Welcome to our World Cup final party.

Sunday marked the end of a monthlong display of the best soccer we will see until 2014 in Brazil.  With 2 Cup-less teams entering the championship fray, World Cup enthusiasts prepared for the Final with mainly positive anticipation.  Germany, the team many had already ordained as the champs after their 4-nil deconstruction of Maradona’s relaxed to the max Argentine side, snuck out of the 3rd place game victorious but heavily wounded.  Uruguay, the all-heart underdogs, much-maligned due to their controversial yet inspired knockout of Ghana, the last Africa team standing, looked a much better representative of South America than its two more well-known rivals, Brazil and Argentina.  Uruguay’s late crossbar clank left them ever-so-close to the Top 3, but, given their lower expectations and pressure than their German opponents, felt content with a 4th place finish.

Thus, the 3-2 German come-from-behind victory in Port Elizabeth set the stage for the Soccer City final between The Oranje of Holland and La Roja of Spain, a match that was later determined to be the most-watched soccer game in US television history with 24 million viewers.  While 95,000 packed into Soccer City in Jo’Burg, the Dutch caravanning in hordes to the Southern tip of Africa and the Spanish feeling confident,  Mike, Regina, Shelley and I , still trying to remember whether our trip had been real or just some crazy dream, planned to finish off the World Cup with festivities of our own.  Mike and Regina watched the game in Lexington, NC, a houseful of family, friends, food and good times.  Meanwhile, Shelley and I, rarely hosts of a party, found the final to be a quality excuse for cleaning the house, sending out the evite, and having 20 or so friends over for the main event.

A party isn’t a party without a theme, so we played into the Spain/Holland matchup by loading the fridge with Estrella lager from Spain and either Heineken or Amstel from Holland.  If your taste was for soda, we had Orange Crush in honor of Oranje and World Cup sponsor Coca-Cola for everyone else.  No one was required to pick a side, but the bar was set up such that Edam and gouda cheese from the Netherlands flanked the left and yuca fritters, croquetas and Manchego cheese illuminated the right.  For those either lactose-intolerant or wishing to remain neutral, a veggie and fruit spread accentuated by Shelley’s award-winning salsa separated the two sides, a peace offering meant to quell both mid-afternoon hunger and any disputes between sides.

As if we hadn’t already made obvious our World Cup theme, the coffee table–the central point amongst those proportioned around the 47″ flat screen broadcasting the final–housed segregated M&Ms, orange and blue bundled into a bowl in front of The Netherlands flag and red and yellow juxtaposing the Spanish flag, both partitioned by green and brown M&Ms, meant to represent the Soccer City pitch where the next 120 minutes of soccer glory would be played. 

Even the M&Ms were taking sides for the Final

With party newcomers being greeted ceremoniously by an imported South African vuvuzela, and photos of our journey displayed on the digital frame and passed around in hard copy, even those who came for the party instead of the soccer appreciated the match, and the theme, for what it was.  This, thought Shelley and I, was our final sendoff, the cataclysmic end to an incredible journey that wasn’t even fathomable a short 5 months earlier.   This, we thought, was necessary to dull the numbness of our return, make the dream seem a reality. 

Mike, affirming my thoughts precisely, texted me ”I don’t want it to end man” just as the game was starting.  The realization that this would be the conclusion of the FIFA 2010 World Cup, the end of our first, but hopefully not last, live World Cup experience, hit us all heavily as the Spaniards and Dutch sang their collective hearts out prior to Jabulani’s last stand.  I didn’t want it to end either, man, and as the seconds ticked up, as excessive amounts of yellow cards were handed out, as Robben missed his wide open look late in the second frame, and as Iniesta finally penetrated the Oranje back line , I knew for certain I was glad to be in the company of friends.  Glad to know that what had happened was real, and that we could share it with others, even if it was through cheese, tapas, and imported beer.

I also realize that it’s been a week since that game, and no matter how hard I tried (even stamping it on a ‘to-do’ list, something I usually avoid like the plague), I could not bring myself to penning this post.  The finality of this last one, knowing that it is going to end man, knowing that closure must be breeched, that all good things must come to an end, prevented me from typing these words.  Still, now entirely too long past the deadline, an afterthought for most, this final dotting of i’s and crossing of t’s signals the end of my ‘The Beautiful Game’ blog and the beginning of new adventures for me, such as the upcoming National Scrabble Championship next month and Dallas.  Not only did the World Cup end, but so does my first blogging experience, my first glimpse of sharing personal stories with the world wide web, and of being honest with myself in front of others.  To those who read, dutifully or otherwise, thanks much and I hope you enjoyed in some way.  Let’s all begin the countdown to Brazil in 2014…

–Justin

The sights, such as this one at Cape Point, were indisputably majestic

Now safely back in the US of A, jet lag fading slowly away, stories of the times we had just a week ago already getting old and worn with hyperbole, I’ve had time to reflect on our excursion, let what seemed like a hazy dream sink into reality.  The trip had something for everyone, as a cliched travel agency brochure would say…”majestic sights, exotic food, wild animals in their natural habitat, and enough soccer to quench the thirst of even the most avid fan.” 

