Pumped. Jazzed. Fired-up. Can’t contain it. The excitement is literally oozing out of my pores. My PORES! People are looking at me funny. It feels like I have fizzy pop inside me. Fizzy pop? I don’t even know what fizzy pop is!
I’m just so fired up that the World Cup has started. The World Cup! Heard of it? It’s only the biggest sporting event since the Roman gladiators took on the dinosaurs. It’s football’s — the “real” football — shiniest moment. The Cup. The Big C. When the whole world holds its collective breath then screams, “Goallllllllllll!” until the planet spins of its axis and into a black hole.
Here on our little island, it’s not such a big deal. But in other countries it causes people to forget to do simple things like go to work, breathe oxygen, take the wrappers off of food they’re eating and dress their children when they go out.
Suffice it to say: It’s big!
I got my first taste of World Cup mania in 2002. My wife and I were in Ireland, a country that was going a little nutsy-cookoo over their team. We flew over to newspaper headlines about a national crisis. By the size of the type, we thought the president had been shot or Martians had absconded with the sheep. But as it turned out, Irish Captain Roy Keane had been sent home for calling the manager a “wanker.” There was now to be a national referendum on closing Ireland and moving to Denmark.
Eventually things settled down and the excitement built to a fevered pitch.
We were in Dublin when Ireland played its opening match against Cameroon, and as I recall the big question on everyone’s mind had switched from Keane to whether the pubs would be open. See, in Ireland, it was 6:30 in the morning when the live games from Japan and Korea were broadcast and only a few pubs in the city were allowed to crack their doors. As luck would have it, the pub in the basement of our hotel was on the list.
“You know, I think I’m gonna’ go down there,” I told my wife.
She gave me one of those looks — crumpled eyebrows and cocked head — to signal that I’m the stupidest imbecile on the planet and would probably lose in “Scrabble” to pond scum.
But to me it was a once in a lifetime experience. “When you go to another country, you need to better understand their culture,” I told her. “Even if that means drinking beer at 6:30 in the morning.”
She just couldn’t understand. But I went anyway.
I remember the alarm clock going off at that ungodly hour. The first thought through my head was, “I must be the stupidest imbecile on the planet.” But I went anyway. Pride and curiosity will always drag you out of bed. Nervous and barely-awake, I made my way downstairs expecting a sedate scene of diehards and assorted hotel riffraff.
Instead it looked like an indoor riot. One where you don’t toss the Molotov cocktail, but pass it around while singing songs that sounded like, “… and then we’ll rip their arms off and feed them to the squirrels.”
It was a sea of Irish green, except for the crew of Scots in kilts who had been up all night at a bachelor party and saw this as their shot to keep the revelry going.
It didn’t take long to get swept up in it. Soccer is a brotherly sport (as long as you’re rooting for the same team), and the Irish are some of the most friendly people on the planet (as long as you’re rooting for the same team.) They won’t let you feel left out, and with a clink of a pint glass — presto! — you’re baptized Irish. This meant I was expected to yell and groan and sing, then curse Keane or McCarthy, depending on how the game was going.
Ireland tied it up 1-1 in the 52nd minute, and you could literally feel the ground shake. I thought the whole island might break loose from its moorings and tumble into the sea.
It was infectious — an unbelievable and indescribable experience. I’ve spent a good part of my formative years playing soccer, and the rest watching it. But until then, I had never known what it meant to be a real fan — a fanatic! To be so passionate about the game. To have it surge through your veins (or maybe that was the Guinness) and get your blood boiling.
I’ve felt it every World Cup since, and now … well … it’s started again! Just like fizzy pop.