In memory of World Cups past
Don’t worry: this isn’t really about actual
football per se. There will be no talk of tactics, the intricacies of the game
and there certainly won’t be any analysis or predictions; not directly, anyway.
I learnt my lesson four years ago, when I was ridiculed and pilloried for the
drivel I wrote about the 2010 World Cup. It got me into all sorts of trouble,
my credibility was put into question, and I lost a handful of readers for good.
My German pal Tilman probably still hasn’t forgiven me for lazily dismissing
Germany’s chances, and I don’t think he’s read anything I’ve written since. Nowadays,
I’d say the vast majority of those who read this couldn’t care less about
football. Or maybe I’m wrong, who knows.
But with the World Cup just days from
kicking off, I’ve inevitably – as I’m wont to do – found myself drifting down
memory lane, and reminiscing about where I was and what I was doing at various
World Cups. Big sporting events tend to kick in the nostalgia and
sentimentality to overdrive. And though my allegiances are pretty evenly
divided between football and American football, the World Cup – and I hardly
need to say this – is quite special considering it happens only every four
years. For four weeks, hardly anything else matters.
So, a few journeys down memory lane are
in order, starting with the earliest.
And when – or if – you get to the part
about this year’s World Cup, I’m offering up a fun little idea that will
undoubtedly make the whole experience so much more exciting. It’s guaranteed to
spice it up (pun intended, you’ll see), so even if you have no interest in
football whatsoever, if you’re the adventurous sort like I am, there’s a nice
little challenge I offer you that will make the four weeks a memorable culinary
joy. Intrigued? You should be.
Let the paeans begin
Mexico 1986
I don’t remember much about the 1986
World Cup, besides the epic ‘Hand of God’. But even that is only a vague,
fleeting memory. I didn’t see it, probably because I was living in America at
the time and it wasn’t on TV. Why would American TV be showing
England-Argentina?
Italy 1990
Fast forward four years. I’m 13, living
in (West) Germany. I’m entering that period of my life where a big decision
about my identity has to be made (it’s not conscious then, it’s not even
conscious now). I’ve been away from America for four years. Three years in
Spain (1986-1989), and I was torn between football and baseball. I played both,
I loved both, but baseball was slowly taking over. Funny how that could happen
in a place like Spain. Was I rebelling? Was I trying to assert my Americanness?
I started playing baseball, actually, when I was living in England, so all bets
are off at this point (you see, no wonder I’m so damn mixed-up).
This World Cup I remember. I remember
watching West Germany the most, because we lived in a small village called
Niersbach, with only German TV.
It’s the 4th of July.
England are playing West Germany in the semifinals. We, for whatever reason,
don’t finish watching the match. We watch the first half and then leave. Why?
Because it’s the 4th of July and we’ve got fireworks to go and see!
So off we go, with the match on the radio. We’re many miles/kilometers away
from our town, on the military base, watching fireworks, listening to the
match.
It gets to penalties and of course, we
all know what happens next. Typical England, and for me, my first introduction
to penalty heartbreak. Hearing it on the radio is so much more of a traumatic
experience, I find. I’m a visual person, and it seems so much more
heartbreaking when I can’t see it unfolding, when I can’t see the aftermath. I
can only imagine the tears. I don’t cry, not at all, but I am disappointed.
Two key realisations are important
here:
1. This is when I first realise that
England is my team – I was born there after all, and at this point in my life,
it’s where I’ve spent the most time.
2. From this moment on, fireworks have
a bad association. Not that they remind me of anything tragic, but – to this
day – I find them vastly overrated and slightly annoying. Fireworks,
schmireworks.
USA 1994
This was a weird one. I had just
graduated from high school (in England) and was getting ready to leave for
university (in America). I hadn’t lived in America for nine years, but was
excited about going back. England didn’t even qualify for this World Cup.
I didn’t particularly enjoy this World
Cup much. It was very anti-climactic, being in England, not many people were
into it, and mentally my head was elsewhere. I watched plenty of it, but it
felt so distant and far away.
But what sticks out the most was how
cruel and vindictive and nasty sport can be. When Andres Escobar scored an own
goal for Colombia against the US, I was delighted in that it helped the US get
through to the round of 16. But when he was shot and killed just days later,
after returning to Colombia, in a vindictive act of retribution, it felt pretty
hollow, and I had trouble enjoying the rest of the tournament.
England 1996: Euro 96
A brief interlude: though this isn’t
the World Cup, there’s more irony here: Euro 96 is unfolding in England, and
where am I? Instead of going back to England for the summer, which I would
normally do, I stay in America! More anti-climax. And of course, more penalty
heartbreak for England…against Germany. I watched it, almost cried, and then
ran like hell to get to my appointment at the podiatrist’s. I forget the
problem I had, but it was ten times worse after getting to the podiatrist’s.