Indeed, all of the above were true, no matter how you say it.  South Africa, without doubt, has defied odds and shunned critics by hosting Africa’s first-ever World Cup with overwhelming success.  Naysayers speculated that crime was too high in South Africa, that the police force couldn’t handle it, that the country’s blemishes would protrude out from its underbelly and leave a scar on the minds of spectators.  Doubters, media outlets, and jealous adversaries told tales of increased trafficking of prostitutes, high HIV rates, petty thefts  and muggings, all before the Jabulani had met its first foot.  These accusations, based wholly on sporadic and isolated events in the weeks leading up to June 11, are, it seems, unfounded. 

There was pride and joy among everyone during our time in South Africa

During my time in South Africa, I observed pride in place of robbery, dedicated and caring locals in place of seedy criminals, and a country overjoyed by all the attention in place of a country overwrought by incivility.  A republic still relatively fresh off of the inhumanity of apartheid (and this still showed from time to time) seemed to collectively agree to put aside its differences and show the antagonists just how well Africa can do at hosting the world’s biggest sporting event.  During my stay, I was treated with nothing but respect from locals (it was some of the tourists who were unbearably rude), made to feel welcome despite the shortcomings of a country less fortunate than my American homeland.

South Africa was united in its support of the World Cup

I congratulate the people of South Africa on their fine job of hosting.  I congratulate them on the fact that the most negative things the press could dredge up was the overbearing buzz of the vuvuzelas (which, by the way, are louder on TV than they are in person) and the “horrid” officiating that has been rampant throughout.  The simple fact that the focus is on the games, not the crime, speaks volumes for a country that many waited on to fail.  The superb job of the host country actually achieved the unintended goal of piquing millions of newcomers’ interest in soccer.  Sure, there was tragedy early on–the untimely and unnecessary death of Mandela’s own great-granddaughter on the eve of the Opening Match–but even these events were quickly and firmly squelched by host country’s surprising 1-1 draw against World Cup regular Mexico.

Even the townships shined during World Cup, and the extra police relieved safety concerns

Now safely back in the US of A, reality settling back in, the long holiday weekend a welcome reprieve, I am most satisfied with the sudden, unwaning interest in soccer, even after the home team has been sent packing.  I am intrigued by the World Cup buzz, by ratings that ESPN and Univision are salivating over, by packed bars and pubs showing soccer on their flat-screens at 10:00 in the morning and 2:30 in the afternoon.  And I can’t help but think that South Africa’s ability to come together, celebrate the World Cup, and mitigate the crime many thought was inevitable, is the main reason why.

A traditional South African braai (barbeque), which can take a while to prepare and serve

In South Africa, surprisingly, there are few major differences when compared to the United States. People act the same, dress the same, have similar humor, listen to similar music, and, in general, have similar aspirations.  Streets are named Florida, Orlando, and Orange, and the landscape and climate are similar to what you’d fine in the United States.  However, despite the numerous similarities, one difference that was consistent no matter where we were is that South Africans are uniformly never in a hurry.  A sit-down dinner at a medium-priced restaurant takes no less than two hours, with lunch around 90 minutes and breakfast coming in at one hour.  To eat three meals a day consumes almost 4 waking hours, not including travel, which is also a crash course in patience, and has little to do with the excess of traffic due to World Cup. 

On our last day in South Africa we signed up for a tour of the 4.5 million person Joburg suburb of Soweto, home to both Mandela and Tutu, with the bus scheduled to depart for Soweto at 8:30 am.  At 10:30, we were finally on our way to Soweto, after waiting an hour and a half for 4 people who were allegedly stuck in traffic.  Lines, or queues, are nearly always a tricky and time-consuming proposition.  We were second or third in line on numerous occasions but suddenly found ourselves waiting 30 minutes to an hour to pay for the merchandise or get to where we wanted to go.  This lack of regard for time is the South African way, and 450,000 tourists certainly won’t change that.

That’s why, when we were told the night safari would end at 8 pm and and it would take 15 minutes to get to the restaurant where we were to watch the game, we were concerned.  In most cases, the South African way was fine with us, four Americans happy to be there and in no real hurry, but time was of the essence if we were to make it back in time for the critical US game.  It was Saturday afternoon in the USA, so we knew many of our countrymen back home would be tuned in, another reason not to miss a minute.

The sun was setting quickly on our safari, and on our chances to make it back in time for the US-Ghana match

Probably because our guide Jeffrey was not used to the cold winter air that was dominating Kruger, and probably because Jeffrey had given up on seeing a lion, satisfied with 4 out of 5, he pulled into the park gate at 8:02, and the transfer to Perry’s Bridge Brewery and Restaurant went smoothly, putting us there 10 minutes before kickoff. 

Dempsey and Altidore during the Star Spangled Banner, as projected on the wall at Perry's Bridge in Hazyview

The crowd was mixed, with several Americans we had met the night before now ornately dressed and shrouded in the US flag, as if they were in Rustenburg watching the game live, and the remainder for Ghana.  It was no secret in South Africa that most of South Africa’s population, without a home team to cheer for after the Bafana Bafana were eliminated, had turned their allegiance to the Black Stars of Ghana. the only African team still remaining.  We couldn’t blame them, either, the whole continent resting their hopes on a Ghanan squad many had rendered longshots after star Michael Essien was ruled out in May due to injury.  In a virtual battle of the USA vs Africa, our supporters were overwhelmingly outnumbered in pubs, shebeens, fan parks and stadiums across South Africa, and Ghana’s 4th minute goal only made it worse.  The rest of the half was tense, with the US looking out of sync, failing to build an attack and having to sub early for a clueless Ricardo Clark. 

