You Win Some, You Lose Some

Our paths crisscrossed Chris's around mid-day. Like us, he wandered through Melrose Arch in his USA gear, ostensibly killing time before a trip to Rustenburg for our opener against England. When we returned to our apartment for lunch, Chris arrived in a Range Rover, trying to figure out how his initial transportation had failed him (foreshadowing, anyone?). We learned that Chris was from the states, went to East Carolina, was currently stationed with the USAF in England, and was traveling in South Africa alone. Since his lodgings had been secured at another location, he was only at our motel to catch the bus to the game. We kindly told him where the nearest liquor store was located and that we hoped to chat more on the bus to Rustenburg.

We ate lunch and eagerly prepared our faces and bodies with as much red, white, and blue as would fit in a suitcase. We overheard a familiar voice in the hallway checking in for the bus, and invited Chris in to have a drink and watch the end of the South Korea v. Greece match. He gave us USA bracelets, offered us Peronis, and kept the conversation moving. We painted our faces with stars stripes (I threw a '76 on my left cheek), and assembled our provisions for the celebratory ride north.

Our bus held a mixture of old and young, but most were know-it-alls of some annoying capacity. A handful of middle-aged men in the back of the bus drank beers and stood in the aisles, some Southerners debated the finer points of the SEC to our left, and our new foursome remained as quiet as we could, conserving our energies for an explosive evening.


We mostly watched the sun set.

We hit traffic at two toll stops, then again as we neared the stadium. Each time, the shoulder became a second lane, and the members of our bus took to flag waving, back-and-forthing with other vehicles, and reveling in hopes that the end of the near three-hour trip was at hand. As we four shed our silences, this reveling involved drinking South African Vitamin Water (Johnny Walker Red in a Vitamin Water bottle), while Chris drank Crown Royal from the bottle. We became the happiest section of the bus as Chris, being the nice guy that he is, passed his bottle to the SEC boys once or twice.

The coach driver, an amazingly astute man, parked the bus on a dirt road leading to the stadium. It is amazing: The Rustenburg facility is a state of the art sports complex in the middle of nowhere. It's flanked by rural Africans living in nothing more than cinder-block houses or shanties. Passengers (like us) unaware of our surroundings took pictures of the coach number in case we got lost on the return. We marched off toward the stadium, and as we reached the gate, Chris told us he needed to go back to the bus to fetch his ticket. He was not sitting near us, so while we felt bad for his blunder, we pressed on.

The stadium was beautiful; the pitch, pristine. We sat (stood) in the second tier just south of midfield. Three amicable Brits sat to the right of Ben, and four South Africans born in Britain were behind us. Three men in Uncle Sam duds, one of whom spent years on Tahoe's north shore, sat in front of us. Our bloc largely represented America, and though the vantage point of the broadcast likely showed England flags lining the lip of the second deck, the American fans--the fan base who bought the most tickets for this cup--outnumbered the England supporters.



At American sporting events and concerts, most people despise two things: buying alcohol and using the restroom, as both involve unruly people in outrageous lines. The restrooms, even the ladies' facilities, involved no lines whatsoever. Lines for beer (Budweiser in plastic bottles) vendors moved rapidly, as American and English customers saw no problem with paying 30 Rand (roughly 4 bucks--remember restaurants charge between R15-R20) a beer, a bargain considering what they're charged back home. The major flaw--be it a result of a night game, fans who drank on the ride in, or one aspect of life at a stadium in rural Africa--was the food situation. A shoving match for beef dogs, lamb dogs, soft drinks and chocolate bars took 45-60 minutes to procure.


The game started with four beers, and I hoped to seize an opportunity to get us a meal just before the announcement of stoppage time. (By the way, there was no operational scoreboard, so we had no idea how much time remained in each half other than loosely guessing using Ben's watch). You hopefully saw the first half (or highlights of it), so I will not describe the details of our fourth minute wake-up call, Green's condemning boof of Dempsey's strike, or the cleats Howard took to the ribs that led to a halftime Cortisone shot.

Just before the half I fought my way through the massive mob (there was no "line") for food, finally reaching the counter. A woman, who appeared to be in charge of corralling her young South African workforce, informed me the following three facts upon my uncomfortable arrival: 1.) The beef dogs would be ready in ten minutes; 2.) The 200 Rand bill in my hand would not be accepted because of counterfeit warnings; and 3.) The Visa payment device had lost its signal. A South African behind me asked where I got my Rand. When I told him the U.S., he cursed his own country for their unwillingness to accept good money. Miraculously, the woman in front me (Nidia) bought our dinners. In turn, I gave her the only non-200 I had, a 50 and a 20, which she used to quickly buy two beers. I returned to my seat (by walking on the chairs since no one was sitting in them) to find that Stephanie had once tried to find me to tell me to give up. I had missed some of the second half, but we had something to sustain our appetites.

Fast forward to the end of the match: The English players couldn't leave the pitch fast enough. The Men's National Team walked to the corner of the field to wave and thank the fans. The atmosphere was euphoric.




The US fans clearly felt they'd made an important statement by responding to the early goal and playing tough football. The English fans felt dejected. As Ben and I celebrated on the concourse and waited for Stephanie to use the facilities, England fans angrily scowled at our joy. One made a gesture of confrontation, and Ben and I fought back in question: "Why so angry?" It felt like a genuine query considering the game ended in a draw.


I can't see how we might have provoked it...

We took two wrong routes to the bus, falsely retracing our steps based on direction of the stadium and the quality of the road beneath our feet. After watching two military helicopters land, we found the correct road and the correct bus. Our coach director counted heads and cleared the driver for departure. Chris was nowhere to be found.

We arrived at the apartment at 2:30 am. It was a long ride full of people who love hearing their own voices. Some were drunk, but all were annoying. Poor things were said about the man who passed the Crown Royal around to his fellow fans. Judgments were made. We worried.

Riding a wave of energy and needing to nurse our throats with hot water and appease our stomachs with late-night snacks, we checked the reports on the game and re-watched footage on the television. Some time early this morning, Ben suggested finding Chris on Facebook (he mentioned using his burner phone to access his account on the bus). This morning, I received a response. Chris made it back to Jo'burg. We'll no doubt hear his version of the US v. England game. After all, he'll be back in our room with his Peronis before the US meets Slovenia on the 18th.