I have a curiously intimate relationship with the World Cup.

Far and Away

My first encounter with the World Cup was in Ireland circa 1990, where I was living at the time.

I was trying to find myself a bedsit (a.k.a. a studio  apartment), and one afternoon I left work early in order to wander the streets of Ranelagh in search of one (at least the one listed in the paper).

I noticed that I was the only creature moving in the entirety of the neighborhood. Not a person, not a dog, not a car was in motion. I was the only articulatedly living thing as far as the eye could see. Not having been in Ranelagh before it gave me a creepy feeling, and it got me to thinking that I didn’t want to live in that part of town if that’s what it was going to be like.

Someone in the office had mentioned “the World Cup” that morning but that was an inconsequential sporting event in which I like most Americans had no interest.

Whilst walking down a very pleasant street lined with handsome brick townhouses and tidy front yards and half-open windows (all with lace curtains), an ungodly roar shattered the silence, out of nowhere from everywhere.

I thought  it was an explosion at the power station, possibly an earthquake.

It had to be one of those two things. What else could obliterate the silence with such a sustained, ear-splitting din?

Turns out, it was the Packie Bonner save in penalties during the Romania match (here).

Practically every single person in the country was in a pub (or a living room) watching the match on the telly, or  in the office (or on the bus) listening to it on somebody’s radio, and when Packie saved the country’s hopes, everyone’s voice was raised in relief, disbelief, and thrill-dom.

Living in a small country when their national team is doing well in an international event is like being part of a tribe. A big, happy, on-the-same-page tribe. Everybody knew what was going on, everybody had something to say, everybody was excited.

The Irish Chamber of Commerce even had tips on how to deal with the inevitable “sickies” that would be called in on the day following a match, to wit; just deal with it, wouldja, when was the last time we’ve done so well?

That game, and that night

On the night Ireland lost to Italy in the quarter-final, my then-fella and I went out because, well, it was kind of sad being just the two of us in the living room with the tv.

We drove…somewhere, and when we crested the hill, I saw a sight that exposed the pit of my stomach to a primal fear I don’t believe I’ve felt since.

We were at a stoplight, and at one corner of the crossroads was a pub, and literally hundreds of people were pouring out of it onto the sidewalk and flowing into the street, shouting, jumping, drunk.

The bus on the opposite side of the lights couldn’t move for the mob. It was like a big yellow caterpillar being o’er-swarmed by ants.

The car in front of us was instantly engulfed by the pubgoers. A bunch of males yanked opened both doors, and pulled the elderly driver and his elderly wife from the car.

A young guy, a big guy, had the wife. He was tall and youthful and strong, and she was tiny and white haired and slightly stooped.

He grabbed her around the waist. You could see his huge paw on the small of her back.

He grasped one of her hands in his and lifted it into the air. He was so tall she couldn’t look up into his face.

And then…

…he started dancing with her. A gentle, old-fashioned waltz. Everybody laughed, including the lady. He deftly twirled her around a few times, and deposited her next to her husband.

The husband had immediately been taken over by the crowd, which I could now see were, um gideons (as in giddy). He was theirs, and they were his.

Everybody was absorbed into this swirling mass of happiness. He was smiling, they were smiling, and everybody was singing that year’s football song, “Olé, olé-olé-olé, olé, o-olé!”

And then they started on some auld sod song, and everybody, everybody, started waltzing with each other. Pandemonium, delirium, Ireland-onium, it was hard to know what it was.

“What the hell?” I practically shouted to my fella (we were still in the car). “You guys lost. Lost! And you’re singing!”

“We haven’t lost,” he said with a twinkle, “we’ve gotten further in this World Cup than in any other. We got to the quarter-finals! And we lost to Italy! One of the best teams in the world! The lads did well to have gotten so far, and we’re proud of them.”

An Actual Black of Dublin

When “the lads” returned from the World Cup, on the same day that recently-released-from-prison Nelson Mandela came to Dublin to personally thank the Irish Anti-Apartheid movement (and this is what he said), thousands and thousands (including me) were in the City Center.

We waited outside Leinster House for the great Mandela himself to arrive. He gave a wonderful, powerfully moving speech. Before he got to the end of it, one of his entourage whispered something to him. Mandela cleared his throat and said, “The boys have just touched down at the airport, so I’ll stop now.”

The crowd gave him a thunderous cheer, then we pivoted en masse and ran down to O’Connell Street to find places along the parade route.

News people estimated that half of the country was in Dublin that day.

Half of the country.

And it was a joyous, joyous day.

Closer to home

When the World Cup came to America in 1994, the place I was working at was in the town of Foxboro and wouldn’t you know it, the Foxboro stadium where the Patriots play was chosen as one of the venues.

And, they were looking for volunteers.

I was part of the credentials tent. Everybody, every body, needed to get badged: the players, the camera guys, the hot dog vendors, the security crew. And they all came through our tent. Hand over your paper work, and if you’re in the computer, you get to get a color-coded photo ID, developed with Polaroid and HP, so that the camera sent the image directly to the printer which printed everything out in one laminated go.

Believe me, this was cool high-tech-ness in 1994.

The Nigerian team came by just to come by, all handsome and African in their beautiful robes, passing out Nigerian football pins and telling us how happy they were to be in America and playing in the World Cup.

Talk about making everybody’s day, these guys were nothing but happiness.

So this one guy shows up…

A lone Japanese fella, standing in my line. I thought his face would split open from the smile.

He bows.

I bow.

I say something along the lines of welcome-to-Foxboro-do-you-have-your-paperwork.

He bows.

I bow.

He does not give me his paperwork.

“Do you have your paperwork?” I say with a smile.

“I frah Toe-keough,” he says back, the smile reaching almost his ears.

“Welcome to America.”

“I come foh Whorcup!”

“The World Cup. Yes, here it is.”

“I frah Toe-keough. I come foh Whorcup!”

More bowing, more smiling, one phone call to the translation tent.

Turns out he was a reporter, from Tokyo, here to cover the World Cup, and he was early (press credentialing wasn’t scheduled until the following week).

But he didn’t care. The Whorcup was going to be here, and so here he was.

A happier man I did not see for that entire event.

So the American says…

All of the above, my dear American friends who think soccer is lame, is what the World Cup is all about.

And the interesting thing about this year’s World Cup, the one that’s going on right now, is that it seems moderately to fairly good that we might have an outside chance of maybe possibly winning it on a fluke.

But then again, so does everybody else.