By the 17th minute of last Saturday’s Women’s World Cup opener, the 78,972 fans at Giants Stadium were growing restless. Pre-game festivities that included a taped greeting from the first lady and a performance by platinum-selling boy toys N’ Synch were long forgotten. Attention and some consternation now focused squarely on the match at hand: the United States vs. Denmark.
The Americans were floundering. They looked tentative, misplaying several easy passes and nearly surrendering a goal to the Danes.
Then suddenly an opportunity arrived. A ball was played in the air deep to the right side of Denmark’s penalty box. With her back to the goal, striker Mia Hamm brought it down with her foot, deftly turned inward past a defender and rocketed the first goal of the tournament high into the net.
Giants Stadium went berserk. Hamm high-step sprinted in utter ecstasy 50 yards back to her own half of the field, screaming and wildly pumping her fists until finally she was mauled by overjoyed teammates.
It was as raw an expression of joy as you will see in sports. But a palpable sense of relief was there as well. After enduring months of media appearances to promote everything from a sports drink to a soccer Barbie doll to the World Cup itself, Mia Hamm had returned to what she loves most: playing the game.
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Until recently, you could be forgiven for having no idea who Mia Hamm is.
But over the last couple months, the women’s soccer star has graced the front page of the New York Times, been a guest on “Good Morning America” and karate-flipped Michael Jordan in Gatorade TV ads. She has released an autobiography and christened an enormous new office building named in her honor at Nike’s corporate campus in Oregon. And she has broken the record for the most career international goals ever scored by any soccer player, woman or man: 110 as of last Saturday.
Hamm is just 27, but the media have already conferred upon her the status of living legend. By tournament’s end, she could be more recognizable than any American man ever to play soccer, including (what’s-his-name?) the guy with long red hair and goofy goatee (Alexi Lalas). Moreover, she could become the most recognizable woman athlete on Earth.
As the largest team sporting event for females ever held, the Women’s World Cup may prove a watershed for women’s sports in the U.S. and worldwide. And as the fresh face that media and corporate sponsors have chosen to personify the event, Hamm has challenges far beyond the soccer field. Everyone — from Nike executives to 13-year-old daughters of soccer moms — will be counting on her to lead the United States to victory and score plenty of goals along the way.
As soccer’s best female player, Hamm is being asked to expand the game’s appeal to millions of Americans, many of whom enjoy watching their kids play each Sunday but would never consider attending a professional match. There is even talk of creating a women’s professional league in the United States, contingent on the success of the Women’s World Cup.
Beyond soccer, Hamm has been thrust into the role of ambassador for all female team sports. As the most scrutinized player in this summer’s tournament, she is under intense pressure to prove that female athletes are every bit as entertaining to watch as men — not just in Olympic gymnasiums or ice rinks, but in the great coliseums such as Giants Stadium.
It’s a tall order for a private and intense young woman who has happily toiled in relative obscurity for years. But, as her opponents have repeatedly learned, Mia Hamm should never be underestimated.
There’s a reason why your daughter, your sister, your niece, your granddaughter or your mother loves to play soccer.
Unlike virtually any other team sport, soccer embraces players of all shapes and skill sets. For those fleet of foot, the sport offers the position of striker. Slower, stronger athletes can be put to work at the back as defenders. Those with titanium lungs and exceptional vision are best in the midfield. Nerves of steel and hands of leather are prerequisites for the role of goalkeeper.
With relatively few rules and a clock that never stops, “the beautiful game” thrives on individuality and expression, its field offering acres of canvas upon which masterpieces can be created by players of various styles.
To non-soccer fanatics, that may sound like hyperbole. But there can be little doubt that the game served as an outlet of expression for a gangly 13-year-old from north Texas named Mia Hamm. At the awkward arrival of adolescence, soccer was a refuge for the quiet teenager.
Her recently published “Go for the Goal: A Champion’s Guide to Winning in Soccer and Life” consists of memoirs, words of advice to young female athletes and a regimen of soccer training drills. Hamm describes how as a teen she would spend hours alone on the practice field honing her skills long after others had called it a day. Amid the media maelstrom of recent weeks, Hamm says she still finds “a haven and security inside the lines.” She recently told ESPN, “the field is where I express myself.”
By age 15, Hamm had been competing on boys teams for years, even leading them in scoring at times. Already focused on the long term, she dreamed of playing for the University of North Carolina’s legendary Tar Heels, and then landing a spot on the U.S. Women’s National Team. Both goals were achieved in short, but reverse order. That year, she became the youngest woman ever to play for the United States and traveled with the team to Taiwan. A couple of seasons later, she set off for Chapel Hill to join the Tar Heels.
At the time, both squads were led by coach Anson Dorrance, whom Hamm calls “the driving force behind my growth as a person and a player.” Known for his intense and even controversial motivational tactics, Dorrance took her aside several months after she had joined the national team. In her memoirs, Hamm recalls him saying, “You can become the best soccer player in the world.” Whether these words were sincere or merely meant to bolster the confidence of a young player coming into her own, they proved prophetic.
Like many female athletes who came of age in the 1980s, Hamm had few female predecessors in her sport on which to model her game. Not surprisingly, men served as her primary athletic mentors. Years before she met Dorrance, it was her older brother Garrett who served as soccer sparring partner, motivator and idol. Hamm credits him for being the single most influential person in her career.
Garrett was plagued for years by the blood disease aplastic anemia, and died of complications related to bone-marrow transplants shortly after the United States won the Olympic Gold Medal in 1996. Hamm was devastated and has since devoted herself to raising awareness of the disease through a charitable foundation that bears her name. The U.S. team has played several benefit matches to raise money for the foundation. As another tribute, every pair of the Nike soccer shoes she endorses has Garrett’s initials on the bottom.
The relative lack of female soccer superstars of the past may also help explain the close-knit nature of the U.S. Women’s National Team. Lacking idols to emulate and, until now, lacking public interest, its players have been forced to look inward and to one another for inspiration. Hamm is no exception. In her book, she lavishes pages of praise on teammates Kristine Lilly and Michelle Akers who are clearly her soccer heroes.
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At just 5 feet 5 inches tall, Hamm is an offensive force of nature. With an explosive first step, she blows by defenders with the ball seemingly tied to her feet on a short string. In the open field, she can be unstoppable, zigging and zagging, cutting and slashing past the opposition. Often, opponents are reduced to grabbing her jersey or jamming a foot in her wheels as she flies by.
In addition to her grass-singeing speed, Hamm possesses impeccable “touch,” as it is known in soccer. Try catching a 40-yard touchdown pass with your foot and you’ll understand the term. As she showed Saturday, Hamm can pull down a ball traveling through the air at high speed with her insole, settle it on the ground and pound it toward the goal, all in an instant.
Finally, Hamm has that intangible quality that defines great strikers: the ability to capitalize on even the slightest opportunity to score. Soccer matches last 90 minutes and are often decided by no more than a single goal. Moments when the ball can be deposited in the back of the net come and go in a split second, at which time the 24-foot-wide goal can seem to shrink drastically even for many experienced players.
At such moments, exceptional scorers like Hamm enter a zone where time slows and the goal beckons. On a breakaway with the goalkeeper flying toward her at top speed, Hamm can calmly chip the ball over her opponent’s head into the net beyond, not just because it’s a move she has practiced 1,000 times before but because of an innate belief in herself.
“Mia is a very unique person, not just an exceptional player,” coach Tony DiCicco of the U.S. National Team recently told me following a pre-tournament press conference. “Because of that she’s become a media darling. It has accelerated as people have learned about her as a person.”
Hamm remains humble despite the hype. She uses media appearances to deflect attention from her personal achievements to those of the team. In a conference call with reporters after shattering the record for most international goals scored, Hamm described the historic play as “very reflective of our team, with lots of one-touch plays. I was fortunate to be at the end of it and knock it in.” If ever there was a time to bask in personal glory, this was it. Yet Hamm declined.
