30 June 2006
I have three hours before the match. Italy is playing Ukraine. I’m caught, trapped. The expectation is that, with Australia out of the World Cup, I’ll support Italy. The bitter taste of our undeserved, unmerited loss to the Italians earlier this week though makes me a reluctant, recalcitrant support. I can’t really support Ukraine though, despite the fact that many of our Urban Cave neighbours, and a good portion of Naples immigrant population, are from the Ukraine.
I’ve copped a good deal of light hearted teasing this week, locals sympathising with the Socceroos loss, agreeing that it was an unjust result. Nevertheless, they are happy that Italy is through to the next round, it’s written all over their smug, consoling faces. I suspect that many of them balanced on a tight rope during the game, confident that Italy would win against the less experienced, less famous Aussies, yet still concerned that they might be the dark horse galloping in to steal another World Cup opportunity from them. I can only imagine what my life would have been like this week if Australia had indeed slipped the rug out from under them and won. I probably would have been in hiding, denying my nationality for fear of uncontrolled, emotional outbursts and hysteria. Men, women, children and dogs crying on the streets, blocking the traffic, inconsolable; blaming some saint or other for their team’s failure.
I should support Italy. Gi will tell you that. In fact he’s threatening to withdraw my Italian citizenship application if I do anything but support the country that will hopefully provide me with a European passport.
Still, I have a quiet feeling that Germany might be the team to watch. I wouldn’t mind if my friend Esther in Munster had a World Cup finals win to scream and shout about. It seems fitting that they should win when the Cup is held on home turf. It’s almost like déjà-vu somehow! Esther recently sent me photos of their World Cup support in action with herself, her father, boyfriend and friends kitted out in the black, red and yellow of their national flag, sitting on a rooftop, waving flags and intently watching the TV drinking beer. Anyone that is prepared to paint their country’s flag on their cheeks deserves to win, I reckon.
My other options are just to pretend it’s the 70’s and swing with each game. That way, when Italy is eliminated and revealed to be winners only by default, I won’t be left crying into another empty beer bottle with disappointment and disillusionment. Not that that sort of attitude is going to win me any friends in this land of soccer (oops, sorry football) mania. I just don’t think I can go through the pain of being emotionally attached to another losing team. This is my first World Cup after all.
I could support Brazil with the skilled Ronaldo, but his friend on the field Ronaldino has a face like a horse that puts me off. England would be fun to watch with the metro sexual David Beckham on centre stage but I’d only feel disheartened that it’s not Robbie kicking that little white ball around (I know it has black bits on it too, but from up here, in the heavens where we watch the game like hawks surveying the terrain below it just looks white).
You see, I’m stuck. I think I’ll play the game of cultural sensitivity and externally support Italy, those sneaky defeaters, but on the inside I’ll be swinging from the rafters, chopping and changing my allegiances according to who has the better looking team, uniforms and the least gel in their hair; much like the Socceroos.
5 July 2006
Traitor? Me?
This World Cup thing is fascinating. Not because I care too much for the sport of soccer (oops, sorry football) or because I admire the board at FIFA. (What does FIFA mean? Federation of International Football Arses? No, that can’t be right, it doesn’t mention soccer. Maybe it should be Federation of International Soccer Hooligans…FISH. Yes, that rolls off the tongue much better than the acronym FIFA which requires you to bring your top teeth over you bottom lip in rapid repetition, most awkward really).
No, it’s more about the behaviour that it brings out in people.
Take last night. We went to a local café to watch the Italy vs. Germany match. The family that runs the café set up a TV on the footpath, and the whole family has front row seats as the paying patrons get to sit further back. There is granddad, the parents, older kids and their respective love interests, a young boy of about 4 and two dogs. When they are not focused on the two dogs who like to roam the streets, but never seem to get tied up properly despite wearing leads, or the small boy who easily gets bored, seeks attention and threatens to release the screaming horn as he runs around the television, or tending to customers who dribble in, charging 50% more for everything they consume as they occupy a chair on the footpath, they are glued to the screen. As the goals are missed, the intensity rises, or the German team takes a penalty shot three of the men invariably jump out of their seats, cursing, flinging their arms into the air before cupping their heads in exasperation. Sometimes they circle around behind the TV, or walk a few steps into the brightly lit bar, no longer able to watch the spectacle, as though their very absence is going to stop Germany scoring a penalty goal.
As soon as we settled ourselves into a couple of woven cane chairs I noticed a blonde guy sitting next to us. He was alone, and quiet. When asked if the nearby seats were available he responded enthusiastically in Italian, like he was glad to have understood the question. We later discovered that he was studying Italian and the art of wine making in the north of Italy, so I suppose we was glad to understand with Neapolitan dialect being often totally unrecognisable to Italian language speakers.
I knew instantly that he was also German, and was trying to keep a low profile in a city where they love their national football team passionately, almost as much as they love their pizza and the volcano.