Halftime began the chants among Ghana supporters, with one group of Africans leading the bar area in a song/rhythmic chant.  Intrigued, I asked the leader what they were saying, and he explained that the chant was derived from the days back when Africans were building railroads.  The men would often sing motivational songs to help them get through, this one using an African-language word for “Push it”.  

Awesome pic taken by Karen, taken as Donovan was nailing his PK to tie up the match

With the chanting heard all over the continent and the  USA facing a one goal halftime defecit, the situation looked bleak.  As he had done in the three previous matches, though, Coach Bradley was able to inspire the Yanks, motivate them to play better from the second the whistle sounded.  A Landon Donovan penalty kick in the 61st minute put the icing on a USA-dominated start to the second stanza.  After this, the pace neutralized, and the game looked destined for extra time, the US unlikely to replicate its last-minute heroics as it had done vs. Algeria, especially after hitting the wall and looking fatigued down the stretch.

The mood at Perry’s Bridge during the 5 minute intermission was raucous, the few American fans bolstered by their performance in the second half and the Ghana fans still confident Africa would prevail.  As the first of two 15 minute extra sessions began, the Perry’s Bridge crowd got a bit too unruly, as spectators who had downed a few too many Castles got into a brawl, punches were thrown, barstools flung, general mayhem ensuing.  Just as the fighting had stopped, both sides seemingly coming to their senses, it began again, this time more furiously.  Luckily for us, being in the lower level of the restaurant shielded us from the altercation, our group only hearing the din of altercation and seeing the glare of siren lights on the front door as cops approached.  We were shamed that our fellow countrymen felt the need to embarrass us, give us a bad rep, by coming up swinging at the slightest of antagonisms.

Meanwhile, in Rustenburg, the USA was up to their tricks again, failing to get their engines revved early in the overtime, which led to the decisive final goal and end USA World Cup hopes.  A disappointing ending for an American team that simply ran out of gas.  Not that Ghana looked any more fit–both sides were dragging in the second overtime–just that our boys the Yanks gave it their all and in this case, it wasn’t enough.  Still, the first time a US team had taken first in their group since the very first World Cup, leaving us all proud despite a disappointing exit.

View of the back patio of our safari lodge, Hippo Hollow

So, we talked to our tour guide, Hendrik, a South African expat living in Charlotte, NC, but joining us on our trip so he could also experience the phenomenon, and found that he was able to rearrange our schedule so that we would have a day safari Saturday morning and a night safari Saturday night, as the sun was setting, ending at 8 so that we could make it back to the nearest pub with a big screen.  Karen, my coworker from New York and World Cup aficionado because of Nielsen’s groundbreaking research in South Africa, was also joining us for this portion of the trip, so all of us knew changing plans was a necessity.  We would have to skip the boma, but determined this was a small price to pay to make it to our game.  The downside was that we needed to wake up at 5:30 Saturday morning to fit it all in, but we again knew it had to be done.  Win or lose, it would be outright wrong to miss out on the quarterfinal match, one that we felt, in some small way, we had assisted in willing Donovan’s shot into the net in stoppage time.

The gang at early morning breakfast in Kruger National

Up we were, darkness still in the majority, and off from our Hippo Hollow Lodge to the Paul Kruger Gate 30 minutes away.  Hendrik commented that we had made it to the park before the animals had woken up, so we stopped for a quick breakfast overlooking the Sabie River, a picturesque spot for scarfing down some carbs and protein before our big day in the Kruger National Park bushveld.  As with any South African game hunt, the quest is to see the Big 5—elephant, lion, leopard, rhino, and buffalo—during the trip, as well as the conglomerate of smaller game, birds, and plants that hang their hats in the 38 by 219 mile park in South Africa’s northeast corner. 

Not one of South Africa's Big 5, but majestic nonetheless

Impalas, looking strikingly like deer with smoother, creamier coats, were up early and became almost as common as trees and cars on our trip through the park.  Hippos were also common at the start, found wallowing in the icy cold watering holes throughout the land, occasionally buddying up to killer crocs.  There’s no getting out of the car in Kruger, one because you’d likely get mauled, shredded, and eaten by any of a host of predators and two because the area is protected and meant for the animals, but there is also no need to, as we learned early on when we approached within mere feet of a giant African elephant, mixing gasps with camera clicks.

Yeah, we were that close

The morning progressed into afternoon, and our drive took us past dozens of zebras, several warthogs, a clan of water bucks, a few random wildebeests, and a family of seven giraffes, just as curious about us as we were about them.  Although they stood only about 20 feet from our car, I zoomed in with binoculars, the giraffes seemingly unphased, noticing their expressive eyes staring directly at me as the others in the car snapped photos and video.  Safaris, I now realized, appeal so much to people because of the unpredictability, the thrill of searching for and finding the Big 5, of spotting a rare animal in the wild and watching it as it goes about its daily business.  Unfortunately for us, despite the early elephant sighting, the rest of the Big 5 alluded us, and we headed back to Hippo Hollow satisfied in seeing the abundance of animals that we did, but still yearning to check the other 4 off of our lists.