Hers is not the forced modesty of a media-savvy star. It is rooted in a relentless will to win coupled with an understanding that, at its heart, soccer is a team sport. On the field, she is a vocal and dominant competitor. Off the field, you get the sense that she would prefer to fade into the woodwork of the U.S. squad, to just be an athlete.
But the sport’s rising popularity and her status as an idol to girls and women across the country has made that impossible. “She’s kind of become an entertainment icon,” said DiCicco. “I think it’s a role that she embraces because she knows it’s a job the team and the sport need.”
Is DiCicco concerned that the hoopla surrounding the tournament will distract Hamm from the task at hand? “I’m not sure it has helped her,” he admits, laughing a little nervously. He acknowledges that in the past he has seen a busy media schedule “hinder her because of the demands physically” but contends that this recent, heavier spate of attention does not affect her mental discipline.
Still, Hamm has not shown herself to be immune from the effects of pressure. As World Cup media attention ratcheted up earlier this year, she endured an eight-game goal drought — an eternity for a player who, on average, has scored in two out of every three games she has played.
Furthermore, she has never been known as a big-game overachiever. Her play throughout the last Women’s World Cup in 1995 could hardly have been described as dominant. In a significant setback to American women’s soccer, the United States was eliminated from the tournament that year by Norway, which went on to win the championship.
With her extraordinary intensity, Hamm can be her own worst enemy. She can allow small errors in her game to blossom into larger ones by being overly critical of herself. There is concern that the heightened attention of the past few months might compound that tendency.
Saturday’s victory for the Americans offered a storybook kickoff to the Women’s World Cup. But whether that momentum will carry forward and allow them to win the tournament remains to be seen. The Norwegians still look strong, and just a few months ago the Chinese, another possible contender, beat the United States 2-1 in a warm-up at the Meadowlands.
Inevitably, success or failure will depend on the collective effort of all 20 young women on the U.S. team. But, fair or not, Hamm will suffer the lion’s share of the blame should the team fall short of its goals. Whether she flourishes or flounders in the glare of the media spotlight promises to be one of the great subplots of World Cup ’99. If last Saturday’s game is any indication, she should be more than up to the task.
PARIS, July 12: I‘m far too young to have been around the day World War II ended. But I imagine that Paris that day must have felt something like it does at this very moment.
Fifteen minutes ago, the French national team completed an astounding upset of the vaunted Brazilians to win the 1998 World Cup. Around the base of the Arc de Triomphe thousands pack the streets, screaming, yelling, singing, embracing, dancing, rejoicing. Cars honk their horns in time to the chants. Strangers high-five or hug one another in pure joy.
On the left side of the Arc itself is a 40-foot projected image of Zinedine Zidane, scorer of two goals tonight. He has instantaneously become the greatest sporting legend France has ever known. Along the cross bar of the Arc the words “Zidane for President” are projected in blue laser light.
The crowd slowly surges around the Arc toward the heart of the party, the Champs Ilysies. Under a lovely yellow moon, hundreds of thousands are packed onto the grand boulevard. For as far as the eye can see, there is nothing but people and flags.
Since early this afternoon the Champs has been buzzing with excitement. Around 4 p.m., supporters of both France and Brazil jammed the sidewalks chanting, cheering and singing. Motorcyclists sped up and down the street using giant flags as flowing capes. Scantily clad girls in French face paint roared by in convertibles, singing “Allez les Bleus.”
But there are almost no cars on the Champs now, just one massive river of humanity flowing slowly but so, so happily away from the Arc in the direction of Place de la Concorde. Children sit atop their fathers’ shoulders waving French flags. Teenagers light off alarmingly large firecrackers. Lovers cling tightly to one another as they make their way through the mayhem.
Amid the thousands of French flags, quite a few green, white and red Algerian ones can be seen as well. Tonight’s victory is particularly sweet for the millions of people of North African descent living in France. After all, Zidane is the son of Algerian immigrants. They wildly chant “Zee-Zou! Zee-Zou!” with understandable passion and pride.
Every now and then the river slows momentarily to a halt. Shouts of “Assis! Assis!” can be heard and suddenly hundreds of people crouch down. A moment later they jump to their feet, launching a massive human wave down the Champs, the kind you ordinarily see only in football stadiums.
Down the side streets are large police trucks with cops standing outside at the ready should any trouble break out. But they have little to do and one of them borrows a fan’s cell phone to call his wife and celebrate the victory with her.
Parisians are never averse to public displays of affection and many young couples celebrate tonight’s victory with heightened amorous displays. Against one of the police vans, two teenagers passionately make out. The young man slips his hand up under her blouse and fondles her left breast. A cop stands by looking bored.
Back on the Champs, a 50-foot-wide French national jersey is being put in place on the side of a business building by men dangling from long ropes. A bank flashes the game’s final score every minute or so and fans stop to watch it, as if they want to double-check that it really has happened. Every time “France 3, Bresil 0″ comes up, they roar.
There are no cabs to be found in Paris tonight. The buses and metros are not running either, so I have no choice but to walk to the opposite end of town where I am staying. At the enormous Place de La Concorde, hundreds of cars are at a standstill but no one seems to mind. Fans honk and sing over and over: “On est champions! On est champions! On est, on est, on est champions!“
Or simply, “On a gagni!” (“We won!”)
The party continues down the Rue de Rivoli. As cars and motorcycles roll by, their drivers reach out to high-five each and every one of us walking in the opposite direction. Fans dance for joy, then hop into complete strangers’ cars for rides back toward the Champs.
Parisians complained their way through the entire run-up to the World Cup, then showed little interest in the tournament during the first round. But once it became apparent that France might actually win this thing, the town came alive. Tonight is the culmination of celebrations that have been growing in size with each successive victory by “les Bleus.” When France advanced for the first time ever into the semifinals with a victory on Wednesday, 300,000 people jammed the Champs Ilysies. Tonight, there must be at least half a million out there, if not more. One police officer well into his 50s told me he’s never seen anything that compares to this. Neither have I.
It’s now 4 a.m. in Paris. I’m sitting at the dining room table of a friend’s apartment in the Fifth arrondisement, listening to the car horns that continue to blare just outside the window. But if you listen carefully, you can hear something else as well. It’s the sound of air whistling ever so gently out of a soccer ball the size of planet earth.
The World Cup is over. Sure, the party will go on for days in France, but for the rest of us fanatics the long wait until 2002 has officially begun.
Unlike the Olympics, the world’s second most important sporting event, the World Cup produces only one winner. Nations cannot take pride in winning minor competitions like ice dancing or cross-country skeet shooting. Either your country takes the Cup or it doesn’t. This sense of total and complete victory over the rest of the planet explains in part the reckless abandon with which the French are partying at this very moment. For the next four years, they have the right to call themselves the best at the most beloved sport on earth.
The importance of that right is simply incomprehensible to us Americans. After all, we often kick this whole planet around like it’s a soccer ball. Our political, economic and cultural influence is so significant that we take it for granted. Arrive in any foreign country around the globe and inevitably someone will want to talk your ear off about Harrison Ford, President Clinton or Michael Jordan — and do so in English. Accurate or inaccurate, who we are and what we stand for is already ingrained in the minds of billions, regardless of how our national team plays.
The same cannot be said for any other nation on earth, even big countries such as France. For the next four years and probably a good deal longer, any Frenchman will be able to get off a plane in the tiniest corner of the earth and light up a face by uttering with nationalistic pride, “Zinedine Zidane.”