One of the daughters, or niece, of the bar owner, later informed me that she was deeply patriotic and nationalistic. Her pride and love for her city and country were deeply imprinted. That left me wondering how true your sense of patriotism is if you’ve never left your city, let alone your country. But, perhaps to be nationalistic is never an unbiased state of being. In fact if you look up a thesaurus, it lists the word xenophobic is a synonym.
The match unfolded. Gi asked the German guy if he was indeed supporting the ‘other’ team, only to have his question answered with a wry smile. Sometime into the second half the rest of the family slowly woke up to the fact that they had a German in their midst. I thought he endured the good natured, yet sometimes ruthless, joking with good grace. Every time the German team were in the vicinity of the goal, with the possibility of scoring a goal he would lean forward, a vision of total concentration. At each failed goal attempt he would sit back in his chair, very little emotion registering on his face, while the Neapolitans would explode with joy at their goal keeper’s skill, or the Germans’ plain bad luck.
The Italians scored two goals within two minutes at the end of supplementary time. You could feel the whole city shake as everyone screamed and bellowed, jumping up from chairs and sofas, horns blowing, people clapping with unadulterated joy. As the team celebrated on the screen, back in Italy they congratulated themselves on the win, having been secretly afraid that their World Cup run was to end that night. The commentators began interviewing. All of Naples seemed to want to see what the two goal scorers had to say as the city streets remained unusually dormant. We watched them, their faces filling the screen, tears rolling down a cheek, thanking their wives and families, overcome with emotion and exhaustion.
After peaking into their hearts, we hit the street. There was a riot in progress (you think I’m joking, I wish I could capture it on film). Gi himself was bouncing with energy, excited at the win, and thrilled to see his city rejoicing with such gusto. It seemed as though everyone was in a car or on a scooter, and everyone had not one, but two flags fluttering behind. The emergency service and city cleaning trucks raced around, lights flashing. Fireworks were exploding over the piazzas. I wondered aloud how many people die on the streets in amongst such reckless driving, after each game. I was quickly rebuked (to Gi’s superstitious nature saying such things out loud will invariably make them come true), and advised that no one died, but maybe a few got hurt. It almost seemed somehow acceptable, as I imagined the emergency room statistics spiking each time the Italian team played.
I, too, had been quietly barracking for Germany. I had a flurry of text messages coming from my friends. Doeng, sitting at a bar in Bangkok, and Esther, herself in Germany, were both hoping for a German victory. Doeng’s last message was full of angst as he asked why it was that every team he supported got defeated. Esther’s last message reflected the agony and tears of all Germans as the match ended 2:0 during the second half of supplementary time.
I have three hours before the match. Italy is playing Ukraine. I’m caught, trapped. The expectation is that, with Australia out of the World Cup, I’ll support Italy. The bitter taste of our undeserved, unmerited loss to the Italians earlier this week though makes me a reluctant, recalcitrant support. I can’t really support Ukraine though, despite the fact that many of our Urban Cave neighbours, and a good portion of Naples immigrant population, are from the Ukraine.
I’ve copped a good deal of light hearted teasing this week, locals sympathising with the Socceroos loss, agreeing that it was an unjust result. Nevertheless, they are happy that Italy is through to the next round, it’s written all over their smug, consoling faces. I suspect that many of them balanced on a tight rope during the game, confident that Italy would win against the less experienced, less famous Aussies, yet still concerned that they might be the dark horse galloping in to steal another World Cup opportunity from them. I can only imagine what my life would have been like this week if Australia had indeed slipped the rug out from under them and won. I probably would have been in hiding, denying my nationality for fear of uncontrolled, emotional outbursts and hysteria. Men, women, children and dogs crying on the streets, blocking the traffic, inconsolable; blaming some saint or other for their team’s failure.
I should support Italy. Gi will tell you that. In fact he’s threatening to withdraw my Italian citizenship application if I do anything but support the country that will hopefully provide me with a European passport.
Still, I have a quiet feeling that Germany might be the team to watch. I wouldn’t mind if my friend Esther in Munster had a World Cup finals win to scream and shout about. It seems fitting that they should win when the Cup is held on home turf. It’s almost like déjà-vu somehow! Esther recently sent me photos of their World Cup support in action with herself, her father, boyfriend and friends kitted out in the black, red and yellow of their national flag, sitting on a rooftop, waving flags and intently watching the TV drinking beer. Anyone that is prepared to paint their country’s flag on their cheeks deserves to win, I reckon.
My other options are just to pretend it’s the 70’s and swing with each game. That way, when Italy is eliminated and revealed to be winners only by default, I won’t be left crying into another empty beer bottle with disappointment and disillusionment. Not that that sort of attitude is going to win me any friends in this land of soccer (oops, sorry football) mania. I just don’t think I can go through the pain of being emotionally attached to another losing team. This is my first World Cup after all.
I could support Brazil with the skilled Ronaldo, but his friend on the field Ronaldino has a face like a horse that puts me off. England would be fun to watch with the metro sexual David Beckham on centre stage but I’d only feel disheartened that it’s not Robbie kicking that little white ball around (I know it has black bits on it too, but from up here, in the heavens where we watch the game like hawks surveying the terrain below it just looks white).