France 1998
This is where things get good. I had
just graduated from university (in America) and had returned to see my parents
(in England). At long last, here I was in England, while the World Cup was
happening just across the Channel. England’s chances were good, and I barely
registered the USA’s presence in the Cup. Their chances were pretty lousy
anyway (they finished dead last, with 0 points).
It was a hectic and emotional time.
After some 11-12 years (maybe more?), my parents were leaving England for good.
My sister had finished school and was off to university in Miami. We were
packing up. In my head, I was all over the place. Though I’d spent four years –
minus one semester studying in London – at university in the states, and had
lined up a job for August in Boston, my heart was still in England, and that
carried over into the England side. I was England all the way.
My high school buddy Andrew and I
watched just about every match we could. In the midst of all this was some
globe-trotting. My father and I spent a couple of days in Germany. Then it was
back to England to see them qualify for the round of 16, where they were to
face Argentina. My parents left. I stayed. I had a flight booked for the
Philippines the morning after the match. I went down to London for the day to
meet my university flatmate and friend Marshall, who was arriving that day for
a backpacking jaunt around Europe. He was pretty jet-lagged, but I dragged him
to a pub – standing room only, limited views – where we watched Beckham lash
out at Simeone and get sent off, and yet more penalty heartbreak unfold. I was
gutted and miserable, and felt lucky that I was fleeing England and all that
pain.
It was then on to the Philippines,
where I watched the matches at ungodly hours due to the time difference. But
still, I watched it. And it was my first introduction to the World Cup at all
sorts of ridiculous hours of the night.
Japan and South Korea 2002
Ridiculous hours indeed. I was working
at a bank in Boston, full-time, a lot of hours, regular overtime, and here I
was facing kickoff times of midnight, 2am and 5am. How was I going to survive?
Back in those days, I had some weird concern over tea and coffee, and I
steadfastly maintained a maximum two cups of tea/coffee a day habit. Was I
going to violate this in order to survive on no sleep? You see, by this point
of my sporting life, I was determined not to miss a single match. Hell, it
didn’t matter whether it was Mexico-Ecuador or Cameroon-Saudi Arabia, I was watching
every damn match, even if it killed me. My girlfriend – the same one I went to
visit in the Philippines, and who didn’t watch any of it with me then – was of
course thrilled about this.
‘Priorities, baby!’
I went to my boss weeks before the Cup
and didn’t ask her. No, I told her.
‘I need to change my working schedule
in June and July, for about four weeks.’
‘What for?’
‘Well, uh, the World Cup’
(she rolls her eyes…she’s American don’t
forget)
‘Seriously?’
‘Yes. Not every day, but on some days I’ll
need to come in late.’
‘Fine. As long as you make up the work,
and do your hours.’
Result.
I didn’t have to come in late every
day, only for the important matches (England-Argentina, for example) that
kicked off at 5.30am Boston time, finishing at around 7.30. I normally arrived
at work by 7.30, so I wasn’t arriving too much later, maybe an hour or so. The
problem was, I was so wired from staying up all night that I could hardly stay
awake during the day (is this comforting, to know that I was working in the
financial services industry in this condition? And you wonder why we have financial
crises from time to time?).
Bizarrely enough, despite not wanting
to overdo it on the coffee, I instead survived all day on even more caffeinated
yellow-orange-piss coloured energy drinks, with 10 times the sugar, but with
ingredients like taurine, ginseng and guarana. That meant, logically enough,
that they weren’t as bad for me, right?
I was a zombie for a month. My
girlfriend was in fine fettle.
(I wish I could remember the name of
these drinks, they had some sort of monster or dragon on it, in a clear glass,
500ml bottle. They don’t appear to exist anymore, I’ve just done an extensive
search. Is this a good sign? That World Cup probably took a year or two off my
life. But was it worth it? Hell yeah!)
This Cup was a pivotal moment for me in
my allegiances and my identity.
21 June 2002 – the quarterfinals:
England v Brazil, 1.30am kickoff
USA v Germany, 6.30am kickoff
Dr Wasabi Islam, Jeff and I watched
England lose to Brazil. I was upset, they didn’t give a shit. Actually, I think
they were happy (Dr Wasabi Islam, who at the time knew just about everything
there was to know about every sport except football, kept calling them Britain
– what would my Scottish and Welsh friends say about this?).
Then it was time for the US match. For
whatever reason – work perhaps? – my friends had left so I watched on my own.