But for many of the 31 other participating nations, all losers, World Cup ’98 was cruel and unforgiving. The Italians were eliminated on penalty kicks, that absurd way soccer settles ties, for the third time. The English, taking part in their first Cup in eight years, played valiantly a man short against their Falklands rivals, the Argentines, before they too succumbed on penalties.
But the most tragic story of the tournament belongs to the Netherlands. Unlike the Italians, who have actually won the Cup three times, and the English, who won it in ’66, the Dutch have never tasted the sweet fruit of World Cup victory. During the ’70s they fielded what is considered to have been one of the greatest sides of all time. Led by the charismatic if irascible Johann Cruyff, they played a wonderfully fluid brand of soccer known as “total football.” Under an egalitarian schema, all 10 of the field players could play any position at any time (the goalkeeper stayed put).
In 1974, wearing their distinctive bright orange jerseys, the Dutch made it to the final match of the World Cup but somehow lost to the Germans. In 1978, they reached the final again, but lost a highly disputed match to Argentina in Buenos Aires. Since then, Holland has consistently fielded good teams, each with a genuine shot at winning the Cup. But internal squabbles and bad luck have prevented them from getting there.
This year, the Dutch played some of the best football of the tournament. After a rocky start against Belgium, they demolished South Korea, defeated a strong Yugoslavian side, then knocked their old nemesis Argentina out in the quarterfinals on a brilliant last-minute goal. A far cry from the groovy orange innovators of the ’70s or the bickering prima donnas of the ’80s and early ’90s, this Dutch side played with verve, passion, extraordinary team spirit and single-minded determination. It looked like they might finally, at long last, gain the Holy Grail.
Then they ran into the Brazilians. And although they were the South American wizards’ equals during 120 minutes of actual play, they were no match when the game went to penalties. Brazil’s keeper made one fantastic save and the Dutch were finished.
Perhaps because of my penchant for lost causes (I’m a Red Sox fan and once worked for Michael Dukakis), somewhere along the road I hopped aboard the Dutch bandwagon. They played an aggressive, “let’s score goals” brand of soccer, which was fun to watch. Isn’t the point of soccer to score goals? you might ask. Well, yes, but because it is such a low-scoring game, a number of teams, particularly those from Eastern Europe, play a style called “counterattack,” where nearly all their men play defense, waiting for one or two chances to fast-break toward the other team’s goal. Worse still are the Italians, who, in typical fashion, scored one goal against Norway a few weeks ago, then whittled away the rest of the game, clinging to their puny lead until the final whistle. These teams give football a bad name.
Several weeks ago, I made three friends from the Guatemalan Football Association. Spain was to play Bulgaria in Lens that night and the last train from Paris was about to leave. I had a spot at the front of the ticket line so I bought them seats. By way of thanks, they gave me their spare ticket to the game. In the quiet of the 1 a.m. TGV back to Paris, “Bud,” the most articulate of the three, described the World Cup as “the biggest party on earth.”
That seems an apt description, though many supporters might add that the Cup is actually a costume party, a masquerade ball of sorts with invitations that read, “Come as Your Country’s Most Clichéd Cultural Icon.” From the Dutch fans with their orange wooden clogs to the Scots in their kilts and fake red beards to the Mexicans with their enormous sombreros to the Brazilians with their incessant samba beats, the World Cup is about celebrating and/or poking fun at your nation’s cultural stereotypes. That’s not to say that the soccer itself isn’t taken very, very seriously. It is. But the party that goes on around each match is what makes the Cup such a strange, colorful and ultimately fantastic spectacle.
The great bazaar is now closed until 2002, when the next Cup will be staged in Japan and South Korea. The flags and inflated soccer balls hanging over Rue Moufetarde are coming down. The French Organizing Committee is selling two-inch squares of the Stade de France pitch at 120 francs apiece to make up for a $200 million budget shortfall. And this afternoon, tens of thousands of us will head to Charles de Gaulle or Orly airports for flights home.
The world’s greatest party has come to a close. The long wait for World Cup 2002 is upon us.
MARSEILLE, France; June 27; Italy vs. Norway: World Cup ticket scalpers, or “touts” as the British call them, are a unique breed of cretin. They are the first to greet you at the rail station upon arrival at any of the outlying French host cities. As I get off the train in Marseille they crowd the platform, offering tickets to tonight’s round of 16 match for five times their face value.
Tout headquarters seem to be along the Champs Elysees, just below the Arc de Triomphe in Paris. At any hour of the day or night you’ll find them with a cell phone to their ears, pacing up and down the grand walkway. The average tout consists of the following: buzz haircut, polo shirt, shorts, sunglasses, waist pack, sunburn, terrible teeth and a cockney accent. These weasels make a fortune off people’s die-hard passion for the game. They prey on widespread ignorance about ticket availability for the matches.
During the months prior to the Cup, there was tremendous controversy over ticket distribution. French organizers set aside a full 60 percent of all the seats for sale to French citizens. Another 17 percent were given to sponsors, Fifa (the international governing body of soccer) and other VIPs. That left a mere 23 percent of the tickets for supporters of the 31 other participating countries.
Fans in England, the Netherlands, Germany and elsewhere were furious. And recognizing a hot-button political issue, so were their elected officials. Ticket distribution was not just unfair, they said, but illegal under European Union law. After all, if all citizens of the E.U. belong to a common open market, don’t they each have equal rights to the tickets? In January, after prodding by British officials and others, the E.U. threatened the French Organizing Committee (CFO) with a massive fine if it didn’t take immediate steps to rectify the situation.
In response, the CFO announced its intention to sell 160,000 additional tickets directly to E.U. citizens via a special hot line. On April 22, the phone lines opened, and what followed was nothing short of chaos. British fans placed 15 million calls. Two million calls emanated from tiny Belgium. The Dutch phone system collapsed entirely under the volume of outgoing calls to France.
British television ran stories of heartbroken fans. One had taken the day off from work to hit the redial button thousands of times, then given up in frustration. Another had managed miraculously to get through, then been unable to purchase tickets because she didn’t have the proper credit card (Mastercard is one of the event’s sponsors). The committee had assigned only 90 operators to field incoming calls and, of those, 30 were assigned exclusively to fulfill French requests. Reporters trying to reach CFO officials through their office switchboard that day received busy signals. It seems committee staffers were themselves placing hundreds of outgoing calls to the ticket hotline, clogging their own system. Within two weeks all 160,000 of these emergency tickets were sold, and as of the beginning of the Cup all 2.5 million seats were officially claimed.
But that was by no means the end of the story. Thousands of fans, including large Belgian, Brazilian and Japanese contingents, flew to Paris for the Cup only to find that tickets promised them by their tour operators did not exist. One hotel had to call police to calm an irate crowd of Brazilians whose tickets for the opening match had not appeared. An American tour company had 15,000 tickets to late-round matches stolen from its company safe in Paris (what they were doing with so many tickets in their possession is still unclear). And an executive at ISL, the sports marketing agency that handled ticket distribution for the CFO, was arrested by French cops for selling tickets on the black market. In short, the entire process has been a disaster.
Conventional wisdom is that finding a ticket to a match is nearly impossible. Thus the vermin with cell phones along the Champs Elysees routinely sell unsuspecting Nigerian or American or Dutch supporters tickets at triple, quadruple or 10 times face value.
But right before game time you can often find the same touts or a local trying to unload seats at face value — sometimes for even less. You would think this was the case only for obscure matches (how many people are dying to see Saudi Arabia square off against South Africa?), but there were plenty of tickets available on the street for France’s opening game of the tournament — and it’s the home team.
The other day I took the metro to Paris’s Parc des Princes with hopes of paying a little less than double price to the Nigeria-Bulgaria match. Instead, I was able to buy one of the best seats in the house — for less than face value. Inside, a young American couple told me they’d shown up at France’s game against Saudi Arabia the night before and bought two “Presidentiel” seats — at cost — from a tout. They ended up sitting three rows behind Michel Platini, French football legend and head of the CFO. (Last Friday at the England-Colombia game, 50 unsuspecting members of the English rabble bought black market seats and were startled to find themselves sitting in a VIP box adjacent to Prince Charles and his son Harry.)
