My 25th birthday started with a jolt and a hop and
the furious screech of brakes fighting against a rain-slickened runway. We had just
touched down in the city of Natal amidst a raging storm of fog and driving rain
that cut visibility to below zero. Luckily, the plane's instruments worked spectacularly
that morning and we landed safely, minus a couple heartbeats. It was 3:30 in
the morning and as I shook the airplane sleep from my head I frowned at the wet
fog and rain that held ominous signs for the USA vs. Ghana soccer game that
would commence in 28 short hours.
My brother and I had left a Rio de Janeiro awash in Argentines
singing songs, slinging back cervejas, and leaning on their car horns all down
Copacabana beach. It was the night before the opening game in Rio, and their
unabashed fervor for the beautiful game had infected the whole city. Late that
night, they formed an impromptu pep rally and dance party in the middle of one
of the busiest streets of Rio, halting traffic for miles in a passionate
expression of love for the Albicelestes. The Brazilian police had to resort to
tear gas to get the masses of sky blue and white clad men to finally disperse,
and I guarantee they did so with smiles on their faces and songs in their
throats.
After four hours of erratic sleep on the cold concrete airport
floor, we rustled up two other Americans to share a cab into the actual city of
Natal. They hailed from the West Coast, as many soccer fans seem to do. I am
not sure if that's because their weather allows yearlong practice of the sport
or because in their desire to be hella different from the better coast, they
have adopted European attitudes in the misguided belief that ye olde continent
knows what is cool.
The fitful morning clouds continued to pour water down unto
Natal, and I began to question my decision not to pack a swimsuit. Twice, our
taxi had to make detours to avoid either a road collapsed under the weight of
water, or a lake frothing with two immobilized jeep wranglers where a road used
to be. After an hour of waterlogged driving we made it to a hotel and proceeded
to pass out for the next two hours.
I might have slept all day if Grant, our friend from high school,
hadn't burst into our room and demanded that we go drink and watch soccer. Somehow,
the deluge of water had abated and Erik and I agreed to join our friend on his quest for World Cup inebriation. Grant and I shared the same birthday, and we began our
celebration in earnest that afternoon with a cluster of two dollar-twenty ounce
beers and shots of cashasa, Brazil's sugar cane liquor, chased down with
espresso.
Cashashots with my birthday buddy
The partying continued into the night at the official USA
pregame located amongst a smattering of car dealerships and a wannabe wal-mart.
It seems our obsession with automobiles and cheap consumer goods doesn't stop
at the border. The makeshift tent was stuffed with bros decked out in America
gear swilling overpriced budweiser. For some reason, this produced a strong
sense of deja vu in me that refused to dissipate throughout the night. Despite
this perturbing sensation, we had fun watching Grant attempt to chat up the
players' wives and challenging a group of Californians to flip cup. The
Brazilian bartender was entranced by the game, as she chanted at us in
Portuguese to vai vai vai or risk the ignominy of defeat.
USA pregame with Grant and Drew and some random bandit
Eventually, we decided to head for greener pastures, i.e. where
you could get double the beer for half the price. And so the rest of the night
devolved into a haze of drinking beers on the street and speaking a bastard mix
of Spanish and Portuguese to the locals. Most of them didn't appreciate my
Sportuguese, as Brazilians feel stereotyped when you talk Spanish to them. But
I met a man and wife from Buenos Aires who adored my language skills, and
we bonded so well that I flopped into bed with a new facebook friend.
Gameday.
I awoke with a beer-misted mind, but a driving sense of purpose
that this would not hold me back at my first real experience of the World Cup.
And so, with a little help from my friends: bread and ham and watermelon and
papaya, and most importantly, cold water and black tea, I banished the hangover
from my body and set out to seize the day.
Our group of America men met up at a beachside hotel to drink
cashasa and watch Germany's disembowelment of Portugal, a good sign for the
USA's hopes of advancement. At 3:30 pm we piled into taxis (cars of
citizens looking to make a quick buck) and headed for the stadium. As we sped
past a snaking line of honking vehicles, someone pulled out and scraped into
the side of our overburdened ride. The shake sobered us up a little, but we
still had a quarter bottle of cashasa left, and we took turns tipping it back
as we waited on the street corner. After a lengthy discussion between the
drivers, and numerous catcalls from passing Brazilians who enjoyed our Fourth
of July outfits, we squeezed back into the car and drove the remaining miles to
the stadium, our driver clutching a cheque from the man who clipped us.
Our handsome group of American men
The USA outlaws pregame was chock full of red white and blue
faithful singing America the Beautiful and chanting Ghana-Ria. The atmosphere
was electric with anticipation and rebel yells, and the stale smell of belched
beer and sweating bodies floated in the thickened air. At 5
o'clock sharp the march to the stadium began, and the swarm of Americans
converged on Arena das Dunas, our hive minds linked by the one desire to win.
Smiles and high fives abounded and positive yet nervous energy flowed as freely
as the beer.
