Dispatch #2: Memories of South Africa

I. Ugly American

I went to the World Cup with the intent to follow the Spanish team.  I’ve been a supporter for a couple years now.  They’re a perennial powerhouse, fun to watch, and have the potential to underachieve and break your heart.  All the best ingredients for a team to watch during the Cup. So a few friends and I bought 4 Team-specific tickets for Spain, 3 first-round games and the second round game. (More on Spain later.) At the last moment before we left for South Africa, USA v. Algeria tickets became available. What’s a red-blooded Kansas boy to do? Buy the damn tickets.

I’m not terribly patriotic, as a rule. But when it comes to soccer, I’ve never been shy about rooting for the red white and blue. I think underdog aspect certainly helps me stomach supporting the US when it comes to soccer. The 2009 Confederations Cup was a great success, and with more or less the same team going to South Africa, there was a legitimate hope for the second round or quarterfinals. The Algeria match was supposed to be a formality, especially if the two previous matches went as expected (lose or draw with England, win over Slovenia?).

It didn’t quite turn out that way. We had a terribly lucky draw with England (thanks, Robert Green), then a terribly unlucky draw with Slovenia (can anyone explain to me what exactly that referee was calling to nullify Edu’s goal?).  The Algeria match suddenly becomes massive. Win, and advance. Lose, and international embarrassment once again.

The game was on Wednesday. We headed to Pretoria on Monday because the Spain match was going to be there on Friday anyway. Staying at an Afrikaaner guesthouse five minutes from the stadium, I figured it’d be a good chance to meet some Americans as well as the locals, and see how they found us Americans, both from a sporting and cultural viewpoint.

On Tuesday night, the slightly drunken proprietor of our guesthouse wished us the best of luck in beating Algeria on Wednesday, after trying to sell me a safari for Thursday. (After multiple brandys, I think he also offered me a place for my honeymoon, ignoring the fact that I’m not actually engaged.) So I suppose they think we’re alright. As a proud Afrikaaner, he was brutally honest that he simply didn’t want England to place first in group C, so America was the second best choice. Then he proceeded to talk rugby until I finally figured out just what the hell a Try was.

On a morning walk the Wednesday of the match, it seemed that Pretoria had been taken over by Algerians. Not an American jersey to be seen in the city square, the Algerians had already taken over the McDonalds, draping their flag down over the Golden Arches and blowing miniature vuvuzelas, the screeching sound resembling a dying cat, or an angry baby. Fleeing in terror, I made my way back to the room and woke my friends. It was time to don the war paint.

I bought a face-painting kit for 50 South African Rand (something like $7) a couple of days before. It took a bit of coaxing, but finally my buddies agreed to let me smear American flags on their faces. What else were we supposed to do? We had to counter the Algerians somehow. I had a USA jersey, and a small flag, but not much else. It was almost game time by the time we finished the artwork. And we headed off to the match.

But then, I became suddenly aware of how silly I looked.

Because, you see, walking into the stadium, one thing became obvious. American soccer fans are, by far, the most obnoxious bunch of hooligans I’ve ever seen. Spanish fans are enthusiastic, and knowledgable. The Americans here are vulgar and fairly stupid. Chants of “America, F*ck Yeah!” rang across the ground as we made our way to our seats. Derogatory comments about Algeria abounded and I would bet that a good majority of the Americans were drunk out of their minds. One frat-head even got Bro-Iced right in front of the security guards. Some didn’t even know they were at a soccer match. I looked on with amusement at flag-waving ‘Mericans scratching their heads after Dempsey’s (albeit unfairly) disallowed goal in the first half. “Why didn’t we get a touch-goal-unit?” I could imagine them asking themselves while ignoring the linesman’s raised flag. “And why is the clock counting up?”

President Clinton’s presence next to FIFA chairman Sepp Blatter in the club boxes helped somewhat, but really, I felt awful about my nationality. The team’s dreadful finishing didn’t help. First half turned into second, and second turned into injury time. Dempsey, Altidore, and Gomez all missed chances that my mother could have put in the back of the net. We looked lazy, incompetent, and still the better team. It was humiliating and infuriating.

Then, IT happened.  Call it the Miracle in Pretoria.  Landon Donovan, by now the best American player of his or any generation, cleaned up after Dempsey and Altidore, slotting the ball past the keeper in the 91st minute. Loftus Stadiumerupted. Even Bill Clinton stood up and cheered. Flags were unfurled, thanks were given to the soccer gods, and voices were lost (mine included) as we all realized that we had just seen one of the most important goals in United States soccer history. All the misery of the past few hours washed away. I didn’t mind the obnoxious Americans anymore. I didn’t notice Sam’s Army nor the American Outlaws. I felt nothing but incredible happiness. Thanks, Landon. I was proud to be an American again.

Postscript:

Later that night we ran into Marcelo Balboa at a pub near the stadium. The perfectly ironic end to the perfectly ironic day.

II. Viva Espana

Before I left, I had the bittersweet experience of watching the US get beat by the well-matched Black Stars of Ghana. Bitter because, well, I kind of thought we had a chance to make it to the semi’s, from a look at the lopsided bracket. But in the end I didn’t feel too bad about it. South Africans, after the dismal showing by Bafana Bafana, had begun backing Ghana en masse, dubbing them “Africa’s Great Hope,” “Bafana B’Ghana,” and then a South African politician officially re-naming the team “The African Black Stars.” Although annoying at times (hell, we don’t root for Mexico if the USA bows out), the continental nationalism actually made me want to root for Ghana. The entire continent was behind them. It seemed a rare thing I was watching unfold, and inspiring.

Then they got cheated by that knucklehead Suarez and that little distraction was over. Time to focus on Spain again.

Being unbelievably poor, staying for the entire tournament really wasn’t a viable option. So although Spain picking upmomentum in the knockout rounds and looking like the favorites again, I had to go back to Kansas and watch the semi-finals and final on ESPN.

Vicente Del Bosque’s game plan was simple: Keep 80% possession and let Iniesta and Alonso, who have magnets in their boots, feed it to Ramos on the wing, who whips in to whomever might be in the middle and let Villa score off the rebound. It didn’t work during the first round, when people still thought Fernando Torres had some sort of job to do, which he actually doesn’t. He’s there to look pretty. Someone must have pointed this out to the team sometime before the Portugal match.

Group play mercifully ended and they finally found their scoring form. I never thought I’d see a Spanish team play to wear down their opponents, but that’s exactly what they did. And they did it well. In terms of efficiency, they looked more German at points than the Germans. It started to work. And they rolled through to the final.

This was already a dream come true for me. But a World Cup win? Impossible, I thought. They are always one of the favorites. They always find a way to screw it up.

Not this time. They did it. I mean, you saw it. They held on in one of the most tension-filled matches I’ve seen in a long while, and scored in extra time. It doesn’t get much better than that.

Oh wait, it does. It gets better when you realize that you can tell your grandchildren that you didn’t pick Spain to win the 2010 World Cup in your office pool. You picked them to win so you bought tickets to South Africa to go see them win.  And then they won.