How can this be? Here’s one theory: French citizens and others hoarded tickets, buying more than they needed under the assumption that they could resell them at tremendous profit. Then came the deluge of media coverage detailing the shortage of tickets. That deterred the casual fan who might have caught the train from Antwerp, Barcelona or Milan to Paris, Toulouse or Marseille for a game.
So long as you’re patient and willing to wait until just before game time, you can find an affordable ticket. But even three weeks into the tournament, most fans still don’t know this. At the Nantes train station before the USA-Yugoslavia game, foot traffic on the platform slowed to a crawl as touts and ticket seekers haggled. A few moments later, two American college boys rejoiced, “We got tickets!” They had bought seats for 700 francs (about $115) apiece, or double face value. Later, outside the stadium, those same seats were available for less than half of face value.
“They won the game, but we’re winning the party!”
That’s how one Norwegian fan describes the massive outdoor beer bash at
Marseille’s Vieux Port hours after the match. Indeed, Norway did lose the
game to Italy, a drab affair between two defense-oriented sides. By the end,
frustrated French fans had booed the Italians off the field.
But now the Norwegians are winning the party — much more decisively than they
lost the match, in fact. You would never guess that earlier today they were
eliminated from the Cup. “Stand UP, if you Love Norway. Stand UP, if you
Love Norway” and “Ohhhh-lé, olé, olé, olé,” they sing over and over again for
hours. Blond and tanned and wearing national team jerseys and shorts, 150 of
them dance on tables and chairs in front of the Le Quai Restaurant and Bar
Glacier. A nearby sign reads, “Thank you all Norwegian Friends.”
One supporter wearing a plastic Viking helmet and no shirt scales a nearby
10-foot phone booth. From on top, he bangs a small bongo drum and leads his
countrymen in a new round of songs, most of which I can’t understand. Before
long, he’s joined up there by a number of others. One waves a giant Norway
flag.
But a small counter-demonstration is under way. Ten Italians with Azurri
jerseys and green, white and red headbands have crashed the party. They
chant “EE-Tal-YAH, EE-Tal-YAH,” then sing star striker Alessandro Del Piero’s
name to the tune of Scott Joplin’s “The Entertainer.”
One climbs the phone booth. He and a Norwegian put arms around each other’s
shoulders and wave their respective flags in tandem. The crowd below roars.
By now, the party consists not only of Norwegians and Italians but Brazilians,
Scots, local North African Marseille youths and others, 20 of whom gather
near the base of the phone booth. They stand in two lines facing one another.
Each crosses his arms at the elbow, reaches out to the person across from him
and grabs hold of both their hands. An arm trampoline has been formed and
participants chant, “Jump! Jump! Jump!” to those above.
The Viking is the first to go. Arms outstretched, screaming, he does a stage
dive off the phone booth straight into the humanity. He is caught but the net
nearly breaks as the crowd wobbles under his weight. He emerges unhurt to
more cheers. Others decide to try this diving board out for themselves. Some
go belly-down, others do back flops instead.
Two young women wearing nothing more than Scotland flags as dresses dance
suggestively atop the phone booth. “Show us your ti-its,” the men below sing.
They decline but flirtatiously egg on the crowd by hiking up the flags to
reveal more and more leg. Everyone wants them to jump but they’re too scared.
A local kid is even more drunk than the rest and pulls one of them toward the
edge. The two stumble and go flying off the phone booth.
The human trampoline holds, but just barely. There is a mad scramble as the
pack of rabid men grope and grab at any part of the Scottish woman they can
get their hands on. She escapes breathless and scared but obviously also exhilarated.
Somehow the flag has stayed on.
By now, I’m standing directly at the base of the phone booth, photographing
the divers as they take off overhead into the crowd in front of me. But
above, a Norwegian fan is spraying us with a beer and he looks just a little
too unsteady for my liking. So I make my way off to the side — just in time, as
it turns out.
Suddenly I hear a solid thud and what sounds vaguely like bones cracking.
Behind me, on the pavement where I just was, is the beer sprayer. He has
fallen off the phone booth and looks dazed. His friends look concerned and
tell him not to move. For just a moment the crowd shuts up. But in a flash
he’s back on his feet. Thankfully, somebody has the good sense to end the
phone booth diving game.
It was on this very spot two weeks ago that English supporters clashed with
local police, throwing beer bottles and other projectiles. But on the
periphery of tonight’s mayhem, local residents watch the proceedings with
nothing but detached amusement. One tells me he’s “not worried at all because
these aren’t the English.” He says there are police here, just plainclothed.
In fact, there are plenty of other cops nearby. A police bus is parked no
more than a couple hundred meters away. Five or six riot cops stand outside
smoking cigarettes. The rest of their team dozes inside the bus.
Back in front of the Quai Restaurant, the party continues late into the night
as Norwegians and Italians sing together past 2 a.m. As I make my way through
the craziness, I suddenly feel a warm spray on my leg. A teenager in a
Scottish team jersey and goofy red wig is drunk off his ass. He looks at me
guiltily. I look down and realize that he’s taking a whiz right in the midst
of everything.
That’s my cue to call it a night. I head for the hotel.
LENS, France June 26: Major soccer tournaments can be violent affairs, and this World Cup has already seen its share of hooliganism. Over the past week or so, the French press has closely followed the case of Daniel Nivel, a national police officer who lies in a coma with severe brain damage after an attack by hooligans. Nivel was on duty in Lens for the Germany-Yugoslavia match when a gang of 500 neo-Nazis went on a rampage through the town. He was cornered and beaten savagely with an iron bar. A photo of the poor guy lying face down in a pool of blood ran on the front page of many French papers the next day.
The fact that Germans staged this latest attack was somewhat unexpected. English supporters are notoriously the continent’s most violent, and in the first week of the tournament they lived up to that billing. During two days prior to England’s Cup opener against Tunisia, they skirmished with police in and around the Vieux Port in Marseille. It all came to a head on game day with a giant rumble on the Prado Beach involving not only the English and police but Tunisian supporters as well.
Tonight’s match is enormously important for England. They looked good but not great during their first two matches. If they don’t get a win or a tie, their World Cup is over. Despite inventing the game, England has only won the World Cup once — in 1966. Perhaps that’s part of why English supporters are always so pissed off.
I don’t have a ticket to the match but hop the TGV from Paris to Lens anyway. It seems that no World Cup experience would be complete without spending at least a day with the event’s more extreme elements. And, who knows, maybe a ticket will come my way.
Outside the train station, all is calm, but there is a vague sense of tension and expectation in the air. Motley, slightly menacing clusters of youths with little or no hair (but plenty of tattoos) linger in the parking lot and outside nearby cafes. There are supposed to be 1,700 riot cops in Lens today, and given that the town itself has a population of only 35,000, one would expect to see them everywhere. But only two traffic police are on duty outside the station. Then again, it’s eight hours to game time. It’s surprisingly cool and breezy out and the sky is partly cloudy.
Though today is a business day, the streets of Lens are virtually deserted, apart from English supporters. Most of the stores are closed. Several shop owners tell me it’s just for lunch. But most appear to have closed for the day. Some say they’ll close for lunch, then wait and see. Two women are locking the door to their poster shop. Why? “Because we don’t want trouble,” one says. What about the loss in revenue? “The English don’t spend anything.” The Germans and Spanish were much better, they say.
But establishments that might best capitalize on today’s crowd are closed as well. The Supp R Lens store sells soccer souvenirs; Irish Tavern and Le McEwan’s appear to be English-style pubs. All are closed.
