USA vs. England in South Africa
This post first appeared in National Geographic Traveler’s blog, Intelligent Travel.
After flying from Washington, DC, USA to Johannesburg, South Africa over the course of 24 hours for the 2010 FIFA World Cup, what would you do if offered a ticket to the USA vs. England soccer game? Would you take it? Yeah, so would I. What if you had to pack into a car and drive three hours further to get there and you knew you wouldn’t get home until 3am?
The journey is like a dream. Literally. Of the other four passengers in the compact car, two are siblings, one a cousin of the siblings, and one a friend of all three.
“I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again, women and directions don’t mix!” Dumi, the driver’s younger but much bigger brother was sitting in the back seat and acting like it.
“You didn’t know which way to go either!” Namzomo protested.
The whole car laughs.
Lifelong friends, these four couldn’t be more comfortable making quiet fun of each other or simply being quiet together. Out the window, far away mountains to the north break up from tundra-like plains into the dirty and darkening pink of the dying day. The radio buzzes faintly in the background just above the tire and engine hum. I drift in and out of consciousness, my head bumping against the window pane.
As we approach Rustenburg and the new stadium it is home to, we slow to a crawl amidst cars jockeying for the fastest lane flying USA, England and South Africa flags. A car of South Africans and one American, our car has only a South African flag taped to the hood. We wait in the slow line while the English-adorned cars cut us off and take to the shoulder. No surprise there.
For most, it’s no-holds-barred on the road. Upon arrival we’re all family. Parked side by side and head to toe by the guard rails and in the median, the doors open to vuvuzelas and song and we pile into the buses that shuttle the masses to the stadium.
“Stevie G, Stevie G. You beauty, Stevie G!” Steven Girard probably deserves such idolatry more than many.
Count on the English to keep it rowdy and keep it real. The Americans remain silent. Secretively hopeful as a Texas Hold ‘Em player whose just gone all in with a pair of fours.
The entrance gate is like a bad case study of crowd dynamics. The first checkpoint is a car’s length in width and an ocean of fans funnel through it as two hapless women pat down not more than fifty percent of those running by them with what would otherwise appear to be a congratulatory pat on the chest or back.
Next checkpoint. This time there are quite a few more workers and they’re checking tickets. Lagging behind my group as I drop to a knee to shoot a few photos, I try to catch up and point at my group and my ticket which one of them is holding. That seems to be more than enough. I’m allowed to pass.
Alas, the congratulatory pat is not quite enough to convince the powers that be that I am not in fact Osama. So next up was the wand which is waived in front of me without a blip and then behind me. A solid beep this time as it traverses my National Geographic camera bag. I receive a questioning look.
“What’s in the bag?”
“A bunch of other camera gear.” I hold up my camera. “Should I open it?” But she has already moved on to the guy behind me.
I stick my ticket into a machine that was at least supposed to read its barcode and I am in.
“Come on ENGLAND!”
England listened. Within minutes of the kickoff, it is 1-0 England. Not a good start. On the other hand, since the balance of American vs. English fans is overwhelmingly weighted on the English side, the atmosphere is instantaneously electric. Flags waive. Faces shine. Horns blare. And voices struggle to measurably add to the chorus.
Our group, meanwhile, is having a little difficulty taking our seats. They seem to be occupied by a couple Englishmen.
“It’s a football match mate! Haven’t you ever been to a football match before!? Who cares about seats!”
We’re ok. We have seats even if they’re not our own but all we can do for the guy whose seat we have therefore overtaken is shrug and point to the true culprits. He too is English though and it’s not long before he’s recruited some stadium security to help the other errant Englishmen find their correct seat assignments.
Apart from the early goal against them, the U.S. plays well. The ball movement is quick and precise. Mistakes and bad touches are rare. We press England constantly and actually largely dominate one of the world’s soccer powerhouses! I’m impressed. We’ve come a long way since the days of cool and quick but unskillful Cobi Jones. Clint Dempsey plays out of his mind and it’s not long before he has scored an equalizer, albeit on a shot that absolutely should have been saved.
“USA! USA! USA!”
We’re alive and suddenly it’s a game. Suddenly there’s real hope!
As hot dogs and chili dogs and sandwiches sell out and fans switch to the liquid Budweiser diet, I wander the stadium snapping photos and shooting video on a newly acquired telephoto lens and manage to get some recognizable shots of Rooney.
“Come on ENGLAND!”
There’s anxiousness in the cry this time and it shows on the field. It’s on. The English bring it the second half. The U.S. defense is tested again and again. It’s nail biting. With every minute though, our hope grows. Onyewu is a pillar of reliability even through injury. Luck appears to also be on our side.
Three whistles blow! The game is over! While not exactly dejected, the English are not happy.
“What bollux! What a terrible display of football!”
Some English, on the other hand, are actually complimentary of the Americans. As we funnel back out of the stadium I hear one echo my own earlier thoughts by saying how far the United States has come. World Cup champs? Perhaps not. But then again, “you never know with America…”
How true.