And when the US lost, I was far more gutted than I had expected. All the
disappointment of the England match faded away, and all I could think about was
the US.
Perhaps it was the realisation – you
might start to detect a pattern here – that I was going to Scotland in September,
saying goodbye to eight years in America (and, it turned out, a nearly
five-year relationship, though at the time I wasn’t to know that that was it)
and that I was feeling a bit, consciously or not, emotional deep-down.
Let me repeat: you see why I’m so
mixed-up?
(And by the way, when I got to
Scotland, I quickly took up a 5-6 coffees a day habit, thanks to the pernicious
influences of my new girlfriend - I have no regrets, I must thank her for
convincing me that coffee is meant to be used and abused.)
Germany 2006
We have to go back just over a year to
put all this into better perspective.
April 2005: I did my Celta in Prague
and had a splendid time, to put it mildly. Great, great fun, some terrific new
friends and unforgettable memories.
June and July 2005: Summer school in
Uxbridge (just outside of London). Great, great fun, some terrific new friends
and unforgettable memories. (wow, is teaching English this much fun?)
August 2005: back in the US visiting my
family. My head and heart were elsewhere (summer school, mainly), my thoughts
drifting. And then, all of that was almost forgotten, after an epic-whirlwind
few days in Chicago with Andrew. I won’t get into any details here, but those
who know me best know what transpired. My head (and heart) were all over the
place and my plans were almost derailed. But I thought long and hard about it,
and ultimately decided…
September 2005 – June 2006: my first
proper teaching gig, in Lviv. It was hard at first, but ultimately the right
decision.
From the Celta in April 2005 to leaving
Lviv in June 2006, this was easily one of the most seminal, inspirational
periods of my life. I could get all cheesy here, but I’ll leave it at that.
When I embarked on my Tefl ‘career’, it
was meant to be a two-year plan. I was going to spend a year in Lviv and then a
year elsewhere, most likely Western Europe. Rightly or wrongly, I knew that I’d
only have nine months in Lviv.
More details on this post, how I
deviated from that ‘plan’.
In early June 2006, it was bittersweet.
Leaving wasn’t easy, but I was departing on an overnight, 24 hour train journey
to Munich. I was actually going to Germany for the World Cup. I had a week in
Munich with my Celta friend Gen, and then it was off gallivanting round Germany
with Andrew, his mother (my English teacher in high school), his girlfriend and
a few of his friends from university to catch a few matches.
The trouble was, coming from Lviv on my
measly salary, I knew I could barely get by for long in Germany. I’d saved a
tiny bit, but I was making just over $300 a month. By the time I left, I had
maybe half of that. Luckily for me, accommodation was going to be free and so
were tickets for most of the matches, thanks to Andrew’s generosity, of which I
am eternally in his debt, literally and figuratively.
I was also ever so thankful that my
boss, David, gave me a nice 100 euro going-away present, with a mischievous
note that read ‘to be used purely for getting up to no good’. (David was the
kind of person that often got up to no good.) That was a veritable fortune for
me, and I had to stretch it for nearly three weeks.
It wasn’t easy. In Munich, while Gen
went to work, I’d watch matches in the free fan zones, nibbling on snacks,
making a bottle of water last all day, dehydrated by the end of it. When I did
fancy a beer in a pub, I’d nurse it over the course of a match. I watched
Ukraine-Spain in a beer hall, wearing my Ukraine top (for this World Cup I was
evenly split between England, Ukraine and the US), pretending to be Ukrainian,
although in my defense, the Germans I was sitting with assumed I was Ukrainian
when I reacted in anguish to every Spain goal (all four of them). I kept up the
charade, even speaking in a bad faux-Ukrainian accent, and they bought me a
beer in sympathy. I then got caught out when some Canadians joined us at the
table, quickly seeing through my subterfuge. It got awkward, and I fled as soon
as the match ended.
It was even tougher when I met Andrew
and his entourage. First, the matches they’d got tickets for in the lottery
were all over the place. That meant overnight (and expensive) trains halfway
across the country, then getting by on 3-4 hours of sleep to be up early to
drive halfway across the country at breakneck speeds for another match – we’re
talking Munich-Hamburg-Leipzig-Berlin-a small village for an overnight pit stop-Nuremberg.
These guys had a helluva lot more
money, so they were eating and drinking at will, and though drinks were often
sent my way, I was already the recipient of so much generosity that I only
reluctantly accepted more. These guys had also gone out to Japan for the 2002
World Cup.