One of the rare spots you can feel relatively safe about stepping out of your car in Kruger

The night safari commenced from a different part of the park, the five of us clambering into an open-air jeep along with 15 or so others who were ostensibly making Kruger their getaway destination during the World Cup.  Night safaris, surprisingly, offer the advantage of catching animals off-guard and of seeing some of the more nocturnal animals carousing the countryside at night, aided by three bright halogen spotlights beaming from the sides of the jeep.  The effects were immediate, as the sun was setting and our native guide Jeffrey easily spotted animals in the bushveld that I would have easily missed.  Buffalos, the second of our Big 5, were pointed out to us as tiny specks on the quickly disappearing horizon.  Elephants, being the most populous and largest of the Big 5, were again abundant. 

Heading out to the night safari

As the night grew darker and the air chillier, likely into the 40s that felt even colder when the jeep was moving, we spotted a pair of leopards protecting their freshly-killed impala dinner, followed by a group of three rhinos, moving quickly through the brush.  On a lighter note, we were also surprised by a hyaena (yes, that’s the correct South African spelling) who charged down the road directly at us, not appearing scared or concerned, veering at the last second to jog by the jeep and on down the road.  Only the lion prevented us from completing the Big 5 circuit at Kruger, yet we knew the Lion Park outside of Joburg on Monday would be the icing on the Big 5 cake.  A chilly night safari now concluded, we headed to Perry’s Bridge Pub for a late dinner and USA/Ghana Round of 16 battle.

Finally, after days of anticipation, after visiting the highly remarkable Cape Town sites and muddling through a day of wineries and veldt, the time had come, the time for our first World Cup match, the event that had drawn us all together from the start. 

Back in January, when I had naively placed an order for tickets, assuming its was a longshot, I chose the USA vs. Algeria because I wanted the see my home country play abroad and because the date was right.  Now, as we approached the opening kickoff, the game had taken on much heavier stakes, as the Yanks of the USA needed a win over the Algerians to advance to the Round of 16, a territory the Americans had only reached twice before.  Given the high expectations prior to the tournament, the build-up of the 2010 World Cup 20 years in the making for the US team, elimiantion in the group stage would signal major disappointment and set the matriculation of American soccer back two decades.  This match, one the Yanks had no business losing, was critical.

Our view at Loftus Versfeld

After a morning at the Apartheid Museum, we moved swiftly towards Pretoria, picking up two of my coworkers along the way.  With the major World Cup study headed by Nielsen, my colleague Karen from New York had flown overnight to Johannesburg, grabbed very little sleep, and met up with Candice of the Johannesburg office, just in time for us to pick them up on our way to Pretoria.  As we marched toward Loftus Versfeld Stadium in a residential section of South Africa’s capital city, the excitement built, the seven of us–five Americans and two South Africans with an affinity for the USA–not knowing what to expect as the Red, White, and Blue took on the Les Fennecs (The Desert Foxes) in the final group stage match.

We arrived within kilometers of the stadium, dropped off by our Joburg tour guide Hendrick, and put the finishing touches on our game day gear:  Shelley with the two USA flags symmetrically placed on both sides of her hair and a full-size flag around her neck, Regina sporting the Axl Rose red doorag and team jersey, Mike readjusting his USA cap and jersey, and me sliding on my red, white, and blue Kanye glasses while tightening the blue star doorag firmly on my head.  As we parted ways with Karen and Candice, who, we later learned, sat just below former US president Bill Clinton and current FIFA president Sepp Blatter, the pitch of the vuvuzelas rose and U-S-A chants rang throughout the pathway as we entered the stadium. 

Despite our valiant efforts to arrive to the stadium early, to give ourselves sufficient time to take in the atmosphere, lines of supporters and South African regumations had us in our seats just as the Star Spangled Banner was piped into the Loftus Versfeld speakers, leaving us with little time to settle in before the kickoff.  Still, I absorbed my surroundings, red, white and blue clearly outnumbering green, white, and red, with US flags undulating among the 35,000+ in attendance.  Although the crowd was small by World Cup standards, both ends behind the goal embarrassingly empty, the US contingent was strong, loud, and fully supportive of the Yanks.

Shelley and I looking all USA

The feeling was surreal, attending my first World Cup match, the feeling not initially sinking in due to the lackluster play of the Americans.  The game wore on, and as many know by now, times grew desperate for Landon Donovan and the gang.  Algeria got great looks, hitting a crossbar early on and missing some deadly crosses, while Dempsey and Altidore came up empty on golden opportunities.  As the 80th minute ticked by on the stadium clock, I began doubting a goal would be scored, the USA having to settle for their third tie and an unsatisfactory early return across the Atlantic.  Algeria seemed in control, ready to settle for a draw and dash American hopes, when, in an ending even Hollywood couldn’t have scripted, the never-say-die Americans finally put one past Algerian keeper Chaquchi in stoppage time, with Altidore crossing to Dempsey and the ball finding its way back to the Yanks’ savior and best player, Donovan, as he iced the back of the net.

A subdued stadium, already anticipating the draw and planning for the inevitable criticism of yet another USA soccer failure, erupted into mad pandemonium, streamers flying freely around the stands, vuvuzelas at full force, and the USA players celebrating frenetically.  Our group was no exception, as I impulsively grabbed Mike and Regina to my right and Shelley to my left, pulling them all in and barely avoiding a carefree tumble down the seats below.  Hugs were given and jubilation ruled as the final whistle was blown just minutes later, the USA waiting until the last possible minute, heaping unnecessary dramatics on a unexpecting crowd.  Few times in my life have tears streamed so freely down my face, unable to overcome the emotion and display of patriotism that swept the stadium, the feeling of what had just happened finally settling in.

