in many pictures. I took one of the footbridges passing over the busy six-lane road that bisects Sanlitun–Tai Koo Li Mall on one side and Soho on the other.

Arriving a tad early, I popped into the Slow Boat Brew Pub and grabbed a pint to continue my unofficial tradition of having a beer when I go to a match. Kick-off was getting ever closer, and I wanted to watch the teams warm up, another habit of mine.

My friends in the local Liverpool fan club group text were sending messages on the WeChat platform with views from their seats. Folks liked getting to the ground early. And just like the week before, fans milled about, and folks who drove to the ground battled for parking spots with folks who arrived to shop.

As I passed through the gates, security folks dressed in all black welcomed me to China. Ticket check and metal detectors were a breeze too. And when I finally stepped beyond where I showed my ticket, I was greeted by a modern, state-of-the-art stadium that would be at home in any American city. Spacious and cavernous. Wide steps that lead up to the second and third levels allowed for the free movement of fans and personnel alike. Sections were easily identifiable, which made it easy to find mine and get to my seat.

I snapped some photos, then returned to the concourse to look for food and a pint. Folks were carrying cardboard drink holders, giving me the impression that maybe a tap was nearby. But upon inspection, no beer was found in and around my section. Those friends in that same Liverpool chat group informed me that my search would be fruitless, as beer wasn’t sold at the ground. The last time I sat through a match without having a pint was at Goodison on Boxing Day in 2019.

At least I did grab some food. I envisioned going viral on Twitter, posting my picture of whatever delicacy I could find, then commenting on the price. All that I found, though, was a souped-up hotdog with mustard, ketchup, and some fried onions. It was better than Goodison’s poor excuse for the stadium staple, and at 30 yuan ($4.15), it was pocket friendly too.

The lack of a strong stadium food game was curious, especially knowing that the local cuisine is perfect for that sort of thing. But football doesn’t necessarily lend itself to the insertion of food culture in the same way as baseball, basketball, or American football does. So maybe I’m asking too much.

As I reached my seat a second time, players from both teams were warming up. The ultras on opposite sides of the ground began their volley of chants. The road team ultras, despite being boisterous, was quickly overtaken. Both groups took their jobs seriously, engaging in what I have heard folks in the US call a ninety-minute mentality.

Some chants are built off familiar tunes like Allez, Allez, Allez. And the familiar sound of call and response with the ultras demanding the less fanatical to chime in upon demand–which we happily did. Owing to the semi-enclosed rooftop, the sounds of chanting and increased noise of fans during exciting plays stayed inside the ground, building an intimidating atmosphere for the opposition.

More than anything, though, was the passion of the fans. Both sets of ultras chanted and sang throughout the match. The less fanatical, but equally as serious fans watched the match in ways I usually didn’t see at a DC United game–except in the Chico Stand. It wasn’t used as a fun night out. Instead, it was serious business for serious consumption of the beautiful game. They were attentive and engrossed in what was happening on the pitch.

Fans booed the referee and booed the opposing players. But I didn’t sense any real venom like folks elsewhere behave during matches. That was undoubtedly a positive.

They cheered, ooh-ed, and awed during good plays and acted disappointed when things didn’t go well. And if championships were won based on a passionate fan base, then Beijing Guoan would undoubtedly be in contention every season.

A few other logistical notes. Things that often get overlooked when Americans build new big-league ballparks. There were bathrooms for nearly every section, which meant there were rarely lines for the toilet despite having forty-five-plus thousand fans.

Exiting the ground was probably the easiest experience I’ve ever had. From my seat to the main road, it took me less than five minutes. There was no bottleneck, no single point of entry or exit, causing delays in leaving the stadium.

There is no doubt I’ll be back again. Maybe in a different section, but there’s no doubt I’ll enjoy myself. In the meantime, I’m on the lookout for a place to watch the matches to see what sort of community is being built around the club.

Before I leave, I would be remiss if I didn’t mention my buddy Josh Burleson. There wasn’t a moment during the build-up to this match that he wasn’t far from my thoughts. He was supposed to have been there with me. By my side, taking it in, excited and gitty about the cultural experience we were going to share. He was, like me, a trailing spouse, following his wife to Beijing and putting his life and career on pause.

We spoke several times between late February and mid-April, discussing how my family and I could best prepare for the move to Beijing. I am sure I asked dumb questions about life here. He patiently answered. We both loved the beautiful game. Though our loyalties straddled Merseyside, we found common ground in nearly everything else. There would be late nights at Paddy’s watching the Premier League, and he would find opportunities for us to play small-sided games with the locals. He was good with things like that.

One mid-April day, Josh died after hitting his head while playing flag football. I woke on a Sunday morning to a WhatsApp message from his wife. It took several hours to sink in, and for the ensuing weeks between that morning and his funeral, I fought a losing battle with reality.

Josh set an example for all of us. He looked for the best in everyone. He gave everything 110%. He called you out when you were being foolish. He lifted you when you needed it. When it came to sports, he was dogged but knew how to put it all behind him once the final whistle blew.

I am sad that I won’t have these two years to get to know him better, but god damned lucky to have gotten to know him over the last decade.