ole, ole ole ole!

I think I’ve been to perhaps three professional-level football (soccer) games in my life. All have been at a high level. The first was in the ’96 Olympic games in Atlanta. When I picked up an official brochure at the grocery store on ordering tickets, I filled it out for all sorts of fun-looking events, figuring that I’d likely only win tickets to a few, since they were assigned on a lottery basis. There was the opening ceremony, the closing ceremony, gymnastics, you name it. I signed the form, complete with my parents’ credit card number (I was still a minor: totally cool for me to use their card, of course). This was the good old days when snail mail was still the primary method to place such orders, and so it wasn’t until a month later that I received a small envelope from the Olympic commission politely informing me that the credit card had been declined, but that I was welcome to try again. I did try again, knowing full well that I had missed the first round of the lottery for tickets, and that most were already in their lucky owners’ hands. Of all the events I checked off, I was awarded tickets to one event: a football semi-final that would be played in Athens, GA, a few hours’ drive from Atlanta. So a potential family trip turned into a solo adventure.

That was a great experience. I flew out to Atlanta and stayed with a friend from school whose family had recently moved there. Sadly, Elizabeth couldn’t come to the game with me, so I drove there with a friend of hers, stopping for coffee and warm pecan (pronounced peekan) pie along the way at some classically southern diner off the poorly lit country road. The game was great, as was my stay. I still have photos buried somewhere at home in Los Angeles. I recall the particular fondness I had for sweet tea, the hot and humid weather of the south, and the great hospitality the area is known for.

My second time at a game was the 1999 Women’s World Cup at the Rose Bowl in Pasadena, CA. Yes, this was the famous game where Mia Hamm tore off her jersey and celebrated victory in her sports bra (gasp!). I remember the sweltering sun, the huge crowd, and the tiny parking spot I fit into, ever trying to save a buck on paid parking. There’s not much more to say—it was an awesome game, and I’m glad I had the chance to be there.

My third game was last week, in Belgrade, Serbia. Fast forward over ten years to an era of European football hooligans who throw bottles, rush fields, and occasionally kill visiting fans (in reference to a French man who was recently killed here in Belgrade by a group of hooligans who apparently forgot the “it’s just a game” credo). Anyway, without going into further detail on that terrible death, it might be obvious why alcohol has been banned in and within 50 meters of stadiums on game days.

So, here I was in Belgrade, walking to the game with Vladimir. Such a different experience than game day at an American baseball stadium, for example. We’re talking throngs of spectators each trying to be the first through the security checkpoints, violating personal space requirements and ignoring the concept of orderliness. We’re talking more riot cops than I’ve ever seen in one place, complete with face masks and plastic shields. We’re talking instead of hot dogs and burgers, your choice of seeds (pumpkin, sunflower, or peanuts). I burned my tongue nibbling at my bundle of salted pumpkin seeds and found a strange craving for one of the non-alcoholic beers others drank. Instead I sucked down the contents of a juice pouch sold by a peddler out of a scraggly cardboard box. Rather than official-looking peddlers moving up and down the major aisles, here they walk across toes on already-cramped rows and look more akin to vendors that invaded various buses I’ve ridden in foreign countries selling strange snacks and chocolate bars. They also have a different-sounding post-goal “ole!” song than I remember from previous experiences. Sort of like the difference between east coast and west coast Jews in how they sing traditional songs and prayers differently (I do love my analogies).

We left the great cultural phenomenon of the game to get back to the restaurant with about ten minutes remaining, and a lead of 3-0. By the time we reached the restaurant, we had won with a final score of 5-0, securing a spot in the South African World Cup next year. It would later become big news that Serbia’s president is being prosecuted/fined for toasting to the victory in his luxury suite. His offense: the glass of Champagne he toasted with. I’ll remember this one.