The teams’ dramatics left Algeria despondent and the US players and fans in near shock, as we waited, some 10,000-15,000 strong, not wanting to leave the scene, too stunned to move.  Donovan dropkicked the ball into the US supporters section, joining teammates as they relived their youth, sliding and diving and cheering wildly, the fans in full support.  We stood on, united, small in number but large in pride, knowing our team had battled, gotten some breaks, lost some breaks, but had persevered and pulled off the victory.  Long after the game, after the big screens hinted at our exits and the team had left the field, the celebration poured out of the stadium as groups of American fans beat on drums, blew vuvuzelas, made new instruments, and chanted never-before-heard cheers.  One group held a fellow American on their shoulders, he with a replica World Cup trophy in hand, as if we had just won the trophy ourselves.  We stayed, enjoying the atmosphere, videoing and photoing the moment from every angle, unwilling to let ourselves forget.

One of the more creative postgame costumes, full NASA gear.

As we left the stadium, finally, nearly an hour after the game’s conclusion, I was still rapt in the emotion of the event.  Semi-spontaneously, just before the gate leading us out of the stadium, walking next to an Algerian teenager, graceful in defeat, I stopped, pointing at my USA jersey and then his Algerian jersey.  He smiled, shook his head, at first not understanding, then baffled as I took my shirt off, followed suit, handing over his Algerian jersey amicably.  The ultimate trade in sportsmanship was made, me now wearing a way too small Algerian jersey and my new friend sporting the red, white, and blue, two sizes too big.  Pictures were snapped and congenial gestures were made as we both walked away happily.

The long walk out of the stadium back to the car, me in an odd assortment of Algerian jersey and USA doorag, my companions all decked out in red, white, and blue, was incredible, with high fives from strangers and new-found friends.  South African kids, suddenly USA fans, touched us, shook our hands, swooned, and walked off proudly as Shelley gave up two of her mini flags to them.  The experience was unbelieveable, all-in-all difficult to capture with words, but an incredible ending to our first World Cup game, one unlikely to be duplicated. 

Me and my Alegerian friend, after the trade.

Everywhere you look there's a soccer ball, but rugby was on our mind Day 1 in Cape Town

And now, a lesser known fact about South Africa, and something that helps explain why FIFA has had difficulty selling World Cup tickets.  As our Cape Town tour guide Gavin explained on the initial commute from the airport, most white South Africans place soccer as a distant second to rugby as their favorite sport.  In his words, soccer just didn’t have enough scoring and it didn’t make sense that it could end in a tie.  Sound familiar?  Sharing the belief of millions of Americans, white South Africans tend to need more scoring and a clear victor, something rugby provides and soccer does not.  Blacks, or South Africans who are native to the country, and Coloureds, or any non-white or mixed race, are the true soccer supporters, much preferring it to rugby. 

Thus, the whites, many of whom are following the World Cup simply because it‘s everywhere all the time, would rather be watching their Springboks play rugby than their Bafana Bafana play soccer.  And “the Blacks”, as they’re commonly known, prefer soccer to rugby, but most of them can’t afford tickets to the World Cup, choosing instead to stay within their corrugated aluminum, heatless shanties densely packed into one of the many townships across the country, or in a community shebeen, an unlicensed drinking establishment that serves as a popular meeting place for Blacks. 

Ferryman's Pub on the V&A Waterfront in Cape Town, with our view of the rugby match from afar

Because Mike, Regina, Shelley and I all enjoy new experiences and breaks from the norm, and because we realized opportunities to digest soccer would be plentiful during our stay in South Africa, and possibly because we were fresh off of a Delta On Demand showing of Clint Eastwood’s rugby/end-of-apartheid epic “Invictus”, we indicated to Gavin our interest in watching the exhibition rugby match between defending world champs South Africa and rugby never-weres Italy.  So, after our 3-hour tour to Robben Island and lunch at The Green Dolphin on Table Bay, we loitered in the V&A Waterfront area, eying colorfully-dressed soccer fans and indulging in soccer insanity, before making our way to Ferryman’s Pub for some top-notch rugby action.  We could think of no better way to immerse into the South African culture than to buck the prevailing trend and watch a mystifying sport amidst the hordes of single-focused World Cup breathing tourists. 

As further testament of how soccer has completely and utterly enveloped South Africa, what was normally a rugby-only bar solicited by locals seeking to commune with fellow aficionados to cheer on the Springboks was now a soccer-heavy bar, opting to play the rugby match on only one of the 8 or so TV’s strewn about the large outdoor patio, while the remaining TVs catered to the World Cup crowd.  We four Americans, accompanied by our Capetonian tour guide, crowded into a space in the vicinity of the sole rugby TV, partially obstructed by poles holding up the roof.  Gavin, excited to teach the game to novices, began explaining the basics to Mike and I, as Italy jumped out to a 3-0 lead. 

Tables closer and within clear view of the screen soon opened, and we hurriedly rushed to grab them, eager to see the match up-close.  Shelley and Regina began chatting with locals, curious as to why four Americans would choose to watch rugby over soccer, while Gavin continued to explain the game to Mike and I.  Soon enough, the initially leery locals came to accept us, chime in along with Gavin in explaining the rules, and admiring our tenacity in watching what was quickly becoming a good old- fashioned thrashing, as the Springboks had scored 24 unanswered points and commanded a big lead over the inferior Azzurri of Italy.

