this sporting life / 1 The flag is not for waving, but to drape over my head and shoulders; the water to pour over the flag so my brain won’t fry in the hellish heat inside the ground
Right: A mascot worth stealing: England’s World Cup Willy from 1966 56 ColdType | June 2014
He sneers a mixture of contempt and spittle, then demands, “Are you a fucking moron? Why are you here if you don’t like either side?” “Business trip,” I reply, tempted to suggest that only a moron would wear an England shirt today, considering that team’s recent performances. But I don’t. Instead, I tell him that I’m a consultant to the company that owns the local paper, the Pasadena StarNews; I’m helping co-ordinate its coverage of the event, and my bonus is a ticket for the final. Another sneer, this one clearly dismissive. “Bloody amateur. Not even a real fan.” Then, the ultimate insult, “I suppose you like baseball, as well?” We drift apart. Mercifully, I reflect later, before he hears my two-word response. I rejoin the crowd, carefully avoiding maniacs and fanatics, many of seem to be on day release. And I now know my place in the soccer hierarchy, so I join the blue section of the throbbing mob. We cheer, we sing, we applaud sexist jokes about our Brazilian opponents and their wives. Local residents line the side of the route. They stand in gardens, They sprawl in deckchairs. They lunch on hot dogs from sizzling barbecues, with cold beers in hand. They are enthralled by the passing show. And, judging by the flags planted on their green, green lawns (many prayers here for weed killer and irrigation), they’re rooting for the Blues. Seems I’ve picked a winning team. First time ever . . . __________ I’d decided to support Italy earlier in the morning, over a late breakfast, after which I trekked into Pasadena to buy my blue shirt and monster Italian flag. Then, pausing only to buy sunglasses, sunscreen and several bottles of water, I joined the procession to the Rose Bowl. The flag was not for waving, but to drape over my head and shoulders; the water to pour over the
flag so my brain wouldn’t fry in the hellish heat inside the ground. I’d been to the third place game a day earlier and had felt the effect of the heat and LA’s notorious smog 0n my eyes, which were streaming tears from the moment the game began until halftime when I fled for sanctuary, and a fistful of cold beers, at a nearby bar. Then I bought a small stuffed toy – Striker, the mascot of the games – for my wife . . . I recall another World Cup incident, this time in 1966, when the finals were held in England. The event was memorable for two reasons: England won the contest for the first and only time, beating Germany in the final with a stilldisputed goal that either did or didn’t cross the line, depending on which language you spoke. The second reason? I was a teenager, in a Woolworth store in my home town in England with my new girlfriend who was cooing over a display of the World Cup mascot, a cute little lion named Willie. Unnoticed, I palmed a commemorative keyring, which I proudly presented as a token of my love as we left the store. Ungrateful is not the word to describe her reaction: batshit crazy would be more accurate. She declared she’d never speak to me again unless I returned Willy to the store shelf. I objected: stealing a keyring was stupid, I agreed, but returning it was doubly nuts. She stared me down. I did as ordered. She’s still my sweetheart – we’ve been married for more half a lifetime. I still follow her instructions. Sometimes. __________ You will not believe the heat at the Rose Bowl as the match starts. It’s 12:30 pm – timed so pampered European audiences can watch it live on TV – and one of the hottest days of the year; 100,000 fans are sweltering in the stands. On field, it’s almost impossible to walk, let alone run, but the players struggle through the game, during which there seems more likelihood of heart attacks than goals.