Some shops, however, continue to do business. A fish market on one of Lens’ main drags is wide open, with stinky mussels and salmon arrayed beautifully on ice. The owner says that other stores are closed because “everyone’s afraid.” She says she’s not and jokingly grabs a couple of 20-inch mackerels. “I’ll hit ‘em with these,” she says. Her customers laugh.
Farther up the road is a phone booth. As I finish making a call, a startling figure with enormous yellow teeth asks in English, “So what do you think of all this then?” His face and neck are covered with pockmarks from what appears to have been a war lost to acne during his teen years. He’s wearing a Levi’s jeans jacket and seems to be concealing something rather large underneath.
“You should be careful with that,” he says, pointing to my Nikon. “They don’t like media.” He’s a Dutch radio reporter and he’s hiding his tape recorder and microphone underneath. Earlier this week, an Associated Press reporter was hospitalized in Toulouse after being attacked by English hooligans. The Dutch reporter tells me that a gang of English fans threatened to throw him in the river in Toulouse after they spotted him recording crowd noise. He’s a creepy guy and he’s starting to freak me out. Three police buses go flying by in the direction of the stadium, sirens blaring. “There,” he says, “it’s started.” I buy an England scarf and tie it around my photo bag in the hopes that that will buy me a modicum of goodwill from any angry throng I might encounter.
The Argentina-Croatia game is on TV in a cafe across from the train station. Like all the bars and restaurants in Lens today, the cafe isn’t serving alcohol. The same conversation between English fans and the bartender can be heard over and over again: “Pint of beer.”
“We only have beer without alcohol.”
“So then you don’t have beer, do you?” Still, many order nonalcoholic beers in plastic cups and grumpily settle in to watch the game.
Soon the place is too crowded. The little gyro joint next door is run by a couple of North African immigrants. It’s very hot and dark inside. The air is greasy and thick but there’s a big television in the back corner and only two others seem to be watching. Argentina is dominating a good Croatian side. A young Swedish guy is eating couscous and we watch the match together.
But the power keeps going out and the TV along with the rest of the place goes dark. The Swede says that alcohol is available just up the road in the towns of Lille and Arras and that he was there the night before. He saw one English supporter smash a beer glass in some guy’s face, then take his ticket to tonight’s match. There was blood all over the place. Alcohol is being served in those towns today and many English supporters are still there drinking before taking the train down to Lens for the match.
A few tables over, a Colombian man wearing a Nike T-shirt is selling two tickets for tonight’s match for 6,000 francs (about $1,000) to a Frenchman. The deal gets tense as the buyer thinks for a moment that the tickets are fake, but then it goes down and the cash is exchanged. Argentina is playing rock-solid defense and pushing forward with wave after wave of attack on the Croatian goal. Should England win tonight, Argentina is the buzz saw they’ll run into in the next round.
But attention turns from the action on TV to that in the restaurant. A tall, muscular English fan in a red Liverpool jersey with a shaved head and tattoos is in the doorway. “Well do you have tickets then? Let me see them,” he says rather menacingly to the Colombian in the Nike shirt. The Colombian says he made a mistake; he doesn’t have any tickets. But now the big guy and three equally intimidating friends are inside. Only a table stands between them and the Colombian. “Oh really, outside you said you have tickets to sell. Now you say you don’t. Where are they?” Liverpool demands.
Sensing trouble, the cafe owner runs over, turns off the TV and yells in English, “Closed!” He tells everyone to get out but no one leaves. Somehow he manages to push the English out the door. He locks the door behind them. My Swedish friend, the Colombian ticket merchant and I are among the last few left in the restaurant. The tall Liverpool supporter bangs on the locked glass door, “I know you’ve got a ticket! Come on out here!” Once he finally leaves, the owner of the restaurant kicks the Colombian out as well. The Swede and I leave voluntarily.
Generally, it stays light until about 9:30 p.m. in northern France these days, but storm clouds have rolled in and the skies have darkened considerably. The atmosphere on the strip across from the train station is poisonous. Grumpy English fans crowd the sidewalks asking each other for tickets and complaining about the lack of beer. The police are now very much in evidence.
Suddenly, the big guy in the Liverpool jersey goes barreling by, inadvertently smashing over an innocent bystander as he goes. He slyly backhands a couple of tickets to a friend who takes off down an alley. In what must be an attempt to disguise himself, the tall guy removes his Liverpool jersey.
A small band of English fans across the street has seen it all. “He got four tickets!” one yells. The rest cheer. The man who’s been robbed wears a Colombia jersey. He runs after the Liverpool supporter and is about to confront him but then thinks better of it, given the number of English supporters. Five riot cops across the street have seen nothing.
Trains arrive from Lille and Arras. As the Swede predicted, supporters stumble off red-eyed, burping, drunk off their asses. Most appear to be no older than 20 and all are male. Almost everyone’s in an England national team jersey. They enter Lens through a phalanx of riot cops, now fully outfitted like baseball catchers in SWAT team uniforms. Each wears a heavy helmet with a plastic face shield. They confiscate bottles from the new arrivals, smashing them on the ground, then stamping them into little pieces to the sarcastic cheers of onlooking English supporters.
One of the new arrivals is apprehended immediately as he sets foot in Lens. Four riot cops drag him down the street toward a waiting police van. Another holds an angry German shepherd close by. The cops stop for a moment to allow photojournalists to get a good shot of the kid. About 40 English supporters gathered outside the bars angrily chant, “Eng-guh-lund! Eng-guh-lund!” with fists in the air as he is taken away. Fifteen riot police form a line shoulder to shoulder facing them, riot shields out, batons in hand. Why was he arrested, I ask one of the supporters. There are plainclothes English cops here, he explains, who are picking out the known hooligans for arrest before they can start trouble.
A riot appears imminent, but supporters have nothing to throw because all glass bottles, porcelain plates and metal silverware have been outlawed from Lens cafes for the day. After the thug is driven away, things quiet down. Still, there is a sense that it could explode at any minute.
Clearly, a ticket to tonight’s game is out of my price range, so I decide to try to find a quiet place to watch it on TV. But almost all of the cafes in Lens are closed, as are the restaurants and brasseries. Thousands of English supporters wander the streets asking each other desperately for tickets. Many have been boozing down back alleys, drinking beers they brought from home or bought in Lens. There are plenty of bottles around. For Lens’ sake, I hope England wins tonight.
Finally, I find La Prensa, a big Italian restaurant at the opposite end of town from the train station. It appears to be crowded inside and an enormous middle-aged woman stands behind a glass door with a sign on it that says, “Complet” (full). I’ve already been rejected by several establishments with similar signs, but I beg my way in. Inside, the place is crowded with English fans, but not like those near the station. These are just normal soccer fans, looking to support their team. There are even some women among them. It’s safe in here.
The game starts and the English play superbly. After taking tremendous heat from the media and the fans, coach Glenn Hoddle has finally agreed to start teenager Michael Owen at striker and he wreaks havoc on the Colombian defense. Owen is the most prominent member of a group of young Liverpool players dubbed “The Spice Boys.” At only 17, he led England’s top division in scoring last year and tonight you can see why. English players are not generally known for their quickness, but Owen has explosive speed. A long diagonal pass is played out of the midfield and Owen goes streaking down the wing after it, easily outpacing a defender and almost scoring a goal.
By halftime, England is in command, 2-0. The fans in the bar are singing, “Eng-guh-lund, Eng-guh-lund.” Argentina is their next opponent and they chant, “Bring on the Argies!” Outside, supporters who were not permitted to enter watch first-half highlights through the windows.
The game ends and fans pour into the street. The tension has broken. Goodwill reigns supreme as fans meet in the streets. They dance and sing, “Two-nil for the Eng-guh-lund” back toward the train station. Thank God the Colombian team is so old and slow.