As the match wound down, South Africa clearly in control, the conversation turned away from rugby and more towards comparisons of life in the USA and South Africa, with Henry, one of the rugby supporters across the table, sharing his experiences of his 6 months that he lived in Charleston, South Carolina.  He related to American humor and even performed his best Jeff Foxworthy impersonation as he jokingly referred to Shelley as a redneck for stowing a souvenir Ferryman’s cup in her purse, evidently viewed as a slightly backwards thing to do.  Now with a much better understanding about rugby and blue-collar whites in South Africa, we eventually parted ways with the rugby supporters, everyone appreciative of the new friendships that resulted, made a complete 180 degree turn and focused once again on the beautiful game.

32 makarabas, one from each team, a common site in stores across the country.

Despite expectations that we would be fully electronic at our guesthouse in Simon’s Town, a small fishing and tourist community wedged in between the surprisingly mountainous Cape Peninsula and False Bay,  just a few kilometers south of Cape Town’s “City Bowl”, we arrived at our guest lodge late Friday night to find no wifi, no DSL, not even any dial-up.  This, of course, was not an issue in an otherwise splendid accommodation—our own three-bedroom house just across the street and up the hill from a well-established penguin colony.  The house was newly-renovated, with furniture and adornments that seemed inconsistent with the community and outer façade of the area.  As Gavin, our full-time tour guide noted, it was a very nicely furnished home that just didn’t seem livable for more than a few days, which I think is heavily attributable to its lack of character. 

Our modernly decorated guesthouse in Cape Town

So without connectivity, much of our intentions to keep daily tabs on Stateside events and blog updates fell quickly to the wayside, as we finally made it to our first on-line stopover on Monday, in the rolling wine region northeast of the Cape, in the Stellenbosch area.  Thus, I battled internally with what to report in the blog, whether to concentrate more on our excursions—our visits to Robben Island, Cape Town’s jubilant V&A Waterfront, paraglider’s paradise Signal Hill, the overcrowded Cape Point, and the massive but awe-invoking Table Mountain—or go into detail about Cape Town culture, politics, and our quick immersion into the Afrikaans language, or to focus solely on the World Cup. 

In the end, I decided to stay true to the real reason Mike, Regina, Shelley and I had travelled 12,000 kilometers across the Atlantic in the first place, to see the beautiful game at its best.  My decision to report on the soccer aspects of the trip, the feelings about the soccer World Cup and its effects on the South African psyche, is not difficult.  The World Cup is literally everywhere you look, and only in our disconnected and TV-less abode in Simon’s Town did we feel sheltered and oblivious to the hundreds of thousands of fans invading the country to cheer on one or more of the 32 teams lucky enough to make it.  From the minute we landed in Johannesburg on the trans-Atlantic redeye, the smartphones were abuzz, American fans quickly alerting all aboard that the USA, fully expected to beat Slovenia, was down 2 goals to 1 midway through the second half and then later updating everyone at the luggage carousel that USA midfielder and coach’s son Bradley had tied it up late.  As we walked through the Jo’Burg airport to get our World Cup tickets, pockets of travelers and locals crowded around the well-positioned TVs to watch the final minutes, to agree or disagree about the offside call that snatched victory from the suddenly uber-inspired Americans.

The four of us at Cape Town Airport soon after landing

Our subsequent flight to Cape Town landed us squarely in the throes of action, as disappointing England and defensive stalwarts Algeria were battling just minutes away at Cape Town Stadium.  Gavin, our personal tour guide and adopted South African friend-we-had-known-forever, detoured from our course to Simon’s Town in enough time for us to relish both an England-Algeria draw and a Castle Lager at British-themed Westlake Arms.  Gavin, I will add, was exceptional in sharing his personal opinions, which was on par with most Afrikaaners in Cape Town, throughout our four days with him.  Not only did he drive us from point to point, he dined with us, stayed where we stayed, and generally filled every reasonable request we made within a reasonable time. 

Our first few hours in South Africa, and the soccer was difficult to ignore, the buzz was everywhere , the airports filled with reminders that South Africa was hosting the World Cup, vuvuzelas being blown in the terminals and in the pub as we watched the first game.  Make no mistake, soccer fever is a nationwide epidemic in South Africa.

Regina and Shelley were naturals on the vuvuzela. I, on the otherhand, needed much practice.

What started as a whim 6 months ago has now become a reality, as I am flying 37,000 feet in the sky somewhere over the East Atlantic, quickly approaching the West Coast of Africa, entering the continent in Namibia then across Botswana until landing in Johannesburg 3 hours from now.  At this point, before we get caught up in World Cup madness, it’s appropriate to introduce, formally, the cast of characters joining me on this journey.

First, Shelley, my aforementioned wife, quick-learning soccer fan who knew very little of the game until marrying me, and then still not gaining the bulk of her soccer knowledge until the fateful email indicating our ticket request had been accepted.  Shelley, the one who took the time to read Mandela’s 530 page autobiography and, as a result, will understand the country of South Africa better than me, will be more emotionally aroused by images and sounds at Robben Island and the Apartheid Museum.