The most American pregame
The Ghanaian fans, eyes brimming with confidence, were cordial
in their antipathy towards us as they shot big smiles and good-hearted boos at
the passing Americans. In line, I met a man draped in a Zimbabwe flag, and when
I told him I was born there, he frowned and said that I was rooting for the
wrong team. A surge of guilt at my betrayal of Mother Africa washed over me,
but I managed to overcome it with the help of a chug of sweet cheap wine and
another U-S-A chant.
By 6:30, Erik and I had found our seats within the stadium
and the budding anticipation filled our souls and quickened our speech. We
decided to go consume substances to drown that nervous energy and prepare
ourselves to watch every minute of the fast-approaching game. Our bodies
sufficiently stocked up on alcohol and nicotine, we returned to our seats in
time for a somewhat underwhelming rendition of the Star-Spangled Banner as the
turnt up fans, not the best singers, had to provide the words to accompany the
tune.
Erik and I at our first seats
And then the game began, and the elation of watching the United
States play a World Cup game in Brazil was quickly and completely surpassed by
the Holy-Shit-I-Can't-Believe-It-Fuck-Yea feeling of seeing that ball carom of
the back of the net. Dempsey, with arms outstretched, cruised by us as beer
flew, thousands roared, and strangers hugged in absolute delight. The high
within my chest and mind was at its utmost peak, above any feelings that drugs
or sex or rock and roll or even personal achievement could reach. And it stayed
that way for the whole first half as our defense stymied Ghanaian attack after
relentless attack. Our team could barely possess the ball, and Jozy got hurt,
but none of it mattered as we were goddamn winning a World Cup game against
American soccer’s own personal demon.
At halftime, Erik and I decided to find a way into the USA
section because it looked like they knew how to properly celebrate and cheer.
We snuck into the top row of the bottom section and were welcomed with open
arms as the previous occupants of our seats had been a couple of Ghanaians who
also had decided to move at halftime, for some odd reason.
Our better second seats
The energy in that section is hard to explain, but lets just say
my voice was hoarse after ten minutes and I had developed a chronic case of goose
bumps, which still flare up when I think about those glorious forty-five
minutes. Ghana ramped up their assault in the second half, and each defensive
clearance or save by the immortal Timmy Howard was honored with a roar of
approval. And then it happened. They got through, and everyone stood quiet and
still in shared horror and disappointment, listening to the drums of Ghana beat
their ceaseless tune. The red-bearded man next to me, bearing an uncanny
resemblance to Tormund Giantsbane, ripped off his shirt and stomped it into the
ground. I knew exactly how he felt.
Then some brave soul started up the I believe that we will win
chant, and order was restored to our universe. Never had the simple chant felt
so symbolic, or significant, and every man, woman, and child in that section
poured their vocal chords into its crescendo. Hope fluttered down onto our
shoulders again, for we are the United States of America, and we always find a
way to get what we want. Thousands there, and millions across the country,
yearned for just one more goal in those waning minutes. Erik and I decided to
do the most American thing possible in that moment: pack our mouths with homegrown
chewing tobacco in a last ditch attempt of a rally dip.
Our players suddenly gained offensive tenacity, and thanks to
the stellar passing of Michael Bradley and the quick feet of Fabian Johnson a
corner kick was prepared right in front of the USA section. As one, we jumped
up and down and screamed our sweating faces off, and when John Brooks' hard
head sent the ball into the net before our disbelieving eyes, only one word can
describe what happened next.
Pande-fucking-monium.
Skoal splattered from my mouth and I almost tumbled down the
stands in a shamelessly uncoordinated celebration. I hugged my brother and the
sweaty chest of a wildling chieftain and anyone else I could reach all while
yelling FUCK YEAH LET'S GO at the top of my lungs. And just about everyone else
was doing the exact same thing. Remember that high I mentioned earlier? Yea,
well this beat it by 3000 miles, all the way from sea to shining sea.
Totally sober panorama of the USA section after the goal
The next ten minutes were consumed by the strangest sense of
nervous giddiness all wrapped up in a rubber band ball deep within the pit of
my stomach. I couldn’t talk nor think, only watch the action, my hands on my
head and my heart in my throat. And when that final whistle blew, the rubber ball
unraveled and numbing elation flooded my body from head to toe. I don't think
the ten miles long smile stretched across my face did that feeling justice, nor
did the 500 high fives I exchanged with other grinning hollering Americans.
The heavens opened up and a sprinkling of holy water settled
down upon us, washing away the sweat and nervous humidity. The people reached
their hands up to the sky in gratitude and beamed at the world. At that time,
nothing else mattered. Erik and I couldn't even consider moving for a solid
fifteen minutes as we basked in the warm rain and feelings of kinship and joy.
Several hours later we were back at the Natal airport to catch
our 3:30 am flight back to Rio. Traveling at that hour usually produces
sullen looks and silences in the crowds, but on this night jittery
conversations and shit-eating grins reigned supreme. As we boarded our plane, I
struck up a conversation with the father and son in front of us. The kid must
have been ten years old and was babbling like a schoolgirl after her first
kiss. He had managed to videotape the second goal, from the set up of the
corner to the raging party after, and his pride and happiness at achieving this
was too overwhelming for his heart to handle. Once again, I felt what he felt,
but being a freshly turned 25 year old man, I was able to somewhat keep my
emotions in check, at least until the next USA game.
