Hooligans of Iberia

By Masha Malinina

Plaza de Colon, Plaza of Columbus. A plaza in Madrid’s heart glorifying a dark imperial past, which has long since become a mecca for the hooligans of Iberia. During the European skateboarding boom of the late 80’s and early 90’s, Plaza de Colon was the place to be due to its accidentally perfect layout for transition and street tricks: rails, stairs, benches, curbs, the innocuous trappings of civil infrastructure used in decidedly uncivil ways by the skating legends of the time, who came from across Europe to shralp gnar under the steel gaze of America’s discoverer. Plaza de Colon was the heart of this movement, but across Madrid, in those immortal summers of the 80’s and 90’s, skating and hooliganism had irreversibly taken root–or so many people thought. The government, however, had other things in mind. Beginning in the late 90’s, in response to graffiti that had sprouted and choked the city like so many Madrilenian carnations, the bureaucrats neutered Plaza de Colon and its sister plazas, rendering them unskateable, pushing the graffiti artists, skaters, and outlaws out and scattering them to the wind.

Which brings us to today, and me. After spending some time exploring the city and talking with locals, I’d begun hearing about Ignacio, one of Madrid’s many modern skateparks, where I might try finding that old-school style of Madrilenian skater culture that I’d become obsessed with. 

Ignacio is a skatepark under Madrid’s intrusive M-30 highway, hidden in its own enclave of the blue-collar Fuenlabrada neighborhood alongside the city’s Manzanares River, where Moors defended the area from the Reconquista eleven centuries ago, like activists now defend it from Madrid’s invasive city planning. I couldn’t find the park, and was conscious of bothering someone on the street, especially someone who didn’t speak English. A part of me wanted to ‘stumble’ across Ignacio, to discover it on my own the way the skater refugees before me had–there was a certain romanticism to that. But after many dozens of minutes, realizing that aimless wandering was getting me nowhere, I summoned the courage to approach someone and ask “donde está Parque de Ignacio?” to which they warmly responded “buena pregunta, no sé!” No clue. But after asking one person, it became easier to ask others. Eventually, I found someone who wasn’t as lost as I was, and soon enough,

“I’d found the small staircase tucked against the side of the highway which led down to the skatepark.”

Ignacio features a wide layout ranging from flat zones and quarter pipes to sweeping bowls and long steps, erratically covered in graffiti displaying Madrilenian slang and gang tags: “MADRID KINKIS” repeatedly scrawled in black ink and yellow backgrounds with wildly varying levels of artistry. I could see why the punks of Madrid had flocked here after their eviction from the city’s squares: Ignacio’s quiet greenery, Fuenlabrada’s history of socialist and activist movements, the amount of wall real-estate open for graffiti, and its proximity to rail lines were perfect for the types hooligans and goons that I had come here in part to find. But in their place, I found…not that. Instead were men, women, and children from all walks of Madrilenian life, skateboarding, BMXing, scootering, and just hanging out. The environment felt warm, warmer even than the midday sun, like a community for learning rather than competition. Two girls my age were visibly struggling to drop into one of the more challenging bowls, and a man maybe two decades older kindly approached them and asked if they needed help. The immediate trust the girls gave him and their quick acceptance of his offer shocked me. Here was someone who probably grew up amidst those long-vanished punks that I was seeking out. He may have even been one of them. But instead of the cool indifference and silent judgment that I was expecting from him, I saw something that was different, maybe better.

Madrilenian Apartment Block, by Andy Song

I felt that the skatepark was a microcosm of the Spanish culture I’d experienced so far, that friendly and warm feeling of togetherness, which surely infected the too-cool-for-you hearts of the skater boys all those years ago. Watching the girls grow increasingly footsure on their boards as the old-timer coached them proved that, unlike many skateparks in New York, or even what I was expecting—maybe secretly hoping—to find here, this was not a hostile environment. 

I noticed one girl, no older than 11, constantly falling but getting up proudly, beaming and laughing with her friends even after some nasty-looking scrapes. There were many kids like her and many who were more advanced, all teaching one another, all fearless and trusting. Their fiery innocence seemed to be fuel for their battles against gravity. Along with these young shredders were also the pro skaters–the closest thing Ignacio had to the concept of the hooligan, my impetus for coming here. The pro’s all wore their distinctive garb, seemingly universal across the skateparks of the world: baggy t-shirts with long sleeves underneath, cargo pants that were too loose to wear without belts, neutral-colored beanies and bright-colored caps, and large hoodies with niche skater brand names that I wasn’t familiar with.

“I knew that they took not just their skateboards, but that lifestyle, everywhere with them. ”

And yet even the pro’s here were different from New York, and by extension from my preconceptions of Madrid: they were warmer than New York pro’s–probably warmer, too, from their predecessors in the Plazas. They were just as kind, boisterous, and childlike as the actual children, and just as eager to teach their techniques.

It was a disorienting energy to experience: everyone seemed to be minding their own business while simultaneously being a community of strangers, something that I noticed as a repeating pattern in Spain.

They were bound not by their common love of skating but by their differences–differences in skill, age, board type.

In Spanish they call me “extrañjero,” foreigner, but I certainly don’t feel like one. Here at Ignacio, my gender identity, skills, and appearance did not matter because the people of Spain embrace and ignore their differences: it's the thing that they all have in common and the thing that will always bring them together, and what brings me to them: a willingness to embrace differing ideals together. 

Reflecting on all this at the grassy fringe of the park, as I watched the two girls embrace in joy after one of them successfully dropped into a nearly-vertical bowl, I realized that it was high time I got some skating in and maybe learned a trick or two myself. After all, it was warm here, warmer than I ever could have expected. And that was a great thing. 

I picked up my board, walked to the lip of the nearest bowl, and dropped in.