Aboard the midnight TGV back to Paris, someone tells me that about 30 people were eventually arrested outside the train station in clashes between supporters and the cops. And there was plenty more trouble in Arras, the town just up the road from Lens.
Ten minutes into the ride the train slows as we make our way through the Arras station. Through the shaded window I can see dark silhouettes of English youths on the opposite platform backlit by fluorescent lights. They are yelling something but it’s barely audible. Their arms are raised. They are giving us the finger.
LYON, France June 21: There’s an old joke about that sport that’s played with a puck: I went to a fight the other night and a hockey game broke out. Well, tonight I’m going to a political rally and maybe, just maybe, a soccer game will break out.
Lyon’s main square is Place Belle Cours, an enormous rectangular plaza of orange gravel. Under a blazing sun and a cloudless sky, a group of young men are playing — what else? — pickup soccer. Most appear to be Iranian and they’ve tied team jerseys and flags around their heads to keep cool. But there are some Americans in the game, too. A television cameraman is present to record it all.
Just off Place Belle Cours, an impromptu rally of Iranian supporters is under way even though the game doesn’t kick off for eight hours. “I-ran! I-ran!” is the chant interspersed with drumbeats and whistles. Supporters eating at the canopied McDonald’s next door join in.
Then a considerably smaller crew of Americans starts its own, “U-S-A! U-S-A!” The two groups try to outshout each other at first, then join together to cheer “I-ran! USA! I-ran! USA!” It’s a genuine moment. But the volume of shouting increases about three notches when nearby TV crews take notice.
An Iranian woman approaches. “You are reporter?” she asks. Her name is Narges (she’s unwilling to provide a last name). Her family moved to Stockholm to escape the ayatollah in ’78. Regarding today’s match, she says: “It’s not just a match. It’s about freedom, our time and our country. For U.S., we don’t have anything against U.S. It is important that world see us. It’s worse than you think. We love our team and we love our players but we want freedom for our people. We are here for democracy and more than 100,000 executed and 150,000 in prison. It is the point, not the game.”
What about Khatami, Iran’s new, more moderate president, who in recent months has made peace overtures to the United States? Narges tells me, “He is bad man.” She was a student when he was the cultural minister and he was “bad for students,” she says.
It seems that most of the Iranian supporters in Lyon today have traveled from Western European countries, not Iran. That’s true, says Narges, because most Iranians living there cannot afford to travel, but there are members of Iran’s Revolutionary Guard here as well. She forcefully takes me by the elbow, pulls me to the corner and points to a white minivan covered with Iran posters parked across the street. All its doors are open and men are passing out green, white and red visors and Iran T-shirts. “There,” she says. “That is Iranian embassy van.”
One of the white van men is Mohammed Said, who does, in fact, live in Iran. He quickly notices that I don’t have an official press credential but seems willing to talk anyway. What does he think of all the politics involved in this match? “I don’t think you can send a message with this match. It is a little different but it won’t be the change of position between Iran and U.S.” Should that relationship change? “I think it should change but not because of this.” And what about the thousands of Iranians who have traveled from Western European countries to state their opposition to the current government? He claims not to have seen them.
But perhaps not everyone has politics on his mind. Amir Ghahani is hanging out near the white van as well. He lives in San Diego and tells me: “I lived in Iran when the shah was in power. I support the team and the culture, not the government. I’m not going to go into the stadium cheering, ‘I support the Islamic Republic of Iran.’ I just support Iran.”
A band of 15 chanting Iran supporters marches into the dusty center of Place Belle Cours. There they find Nathan Max of Washington, D.C., a young man wearing a U.S. flag around his head and a national team T-shirt. A busty young Iranian woman in a tight gray tank top strikes up a flirtatious conversation with him. The crowd of supporters encircles them. She asks if he’s ever kissed an Iranian girl and the crowd erupts. By now, several photojournalists have arrived.
Nathan blushes a little, then enthusiastically tries to take her up on what sounded like an offer. But she’s too embarrassed and demurs. After two or three failed attempts, a middle-aged man wearing an Iranian flag steps forward and plants a big wet one on Nathan’s cheek. The two share a bear hug. Click, flash, wind, the cameras snap away.
A great photo op has been had but Nathan still wants one on the lips from the voluptuous young lady. “Please,” he begs, “in the name of peace!”
“Piece of what?” someone yells.
“Piece of ass!” he replies.
The crowd bursts into laughter.
In one corner of the square an Iran fan has knotted his flag to that of an American supporter. Five photojournalists shoot away. One holds out two fingers with his left hand as his right handles a Nikon. The subjects take the hint; they make peace signs and smile.
All through the afternoon Iran fans toot horns, bang drums, chant and cheer their way up and down Rue de la Republique, Lyon’s main drag. It’s a beautiful, car-free promenade, and the noise echoes off the building walls. In a wide square about a kilometer up the road from Place Belle Cours, fans frolic in a giant open fountain. In the middle, a pile of McDonald’s containers, Kronenborg beer cans and other flotsam and jetsam has sunk to the bottom.
On one of the side streets, two dozen or so Americans are drinking beers out of pint-sized plastic cups outside Bar & Bihres. In Europe, singing is an integral part of the football fan’s experience. But we Americans, though we know how to cheer and chant, don’t really understand the concept of nationalistic songs. The folks on the street try a round of “Oli,” the world’s simplest and most popular soccer song, but can’t quite get it in key. Then a Scottish fellow who’s been drinking with the group leads a round of “We’re the Tartan Army.” After that they belt out “Do-Ray-Me” from “The Sound of Music” and then “Frhre-Jacques.” No doubt about it: If the U.S. is to become a soccer superpower, we need some better fight songs.
As thousands walk toward the stadium entrance, the feeling is electric, as if
we all know something extraordinary is going to happen. After an extensive
security check during which all bodies are frisked and all bags are carefully
searched, we make our way to our seats.
Mine is in Escalier D, directly behind the Iran goal. Already, the noise
level is simply astonishing. There are 20 minutes to kickoff and I
cannot hear what a fan directly next to me says, even when he yells. Keep in
mind that this is an open stadium. There is no roof for the
noise to bounce off as in, say, Madison Square Garden or the Kingdome.
Drums bang away, whistles are blaring. Some guy’s got a pair of 20-inch
cymbals that he continually bashes together. Fans are standing on their
seats, yelling at the top of their lungs. It’s complete bedlam.
A distant cry of “USA, USA,” is barely audible. The vast majority of the fans
are here to support Iran in one way or another, but the factions within that
group are hard to disentangle. The largest seems to consist of supporters of
the Mujahadeen, an army of rebels that opposes the current Iranian government.
I say “seems” because it is hard to distinguish these folks from those who
simply hate the government but don’t necessarily support the Mujahadeen.
Those Mujahadeen supporters dominate my section of the stands and the sections
to the right as well. Many are wearing T-shirts with pictures of leaders
Maryam and Mashood Rajavi surrounded by fluorescent green or orange, designed
for maximum televisibility. Old women with cloaks over their heads, children,
men, everyone wears these shirts and they are screaming, really screaming, “I-ran! Ra-ja-vi! I-ran! Ra-ja-vi!” This is a massive political protest. It
just happens to be taking place at a soccer game.
As the band plays Iran’s national anthem, my section sings a different Persian
nationalist song, again with all their strength. The result is a cacophony of
disjointed tunes.
Moments before kickoff a large pink balloon floats ever so gently off the
balcony above toward the playing field. From it hangs a banner with a picture
of Maryam Rajavi. The Iranian players have just completed their warm-ups and
are heading into a pregame huddle as the balloon drifts by, no more than 10
yards away. Those around me go absolutely berserk. The referee walks over,
grabs this ingenious political statement and removes it from the field.