Next Regina, wife of Mike, who I have known for 9 years, our first meeting when Mike dragged her to Athens, Ohio during my grad school years, both allured by the potential Halloween party atmosphere much-hyped at Ohio University.  Regina, showing her adventurousness a year later, at her return trip to Ohio U. Halloween, by partnering with Mike to go all out on a Homer & Marge costume, a delicate job that took several hours to finalize.  Regina, who, along with the rest of us, will be setting foot in Africa for the first time, but, unlike the rest of us, will also be attending her first ever professional soccer match, electing for her first experience to be on the grandest stage of them all.

Lastly Mike, my old teammate and roommate, one of the few I’ve managed to stay in touch with over the last decade (Facebook not included), whose club soccer team The Wheezers, inspired by Mike’s trip to the World Cup, claimed their first ever league championship just two prior to our departure, Mike leading a stellar defensive effort in a 3-0 victory.  Mike and I, experiencing our second professional soccer match outside of the USA together, the first being on a 1998 school trip to Italy, an unforgettable experience for all in attendance.

 For that game, my third non-US match, we had the tour guide sequester some tickets to see Rome’s two Serie A teams, Lazio and Roma, at Stadio Olimpico in Rome.  The atmosphere was explosive, literally, and from our high perches just two rows from the top of the massive 100,000 seat stadium, we could see clearly the fireworks being detonated within the stadium, the blue and purple smoke bombs creating a polluted haze over the field, sometimes making it difficult to see the game.  The stadium, although not full, was rowdy, a true soccer experience with two of Italy’s finest teams, even if Roma was down that year, middling in the standings, and Lazio sat atop the table. 

Current ranking left fans and squads undeterred, two inner-city rivals duking it out on the pitch, the fans of both battling in the stands with the plethora of rockets, smoke bombs, and chants.  On that day, opting to support the frontrunners, Mike and I, along with a dozen or so of our classmates, became lifelong Lazio fans, some of us purchasing blue and yellow Lazio scarves or shirts, others just joining in the easy-to-learn choruses that echoed through the exits and outside the stadium after a Lazio victory, our tour guide indicating for us to keep our Lazio enthusiasm to a minimum for fear we would draw the ire of downtrodden Roma fans.

Admittedly, neither Mike or I still copiously follow Lazio, and I couldn’t even guess where they finished in Serie A this past season, but the experience in Rome that evening accomplished the task of hooking many of my fellow American companions, Mike included, who were seeing European soccer for the first time.  And now, 12 years removed, as we edge ever-so-close to Africa, with South African musician Vusi Mahlasela’s Guiding Star album, pumped softly into my earbuds, gently guiding me to a new land, full of new adventures, we can hearken back to that trip as the foundation for this more monumental one. 

Now just 2:15 minutes from Johannesburg, we awake from our slumbers, rejuvenated and ready for soccer, South African style.

–Justin, somewhere off the coast of Namibia, 06/18/10 2:52 pm South African time

1) I fear the ties and lack of goals are beginning to deter even semi-avid fans in the US, simply because they seem to be linked.  Until the Brazil/North Korea game today, no game had  featured a win where both teams scored.  In 2006, that outcome had occurred 5 times by this point in the tourney. 

Further, the popular tie outcome, a concept others have indicated is mind-blowing (I, of course, vehemently disagree), has now been the result of six of the first fourteen matches, nearly half.  Compare again to 2006, when only three of the first fourteen ended without a winner.  And finally, the goals, or lack thereof, down 15 overall from 2006, from 38 to 23, lead to fewer Play of the Day highlights and more people on the brink of wanting to like the beautiful game but teetering back towards boredom.   

All tied up, in more ways than one.

But alas, I need not really care if Americans can never adapt to a game as foreign as soccer.  My excitement has not waned, the intrigue level still well above the bar, wondering how all the scenarios will play out as we begin round 2 of the group stage tomorrow afternoon.

2)  An interesting and comical snippet I overheard during the Slovakia/New Zealand game involved Slovak goalkeeper Jan Mucha, who just earned a contract with English Premier League club Everton.  The Toffees, as they’re known, play in a suburb of Liverpool, so Mucha put two and two together and decided the best way to learn English was by listening to Liverpool’s very own Beatles.  Why not, I’m sure people in Liverpool still talk that daily.  Carry on, Mucha!

Mucha, thinking he could do this eight days a week.

3) I had to show physical proof to Shelley and Jen the other day that the People’s Republic of Korea, aka North Korea, actually had a team in the World Cup.  A country where citizens have very few rights and are rarely allowed to leave the country, yet qualified for the World Cup for the first time since 1966, makes for an amazing story.  The Brazilians, their first opponents, and other teams have indicated that were looking forward to playing North Korea so that could get to know them better since only three of them play outside of North Korea.  However, the North Korean government isn’t going to let that happen, choosing instead to have their players on lock down when they’re not on the pitch.  And if you looked closely during the Brazil/North Korea game, you might have seen a small contingency of North Korean fans, a smattering of red mixed in with the sea of yellow Brasilia shirts.  The fact that any North Koreans were in attendance was surprising given their situation.  In reality, the North Korean supporters were imposters, paid by North Korea’s governmental regime to make it appear North Korea had fans.  Unbelievable! 

NOT REAL FANS!