Though the whole experience was a
blast, it quickly killed me. Being in a country where the World Cup is taking
place, and taking in all the ‘atmosphere’ (a bit of a pet hate of mine, when
people go to events for the ‘atmosphere’; how was the match? Not so good, but a
great atmosphere!) was fine up to a point. But you actually end up missing a
lot of the actual football. Most of the group weren’t big into the football, it
was mainly about the atmosphere.
So while it was a good laugh, missing
matches, subsisting on beer and sausages, and getting very little sleep all led
to one disastrous consequence: I got ridiculously ill. I could barely breathe,
my throat was burning and I struggled to swallow, my eyes were glazed over…it
was all a big haze.
As for the matches I went to, I got to
see a couple of Ukraine matches, but the pick of the bunch was the
Holland-Portugal 2nd round affair in Nuremberg, which featured four
red cards and sixteen yellows. It was a slightly feisty, tempestuous affair, to
put it mildly.
I’d said goodbye to Andrew earlier that
day – he’d gone on to Stuttgart to see England-Ecuador and I’d stayed with his
mother. From Nuremberg it was bye-bye to her and an awful, sleepless night in
the train station, where I was hacking away and crammed in with thousands of
other smelly souls on the floor. I forget how, I was so ill and out of it, but
I somehow managed to take a train in the morning without a ticket to Brussels,
where I stayed with Tilman (and his then girlfriend and now wife Eimear). I was
just about broke by this point, but thankfully was yet again the recipient of
more generosity and hospitality. I had just about enough to get the odd beer or
coffee.
The World Cup was into the
quarterfinals by the time I arrived back in Belfast. This had been my de-facto
home for the past four years, my base and respite from travels, and where I
worked at temp jobs and doing medical research studies in between more proper jobs.
And where I’d been spending quality time with my dear Granny and helping her as
much as possible in between all my traipsing about.
By this point my allegiances with
England were hanging by a thread. When Northern Ireland beat them 1-0 at
Windsor Park back in September 2005, I was thrilled, even though they had no
chance of qualifying by that point. Although my loyalties have always been with
Northern Ireland through the years, they’ve hardly ever shown much hope of
qualifying. These days, when asked who I support, I firmly split it 50/50:
Northern Ireland and the US. England? Of course I want them to do well. But I
barely shrug when they don’t. When they played Ukraine in qualifying last
September, I went to the match with a few colleagues and was firmly supporting
Ukraine, no doubt about it. When England qualified ahead of Ukraine, I was
gutted. And when Ukraine lost to France in the playoff in November, I was more
upset than many of the Ukrainians I know.
But then it was the quarterfinals, and
when Ukraine put in a feeble effort to lose to Italy, I wasn’t too bothered.
Ukraine was in the past, and I was, in all likelihood, never going back, at
least not to live anyway.
When England lost to Portugal, on
penalties - surprise, surprise – I was sad and mopey. When the BBC ended their
coverage in their usual melodramatic way by playing a slow montage of the Pet
Shop Boys’ ‘Numb’ over the tears of England players and fans, it didn’t help
matters much (sample lyrics: I want the
world/To leave me alone/Feels like I feel too much/I've seen too much/For a
little while/I want to forget). When I switched to ITV and saw the same, but with
Johnny Cash’s version of ‘Hurt’ instead, it didn’t get much better.
You can watch both videos here:
(Warning: it will be painful viewing for England fans. Even if you don’t like
football, have a watch, for the music at least. And yes, watching them now, I
do get misty-eyed.)
My misery over England didn’t last
long: a few days later, after the semifinals and the day before I was due to go
to England to work in a summer school, my Granny died. I stayed up all night
listening to ‘Numb’ on repeat, slowly drinking wine, calling friends around the
world. The World Cup didn’t matter much anymore, and I watched the final in a
daze. I vaguely remember Zidane’s head-butt, but little else.
You see how mixed-up I am? I might have
mentioned this before.
South Africa 2010
This time four years ago, as the World
Cup kicked off, I was in Kyiv. That in itself is fairly unremarkable
considering I’m here now, but at the time, I was merely travelling through,
visiting my mate Mark (who has since left). Much like in June 2006, I had no
idea that I’d end up back here just a couple of months later.
But this is all heavily charted
territory. The Layman’s Guide – this blog’s predecessor – covered this period
in all its gory detail, including my disastrous attempts at analysis and
predictions. There’s plenty of old material if you’re so inclined, but to
ever-so-briefly recap:
I finished my teacher training (high
school social studies) in May in New Hampshire. I high-tailed it out of the US mid-May
for a jaunt around Eastern Europe: Romania-Moldova-Transdniestria-Ukraine-Poland.
In early June I had a few days in Crimea, which may be the last time I’ll ever
make it down there (I also visited for about a week in 2008, so I’m thankful
I’ve seen a good deal of it, if Ukraine can’t manage to pry it back from
Russia).