Finally, at long last, the game gets under way. The Americans dominate early
but it is of no matter to the masses. The extraordinary din continues at the
same volume, regardless of the action on the field. Unlike at any normal
sporting event, the crowd noise never lulls, not for one instant. Near me, a
man holds a red, white and green flag much like the official flag of Iran –
except there is a lion on the white middle stripe. “This is Iran before
ayatollah. They took this flag and put that crap on it,” he says, pointing to
the Islamic symbol on the official flag. He says he paid 800 pounds for his
ticket to some scalper in London. He says there’s an army of 30,000
Mujahadeen troops massed on the border of Iran waiting to invade. He says
he’s here to show solidarity with them.
What is striking about the general mayhem is that it seems to lack any
specific anti-American sentiment. No “Down with the Great Satan” signs
anywhere. No anti-USA chants. Iranian fans are even relatively polite during
the playing of the “Star-Spangled Banner.” As many tell me, they are here
first and foremost to support their team, the representatives of their
nation.
About 35 minutes into the first half, the Iranians score the first goal of the
game. The stadium explodes. All around me people hug, kiss, dance, weep. It
is a miracle, a moment of indescribable national pride. Now if they can just
hold that lead.
During halftime, supporters turn their attention from the action on the field
to each other. From the balcony above us hangs a banner supporting the
current regime. Those on my terrace turn their backs to the field and chant
up at them, “Down with Khatami! Down with Khatami!” for a full 15 minutes
until the game restarts.
FIFA, the international soccer body that runs the World Cup, forbids overt
political statements at Cup matches (a truly absurd rule). Throughout the
first half supporters in Escalier D raised aloft large fluorescent banners
that read, “Down with Khatami” only to have security personnel confiscate them. In the second half, they wise up. When stadium guards come
to one end of the section, a banner is balled up and tossed from fan to fan
safely out of reach, then unfurled again. Upping the ante, the stadium calls
in what appears to be a SWAT team of French national police. Each wears all
black, including intimidating combat boots, and carries a crowd control billy
club. These young toughs wrestle the banners out of the hands of old Muslim
women, even children. A good deal of scuffling is involved as fans try to
stop them. During one excellent scoring chance for Iran, supporters are
distracted by a commotion in the section adjacent to us. A fan is landing a
solid right hand to someone’s head as the SWAT team descends. He is quickly
pinned down and removed by security.
Buried deep within the mayhem of Escalier D are Eric Mason of New York and
Andrea North of Dallas, the lone red, white and blue supporters in a sea of
red, white and green. They seem rather shaken but not scared enough to leave
their seats. “It’s pretty cool. It’s history-making. I’m standing in a
bunch of Iranians,” Andrea says.
With about 15 minutes to go, the Iranians score again to go up 2-0. There is
now no doubt Iran will win and the stadium reaches a new, previously
unimagined, fever pitch. In the midst of it all I snap two pictures of two
Muslim women dressed in conservative religious wear as they embrace in joy.
When traveling in Middle Eastern countries, it is extremely inconsiderate to
photograph a woman wearing a chador without securing permission. But women who were
similarly dressed and were taking part in the Rajavi protest had encouraged me to shoot
away. It suddenly becomes apparent that these two are not a part of that
faction of supporters.
One of them is pushing me, screaming, “Pourquoi? Pourquoi!
Pourquoi!!” A security guard has seen what happens and he too starts yelling
at me in French, demanding to see some ID, shoving me. I have no official
press credential and my ticket was bought scalped. To avoid getting kicked
out of the game (or perhaps something worse), I open the camera, rip out the
film and hand it to the woman. That seems to calm things enough for me
to apologize and make a quick escape. A few minutes later I realize that during
the commotion my pen got jabbed fairly deeply into my hand. I’m sitting amid
thousands of insane Iranian soccer fans licking blood off my fingers.
With five minutes left, 100 SWAT team members walk onto the playing pitch
behind the goal line and stand facing our section as if to say, “Don’t even
think about storming the field.” The game ends and the Iranian players come
running over to Escalier D, jumping for joy. The mutual admiration is clear
and doesn’t last long. After only two minutes, the coach leads the players
away from the stands back to the dressing room, perhaps concerned about their
exposure to seditious elements.
The fans roll out of the stadium, dancing for joy. But the hostility between
factions is still apparent. One man kisses his official team jersey and
swears at the Mujahadeen supporters for ruining the match with their political
protest. His friends drag him away. It makes you wonder what might have
happened had the team suffered a humiliating loss.
Outside the stadium, I catch up with Patrice and Mike McGinnis, two very
disappointed-looking American fans. What did they think of the chaos in the
stands? “I was afraid,” Patrice confesses. “I didn’t want to be a victim.
We’re here on vacation.” They had asked security guards to move them to different
seats.
No doubt about it, the atmosphere within the stadium tonight was electric and
definitely on edge. But although there was plenty of hostility among
Iranians themselves and between Iran supporters and the police, there seemed
to be little aimed at the USA. Perhaps that’s because our team played so
badly — who knows?
Whatever the case, many of these folks seem openly to embrace American
culture. Amid the chaos of the postgame street party, one Iran fan
approaches me. After making eating gestures, he asks in very broken English,
“Where is McDonald?” I have no idea.
PARIS, June 10: As I write these words, a billion people — almost one-sixth of the world’s population — are getting ready to watch Brazil take on Scotland in the opening game of the World Cup. Five thousand of them are right here, gathered outside L’Hotel de Ville in the heart of Paris to witness the event on a giant Jumbotron television constructed for the unlucky many who could not get tickets to the match.
The weather is sunny, but ominous storm clouds occasionally roll by. On this hallowed ground, where the blood of French men and women flowed during 18th century revolutionary purges, rowdy Scottish soccer fans are staging a massive outdoor party. It is a sea of blue and white. Here and there some Brazilian yellow can be seen.
A group of 10 fans has just arrived and laid out an enormous Scottish flag for use as a picnic blanket. On the cross where the flag’s white lines intersect, they plunk down four cases of Foster’s Lager “oil cans” (the 20-ounce monsters). It’s a picnic of sorts, but there’s only one thing on the menu: beer.
Everywhere are overweight, red-faced men in kilts, many with their faces painted blue and white. One volunteers to demonstrate to a Brazilian television crew just how little Scots wear under those wool coverings. As he bends over, the cameraman comes in for what must be a frightening close-up of a bare male ass. One can only wonder what the folks back home in Rio are thinking.
Another kilted fan scales one of the bronzed green statues that line L’Hotel. Straddling its shoulders, he grasps a beer with one hand and waves a large Scottish flag with the other. From 15 feet above the square he yells, “Fuck England!” The masses below cheer their support. He spies five French gendarmes approaching and lets out an equally hearty “Vive la France!” to laughs and cheers.
The World Cup is here and the mood is nothing short of ecstatic. It’s loud. It’s raucous. It’s almost out of control. But it’s also a hell of a lot of fun. And the game hasn’t even started.
Into the second half, the Scottish team appears to be holding its own against a far superior Brazilian side. Storm clouds are gathering over Paris and the putrid smell of beer dried into cement is growing stronger by the minute.
Suddenly, the chants and songs cease as all eyes focus on the screen in a moment of wonder. There is Brazilian striker Ronaldo, 20 feet tall on the Jumbotron, the ball at his feet, smoothly dancing his way around one, then two, then three, then four Scottish defenders in a super slo-mo replay. Scotland’s big sweeper Colin Hendry (whose long blond locks make him look like he should have been an extra in “Braveheart”) has been spun around so many times that he looks like a dog trying to catch his own tail. He’s running with his back to Ronaldo, looking over his shoulder, trying to figure out which way to turn.