4)  While we’re still on the Brazil/North Korea game, perhaps you noticed the oddity that took place on the Brazilian side.  As the announcer said while introducing the lineups:  “In the era of squad numbers, you rarely get 1 to 11, but there you have it.”  For the starting lineup of Brazil looked like this:

#1 Julio Cesar, #2 Maicon, #3 Lucio, #4 Juan, #5 Felipe Melo, #6 Michel Bastos, #7 Elano, #8 Gilberto Silva, #9 Luis Fabiano, #10 Kaka, #11 Robinho

Although it would be difficult to check, I would guess it’s rare, if ever, that this has happened in the World Cup, where 11 players with jersey number 1-11 take the field to start a game.  Leave it to the Brazilians, always basic in approach and consistent in their play, to pull that off.

Not on this blog.

Further, I am, for the most part, going to avoid all commentary regarding World Cup’s opening weekend, now 8 matches old.  Pleasingly, nearly every major news outlet in the US has done an ample job of reporting on the World Cup, and it should be no secret to John and Jane Doe that the tournament is underway.  In Tampa, turnouts at local pubs for the US/England match were so large that expectant fans had to be turned away, directed to other nearby locations that would broadcast the game.  Shelley and I, with our friends Mike and Jen, ventured out to Dubliner’s, a virtual carbon copy of a soccer-loving Irish pub, with a few Florida embellishments strategically placed throughout (e.g., an outdoor tiki hut serving up cold ones and a replica alligator head on a shelf amidst more Irish-looking trinkets).  The heavily American crowd at Dubliner’s was impressive:  loud, knowledgeable of the game, and faithful until the end.  While this was just a small taste of what we would be experiencing one week later, it was great to see the support for the team and general interest in a game that generates constant ridicule in the States.

Front-row seats at Dubliner's for the USA/England draw

Instead of carrying on about the US/England match and other notable current events, now, a mere four days ahead of our departure to South Africa–an idea that has Mike, Regina, Shelley unable to focus on daily tasks such as housework, doing our jobs, paying bills, etc.–my mind drifts to comparisons of previous football matches I’ve had the privilege of attending.  After my Ajax/Eindhoven icebreaker in The Netherlands, I was hooked, knowing that future travels would include trips to live football matches.  Three years later, during a monthlong Spanish-language immersion program in Costa Rica, in which I lived with a Costa Rican family in the San Jose suburb of Santa Ana, I relished the opportunity to embrace the ”Tican” style of futbol.

Not surprisingly, the family I stayed with were avid soccer fans, siding with San Jose’s vaunted Saprissa squad, a dominating club team in Costa Rica that has won a record 29 championships.  Los Morados, or the Purple Monster as they are also called, were, at the time, vying for their 20th title during that year, battling archrival and perrenial powerhouses “Los Manudos”, or Alajuelense, for the crown.  Knowing my love for the game and desire to see a live match, Carlos, the father in the house where I stayed, offered to take me to the town of Alajuela to see the first of the games between these two stalwarts.  How Carlos scored tickets to a sold out match was not clear to me, but, as a taxi driver, he seemed to know hordes of people and probably had worked out a deal in advance.  In any case, I was appreciative of his willingness to let a gringo join him at one of the biggest soccer matches of the year in Costa Rica.

Estadio Alejandro Morera Soto in Alajuela, Costa Rica, home to L.D. Alajuense

As we approached the stadium in Alajuela, the scene was intense, as it was apparent from the start both teams has a strong dislike for each other, and their close geographical proximities made it easy for fans of both sides to have near equal representation of the game.  My memories of the game do not include the outcome (although I think it ended in a draw), but rather the players from Saprissa being escorted off the field at halftime and at the end by fully-uniformed policemen, carrying clubs and plastic shields to protect players from being subject to unidentified flying objects.  I also recall fruit of some sort, and glass bottles, both making classic projectiles, being fired at the Saprissa squad, although the police shields stopped them short of their intended destinations.  Carlos, passionate in his fervor for Saprissa but mild-mannered by nature, avoided the conflict and did his best to explain the situation to me.  I understood, for the most part, the enormity of the event and the intimidation tactics deployed by the Alajuense faithful as they tried to win their third consecutive title.  Besides the slightly violent fruit/bottle throwing incident, the raucous crowd handled themselves pretty civilly, as no one was trampled or seriously injured and fans from both teams aggressively chanted back and forth.  I was happy to report to my American companions that Carlos and I returned to his home in Santa Ana safely.  

San Jose's Saprissa football club, eventual champions of the Primera Division in 1997-1998

Several days later, with the second and final round of the aggregate Battle Royale set to commence that night, Carlos and his wife invited me to the normally closed off upstairs of their home to watch, on TV this time, the decisive game.  Carlos assured me that, playing in their home stadium, Saprissa would win and take the title back from Los Manudos.  In the end, as Carlos predicted, Saprissa were victorious, but of more important note was the experience of watching the game with my Costa Rican family.  During my month stay in Costa Rica, this was the most enriching, the most “immersing” expereince of all, as my Tican family seemed to have accepted me as one of them during that time.  With the invitation to the off-limits upstairs, the place where they generally went to escape from the constant flow of Americans that trod in and out of their home (they hosted students like me year round), I truly felt both honored and indebted to be able to experience the game with them.  Each time Saprissa scored that night, they high fived me, looked to me with excitement in their eyes, treated me as equal, providing me with a true travel experience I will never forget.