You see, I’m stuck. I think I’ll play the game of cultural sensitivity and externally support Italy, those sneaky defeaters, but on the inside I’ll be swinging from the rafters, chopping and changing my allegiances according to who has the better looking team, uniforms and the least gel in their hair; much like the Socceroos.
5 July 2006
Traitor? Me?
This World Cup thing is fascinating. Not because I care too much for the sport of soccer (oops, sorry football) or because I admire the board at FIFA. (What does FIFA mean? Federation of International Football Arses? No, that can’t be right, it doesn’t mention soccer. Maybe it should be Federation of International Soccer Hooligans…FISH. Yes, that rolls off the tongue much better than the acronym FIFA which requires you to bring your top teeth over you bottom lip in rapid repetition, most awkward really).
No, it’s more about the behaviour that it brings out in people.
Take last night. We went to a local café to watch the Italy vs. Germany match. The family that runs the café set up a TV on the footpath, and the whole family has front row seats as the paying patrons get to sit further back. There is granddad, the parents, older kids and their respective love interests, a young boy of about 4 and two dogs. When they are not focused on the two dogs who like to roam the streets, but never seem to get tied up properly despite wearing leads, or the small boy who easily gets bored, seeks attention and threatens to release the screaming horn as he runs around the television, or tending to customers who dribble in, charging 50% more for everything they consume as they occupy a chair on the footpath, they are glued to the screen. As the goals are missed, the intensity rises, or the German team takes a penalty shot three of the men invariably jump out of their seats, cursing, flinging their arms into the air before cupping their heads in exasperation. Sometimes they circle around behind the TV, or walk a few steps into the brightly lit bar, no longer able to watch the spectacle, as though their very absence is going to stop Germany scoring a penalty goal.
As soon as we settled ourselves into a couple of woven cane chairs I noticed a blonde guy sitting next to us. He was alone, and quiet. When asked if the nearby seats were available he responded enthusiastically in Italian, like he was glad to have understood the question. We later discovered that he was studying Italian and the art of wine making in the north of Italy, so I suppose we was glad to understand with Neapolitan dialect being often totally unrecognisable to Italian language speakers.
I knew instantly that he was also German, and was trying to keep a low profile in a city where they love their national football team passionately, almost as much as they love their pizza and the volcano.
One of the daughters, or niece, of the bar owner, later informed me that she was deeply patriotic and nationalistic. Her pride and love for her city and country were deeply imprinted. That left me wondering how true your sense of patriotism is if you’ve never left your city, let alone your country. But, perhaps to be nationalistic is never an unbiased state of being. In fact if you look up a thesaurus, it lists the word xenophobic is a synonym.
The match unfolded. Gi asked the German guy if he was indeed supporting the ‘other’ team, only to have his question answered with a wry smile. Sometime into the second half the rest of the family slowly woke up to the fact that they had a German in their midst. I thought he endured the good natured, yet sometimes ruthless, joking with good grace. Every time the German team were in the vicinity of the goal, with the possibility of scoring a goal he would lean forward, a vision of total concentration. At each failed goal attempt he would sit back in his chair, very little emotion registering on his face, while the Neapolitans would explode with joy at their goal keeper’s skill, or the Germans’ plain bad luck.
The Italians scored two goals within two minutes at the end of supplementary time. You could feel the whole city shake as everyone screamed and bellowed, jumping up from chairs and sofas, horns blowing, people clapping with unadulterated joy. As the team celebrated on the screen, back in Italy they congratulated themselves on the win, having been secretly afraid that their World Cup run was to end that night. The commentators began interviewing. All of Naples seemed to want to see what the two goal scorers had to say as the city streets remained unusually dormant. We watched them, their faces filling the screen, tears rolling down a cheek, thanking their wives and families, overcome with emotion and exhaustion.
After peaking into their hearts, we hit the street. There was a riot in progress (you think I’m joking, I wish I could capture it on film). Gi himself was bouncing with energy, excited at the win, and thrilled to see his city rejoicing with such gusto. It seemed as though everyone was in a car or on a scooter, and everyone had not one, but two flags fluttering behind. The emergency service and city cleaning trucks raced around, lights flashing. Fireworks were exploding over the piazzas. I wondered aloud how many people die on the streets in amongst such reckless driving, after each game. I was quickly rebuked (to Gi’s superstitious nature saying such things out loud will invariably make them come true), and advised that no one died, but maybe a few got hurt. It almost seemed somehow acceptable, as I imagined the emergency room statistics spiking each time the Italian team played.
I, too, had been quietly barracking for Germany. I had a flurry of text messages coming from my friends. Doeng, sitting at a bar in Bangkok, and Esther, herself in Germany, were both hoping for a German victory. Doeng’s last message was full of angst as he asked why it was that every team he supported got defeated. Esther’s last message reflected the agony and tears of all Germans as the match ended 2:0 during the second half of supplementary time.
My World Cup interest is waning. Australia’s out. England are out. The German team went down last night. I now have no choice but to back Italy, which is what I recommended Doeng do as well!
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