Blogabroad
by Mary Pinckney Waters
July 11, 2006 - World Cup Woe
While you were eating barbecue and watching fireworks on July Fourth, the Germans were crying. They had fought their way to the semifinals of the world’s most important sports tournament, and in the last two minutes of double overtime, Italy ruined their weekend Berlin plans.
After a month of mania over “the other football,” the World Cup is now over, Italy having beaten France in the final game on Sunday in Berlin. With Germany playing tournament host, I’ve been blessed with a first-hand seat for the madness. The first game I watched on-location (not from the stands, of course, but on a big screen) was the England-Ecuador game in Stuttgart.
After a three-hour train ride, we arrived in Stuttgart, Baden-Württemberg, to a red-and-white ocean of English fans. The German language was nowhere to be heard; only English that sounded way too proper to me and my American companions. A short walk from the train station took us to the Marktplatz (the main square of any German city) where a swarm of hundreds had gathered as a crazed choir of jocks singing British soccer anthems.
The weather was scorching. Later that day after the game, David Beckham would vomit as a result of the Stuttgart heat. Most of the male fans were shirtless, revealing a landscape of skin, sweat, hair and all-too-often beer bellies and man boobs. If I didn’t know better, I would have sworn a few of them were pregnant, in the eighth month, but the fact that they were armed with pitchers of beer ruled against that.
Being as my travel mates and I aren’t rich or famous (yet), we made our way to the FIFA fan zone where all the other ticket-less fans watched the game in a sectioned-off area with three giant screens, pricey food and beverage stands, and plenty of Porto-Potties. The array of fansmanship was more than impressive; many bodies were layered in red and white paint, while others were inked permanently with patriotic tattoos. British flags were acceptable substitutes for any article of clothing. Apparently Batman and Superman are even England soccer fans, both having made an appearance at Stuttgart’s game.
The game stayed 0-0 past the first half, causing British fans to sing their war chants with more frequency and gusto. When England’s Beckham finally scored the only point of the game, the sky rained beer and the fans danced like idiots.
Besides the England-Ecuador game, I’ve watched the Cup games in Bamberg, which has offered no less fanaticism than the tournament-hosting cities themselves. Even if you’re weren’t tuned into the game, there was no way you could avoid knowing when the German team started playing, scored a goal or won a match; in the event of these, objects or people capable of making noise were most likely doing so. Just about every TV was broadcasting the action; cafes, restaurants and bars were packed with customers facing any available screen, not speaking to one another except in synchronized groans and celebratory outbursts.
On no night was the enthusiasm greater than on Tuesday, the semifinal game against Italy. A giant screen was set up on Bamberg’s Marktplatz for the city’s viewing pleasure. It seemed everyone had ventured out of his domain to watch the game amongst a communal home team spirit. The crowd was so dense that Amy and I, both barely over 5 feet, simply glanced at each other in cluelessness each time people uttered a reaction to the game. After 10 minutes of “ooohs” and “ahhhs” taunting our (lack of) height, we decided to ditch the Marktplatz for a local pub equipped with a big screen and tall bar stools.
I’ve been saying this whole month that I can’t catch the soccer bug, that the sport is just too boring, the field just too big and the scores just too zero. By last Tuesday, though, I realized: I’d been infected. I was on the edge of my stool, eyes adhered to the ball on the screen, yelling at anyone obstructing my view, holding my breath when the German players had a chance to score and cursing the Italians when they had one. I’d even stooped down to calling the sport “football.” I know; I’m ashamed.
With a 0-0 score into the second overtime, the game turned in Italy’s favor in the last two minutes. The upbeat aura that had denominated during the past couple hours had been silenced within seconds by Fabio Grosso’s kick in the 119th minute of the game. A few moments later and Germany’s defeat was official, sending silent swarms pouring onto the streets to head home empty-hearted.
Amy and I shared a single seat on the final bus out of the city after the game. The bus left behind schedule in waiting for the large crowd to board. With elbows in our faces, we looked out the window at the line of people remaining to enter the bus, wondering where they were going to fit.
The driver picked up the intercom and said, “Please move a little bit farther back. There are only seven more people outside.”
A passenger in the back yelled in response: “All Italians have to leave!” Laughter hung in the bus for a few seconds, followed by ride home of quiet sighs and promises to boycott pasta and pizza.
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