Football Fever
I'm not a huge football fan, but I've always supported England in the World Cup. I'm old enough to remember their win in 1966, but probably won't live long enough to see it happen again. I've watched World Cup games on black and white TV as a child, in classrooms while working in schools and in crowded pubs with thousands of cheering students praying I wasn't crushed as they cheered our boys on.
Yesterday I watched the first game of the 2010 South African World Cup in a faux British pub on Fourth Street, Louisville, Kentucky. Outside the temperatures were in the mid 90s with a heat index stretching them up to 100 degrees. The humidity was so high I could feel the sweat dripping down my back and it felt like someone had inserted a metal skewer into my head.
"This'll be a great place to watch the game," I said to Grumpy. "There's bound to be some other Brits in here."
We sat down and Grumpy ordered a pint of Boddington's and we shared a plate of fish and chips as the game began.
"Let's stand up when they play God Save The Queen," I said to Grumpy.
"Let's not," he said, looking around.
As our anthem ended I could only hear one person applauding. Me. Some British pub. It was just us, about 50 Americans and a drunk South African woman.
Watching the game was like trying to develop a negative in the Twilight Zone. When we cheered our first goal the Yanks looked glum. When we heard them cheer, we knew it was bad news for us.
Had it been England v USA in any other sport, I wouldn't have dreamt we would even have a chance. But this is football. It's our game. The only time we ever hear of soccer here is when a proud mom or dad tells us their daughter plays for her school! It's a girls' game. So how do they even have a team?
At first I wasn't worried. We scored in the first four minutes and I was already feeling sorry for everyone else in the pub. But for our goalie to let the ball slip through his obviously buttered gloves - honestly!
The only way to reach any fellow fans was by using Grumpy's phone to see what every one else was saying on facebook.
So in the end we had to be content with a score of one all.
"But we are top of our group," said Grumpy.
"Yes, but only because it's listed alphabetically," I moaned.
Yesterday I watched the first game of the 2010 South African World Cup in a faux British pub on Fourth Street, Louisville, Kentucky. Outside the temperatures were in the mid 90s with a heat index stretching them up to 100 degrees. The humidity was so high I could feel the sweat dripping down my back and it felt like someone had inserted a metal skewer into my head.
"This'll be a great place to watch the game," I said to Grumpy. "There's bound to be some other Brits in here."
We sat down and Grumpy ordered a pint of Boddington's and we shared a plate of fish and chips as the game began.
"Let's stand up when they play God Save The Queen," I said to Grumpy.
"Let's not," he said, looking around.
As our anthem ended I could only hear one person applauding. Me. Some British pub. It was just us, about 50 Americans and a drunk South African woman.
Watching the game was like trying to develop a negative in the Twilight Zone. When we cheered our first goal the Yanks looked glum. When we heard them cheer, we knew it was bad news for us.
Had it been England v USA in any other sport, I wouldn't have dreamt we would even have a chance. But this is football. It's our game. The only time we ever hear of soccer here is when a proud mom or dad tells us their daughter plays for her school! It's a girls' game. So how do they even have a team?
At first I wasn't worried. We scored in the first four minutes and I was already feeling sorry for everyone else in the pub. But for our goalie to let the ball slip through his obviously buttered gloves - honestly!
The only way to reach any fellow fans was by using Grumpy's phone to see what every one else was saying on facebook.
So in the end we had to be content with a score of one all.
"But we are top of our group," said Grumpy.
"Yes, but only because it's listed alphabetically," I moaned.
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