NACK5 Stadium is built out of LEGOs. Sturdy and unremarkable, concrete and plastic, this open rectangular ground appears to be one of FIFA’s deliberately generic PlayStation venues come to life. Four stands—two tall, two short—under four floodlights—all tall—nestled between staid suburbia and a peaceful grove. Red pines peak over the double-decker section where the home ultras stand and sing, and in spring, the stadium will be ringed with cherry blossoms that bloom during Sakura. It’s pleasant here.
The facility was built in 1960 and hosted matches four years later at the Tokyo Summer Olympics, thus writing Omiya into one of the nation’s proudest hours. The Games’ venues have a sanctity to them in Tokyo, but here in Omiya, there are no prominent markers of this history, even at the ground. Like so many things in this place that is now Saitama, the past still exists, but it appears, to an outsider, to lack much outward, localized fanfare.
For that Olympics, Omiya welcomed teams from across the globe, as the likes of Brazil, Mexico, Romania, and Iran all graced this very pitch. The stadium also played host to a quarterfinal between Ghana and the short-lived United Arab Republic, who triumphed 5-1 on the day.
Today, this stadium plays host to nearby visitors—but they are welcomed before the game like respected guests from a faraway land. During the pre-match festivities, the Ardija supporters have taken it upon themselves to applaud the traveling Giravanz fans, all clad in sunburst yellow. The Omiya ultras bow and beat drums in recognition of their supposed foes—who are surprisingly treated at this moment more as long-lost friends. The fans from Kitakyushu duly return this respect, thanking their opponents for their hospitality.
This is both strange and beautiful. While I keep waiting for the 'but'—the other shoe to drop—there is no caveat coming. For the next few hours, there is no profanity or provocative gesticulation between supporters groups; in fact, this will be the only time that the two sets of fans interact at all throughout the contest. The atmosphere is one solely characterized by a sense of kindness and a focus on one’s own team, rather than derision toward the opponent. Words can’t express how rare this steadfast positivity is in a sport whose modern spectatorial reality is one consumed by the allure of heckling, schadenfreude, and enmity.
Though the ground is beginning to fill up, Omiya and Kitakyushu are still about an hour from kickoff and another show has taken over the turf. I’m not used to seeing football matches with extensive opening acts—and I’m doubtful any in the future will live up to what I witness here. Two youth teams are playing a local championship game in front of a passionate crowd of neutrals whose cheers and gasps at every 50/50 challenge and shot on goal left me wondering if I’d actually bought tickets to the wrong match. Hailing from a country where youth football, even at its most elite, is almost entirely ignored on any scale of cultural relevance—local or national—this sight of thousands of eyes deeply drawn to the spectacle was impressive to say the least. This doesn’t go unnoticed by the youngsters, who upon finishing the match and collecting their medals, bow to the crowd.
After doing a lap around the stadium, I’ve procured a Bento box and a soda pop—a delicious and filling lunch for around $5—along with a set of Omiya Ardija sweatbands. Nobody really needs sweatbands—they serve a limited enough purpose in life as actual athletic accoutrement, and seem even more absurd given my current state as a spectator in a pretty mild weather situation—but I’ve bought them anyway because (a) They were on sale; (b) I’m American; and, (c) I felt pretty left out given that nobody else in any of the four stands is dressed neutrally.
As I pull on a wristband, the elderly man next to me nods to signal his approval at my choice to support Ardija today.
I clearly don’t belong here, but I have been accepted. I am one of the family. I am a grown man watching a football match with wristbands on.