Ronaldo makes it look so easy. As he coolly dodges and weaves past the opposition, he appears remarkably confident and composed. The clip seems to last 10 minutes and leaves even the Scots speechless, if only for a moment.
A few minutes later, the Scottish team is cursed with a bit of terrible luck. After a Brazilian shot on goal, the ball bounces mistakenly off defender Jimmy Floyd’s shoulder toward his own net. Hendry desperately tries to stop it from rolling in, but he can’t get there in time. Cries of despair rise into the storm-laden Paris air. Some fans curse; others weep. Scotland’s moment in the sun has passed. They are now down, 2-1.
Satisfied simply to hold their lead, the Brazilians play keep-away and let the clock run out. When the final whistle blows, the kilted crowd around me is disappointed but also proud. “We gave ‘em a good run for their money!” one of the Foster’s group proclaims.
As if on cue, the sky lets loose with a tremendous downpour, and any further festivities are washed out. Hundreds of us swoop into the nearest Metro stop. The first game of France ’98 is history.
ON BOARD THE TGV, June 12: I’m whizzing through France at 150 mph bound for Marseille for the evening match between France and South Africa. This will be South Africa’s first-ever World Cup game, having been banned from the tournament for the last 28 years due to apartheid. Soccer has long been the sport of choice for the country’s black population, but under apartheid, they were not permitted to play with whites. Instead, “colored” leagues, much like U.S. baseball’s Negro Leagues of yesteryear, were formed. These days the team known as Bafana Bafana, or “the boys,” consists primarily of black players. I’m hoping to find a South African fan with whom I can chat about race relations, the politics of football in that country, etc.
As the French countryside blurs by, I head back to the cafe car for a beer and meet Gary, a transplanted South African who lives in London. He’s already been traveling for five hours. He caught the train at Waterloo and is headed straight for Marseille.
Gary’s got sad eyes and a somewhat droopy face. He seems to be a nice, thoughtful fellow. He even went to college in the United States on a soccer scholarship at North Texas State (“We were No. 11 nationwide,” he offers). We make plans to share a cab together from the station to the game when we arrive in Marseille. Now that I’ve found an interesting pal for my story, I return to my seat for some shut-eye.
When we arrive in Marseille two hours later, Gary stumbles out of the train, arms draped across two Englishmen. He swigs from an open can of beer in one hand, while grasping a closed one in the other. As we head toward the taxi stand, he and his English mates start loudly singing Tottenham Hotspur fight songs. He’s drunk off his ass and he’s expecting me to get him to the game. So much for uncovering the profound meaning of South Africa’s first appearance in the World Cup.
After Gary takes some cash out of a bank machine and nearly loses his wallet, we hop in a cab. Immediately our driver tries to sell us tickets to the match. He’s asking only about 10 pounds over face value and Gary’s amazed.
As the streets of Marseille go flying by, Gary yells out the window at every female within earshot. He and the driver strike up a conversation in Franglais about the women of Marseille. The driver bridges the communication gap by sticking his right index finger through the circle his thumb and index finger on his left hand have formed. Gary lets out a hearty laugh.
I ditch my South African comrade once we arrive at the grounds and soon find my seat inside Le Stade Velodrome. Behind me sits a row of 10 college-age males, all with red, white and blue French flags painted on their faces. They’ve got the air of American frat boys, but they’re thinner and much better looking. One or two could double as Tommy Hilfiger models.
These are very, very loud French fans, first bellowing out the French national anthem, then leading the chants: “Allez, allez, allez!” or “Allez les bleus, allez les bleus!” There are some variations on these, but it seems that every French cheer involves the word allez (“go”) and les bleus (the national team’s nickname because of the blue color of its uniforms).
The game starts and a chilling wind whips across the field. Though it’s the middle of June, it must be no more than 50 degrees out. The boys behind me scream, “Zizou, Zizou!” each time France’s central midfielder, Zinedine Zidane, touches the ball. In addition to being Marseille’s hometown hero, Zidane is far and away France’s most important player. He is their playmaker, their maestro.
To watch Zidane play live is sheer revelation. On a field far larger than the U.S. football gridiron, he is seemingly everywhere at once, controlling the game for his team. Slightly stoop-shouldered, with a large and growing bald spot, he seems an unlikely candidate to dominate any sport. But Zidane is blessed with tremendous balance and strength, and he possesses the most important attribute of any great playmaker — imagination. He creates scoring opportunities where none seem to exist. On the ball, he moves like a panther, head lowered, jersey often askew, bouncing and spinning off defenders. Suddenly, at just the right moment, he makes that improbable pass to spring a teammate into the clear, just behind the opponent’s defense. It’s the kind of pass that even good soccer players cannot imagine, let alone execute. He is a whirling dervish of soccer frenzy, a genius to behold.
All French roads to goal go through Zizou. He takes all the team’s corner kicks and most penalty kicks. More important, he runs the offense and organizes the defense. His importance to “les bleus” cannot be overestimated. If France is at long last to enter the World Cup holy land (the team has never done better than the semifinals), it will be Zidane who leads them there.
It is ironic that this brilliant athlete also happens to be the son of Algerian parents. Though Algerian, Tunisian, Moroccan and Senegalese immigrants play an increasingly important role in France, many French do not welcome them, and signs of racism are not difficult to uncover. The fans behind me are a good example: I return to my seat several minutes after the second half has begun, forcing the two Moroccan immigrant French teens in the seats next to me to stand so I can pass. The three of us temporarily block the view of the French frat boys. These same fans who earlier had called Zidane’s nickname with such admiration now holler at the three of us: “Asseyez-vous!” and, because they know I am American, “Sit down!” Then one of them yells some gibberish in mimicked Arabic. It’s an insult clearly aimed at the two Moroccan-French boys, and his friends laugh, albeit a bit sheepishly.
The game ends 3-0 for France. I run out of the stadium, board the Metro and head back to the train station, catching the 1 a.m. TGV to Paris. By 7 a.m I am fast asleep in the comfort of a friend’s apartment on Boulevard Port Royal.
PARIS, June 13: Parisians seem generally unfazed by World Cup hoopla. During several lolls through the cinquième arrondisement I’ve found quiet acknowledgment of the event but not much downright enthusiasm.
I’ve just wandered into the Cafe du Port Royal to watch Spain take on Nigeria. The restaurant has strung the flags of the 32 Cup participants in the entryway (these seem to be standard issue for every eating and drinking establishment in the city). But only a small TV atop the dessert cooler broadcasts the game. A teenager on roller skates smokes and bangs away on “The Addams Family” pinball machine in the corner. A haggard old woman sits with her back to the television, chain-smoking and eating quiche. The bartender is engrossed in his dishwashing. Other patrons seem content to stare out the window at yet another cold, damp day.
Suddenly Raul, Spain’s Wunderkind striker, blasts a scorching shot past Nigeria’s goalkeeper. As the announcers crow about a spectacular goal, no one in the cafe looks up. Welcome to World Cup fever, Paris-style. At moments like this it seems hard to believe that thousands of Bangladeshis have been rioting for three days because power outages have prevented them from watching Cup matches.
But that is not to say that Paris has not found its own unique way of exploiting Cup excitement. A recent ad in the city’s weekly entertainment circular Pariscope translates roughly as follows:
“Come see the Moulin Rouge Stadium featuring a 70-square-meter screen.
“The Moulin Rouge invites you to experience the 16 matches of the final phase of the World Cup in a unique place, the uncontested symbol of France. Tingle as if you were there for the sporting event of the year. And admire the 60 Doriss Girls and their celebrated French can-can as they make the third half of the game unforgettable.
“It promises to be a great moment for Football and an excellent evening.
“Cover Price for Le Match Finale: 2,000 francs”
If I stumble across $330, my next report will be ringside from the Moulin Rouge!
