48 hours in Natal

My 25^th 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.