In Kyiv I stumbled around from pub to
pub during the day watching as many matches as possible, while poor old Mark
toiled away at work. It was then onto Lviv, for more drunken stumbling, and
then Poland, before flying to the UK for another summer school stint in
Uxbridge, where I snuck away to the local pub whenever possible, shirking my
duties. From there it was onto Wokingham, another summer school outside of
Reading.
During all this, I sort of had a job
lined up, teaching history at an international school in Tbilisi. It was a
shaky offer to begin with, and by the time I arrived back in England at the end
of June, it had vanished and I was left in limbo. Come the end of August, I’d
be unemployed.
And so, somehow, I ended up back in
Kyiv. No regrets whatsoever.
(Alright, I give in: here’s the link to
my original World Cup 2010 analysis, or how football explains the world and
vice versa. You’ll notice plenty of other links in June and July, from on the
road in Ukraine to back at work in England, both football and non-football
related. Knock yourself out, if you’ve got the time and are really at a loose
end:
Brazil 2014
So here we are.
One of my goals, which I’m determined
to do this year, is to watch every single match of the World Cup. There are 64
of them. My girlfriend is utterly thrilled about this.
My ultimate goal is to watch all 64
matches live. That won’t happen this year. The time difference generally works
well in our favour here in Ukraine, but the only tricky kickoff time are the
7pm ones, but that will only affect me for five match days before my summer
holiday starts. I can do my best to avoid those scores – not overly difficult
when I’m watching with Ukrainian commentary – and then watch the replays. For
the final group stage matches, where two matches kick off simultaneously, it
will be one match on TV, one on the internet.
You may remember how I spiced up
American football for poor Olya (and our cat) from September-January, with our
little gambling competition. That, and cute nicknames like Bengals, Rams,
Cardinals (she called them Angry Birds), Lions and various other ferocious
felines, kept her somewhat interested, not that she had much choice.
For the World Cup, I had to make her an
offer she couldn’t resist. One idea, which she loves, is that I promised to
make her pitchers of mojitos, sangria, daiquiris and margaritas for weekend
matches, to lessen the pain of Ecuador-Switzerland and South Korea-Algeria.
(Russian has a great word - споить (‘spy-eet’)– which literally, according
to Google translate, means ‘to make a drunkard’. This is what I’ll slowly be
doing to poor Olya for four weeks. Not that she’s complaining much).
But an even more enticing offer is that
we’ve decided to have either a national dish and/or drink representative of one
of the countries involved on each day. With three (and sometimes four) matches
a day in the group stages, this shouldn’t be too much of a problem. Once it
gets to the knockout stages, we’re looking at just two matches, which is more
challenging. The semifinals and final (and third-place match, if you’re counting)
are out, because we’ll be on holiday in Georgia then, though we’ll attempt to
find the right restaurants – Spanish, German, Italian shouldn’t be too hard,
I’d imagine, though Brazilian or Argentinian might prove more problematic. Notice
I didn’t say English.
(England and Italy are in the same
group – a pity that the US and Italy aren’t, because then we could order
Domino’s and kill the proverbial two birds with one stone; or two hares with
one shot, as they’d say here.)
This will be fun. I’m looking forward
to doing some adventurous cooking and broadening my repertoire of dishes. I
rely way too much on lazy Indian curries and Southeast Asian stir-fries, so
none of that for a month. It’s now time to research some Chilean, Iranian,
Bosnian and Algerian recipes.
To make this even more of a challenge,
and to add some small element of prediction into it, we’ve established a rule
that we can’t do the same country twice. What that means is, we’d better not
choose the likes of Spain, Italy or Argentina too soon, in case they’re all
that’s left after the group stages. We’ll have to decide carefully.
Obviously some countries are pretty
easy. Your football powerhouses like Spain (crianza or jamon), France (brie),
Italy (seriously?) and England (cheddar, ale) won’t be a problem. Your football
powerhouses like Uruguay, Brazil and Argentina will require some research, and
I’m certainly not going to grill capybara. There’s also the US (buffalo wings),
Japan (sushi), Mexico (margaritas, burritos) and Belgium (mussels and Leffe)
that are also easy. There’s a Persian restaurant in Kyiv, so Iran is covered,
and with Holland we can get away with eating herring and smoking dope, I’m
sure.
The challenges? Costa Rica, Honduras,
Ecuador - with some investigating, do-able (does coffee count?). Bosnia,
Croatia, Greece – these aren’t too hard, I just have no experience making
dishes from these places (and I can’t stand Ouzo). Australia (barbecue?
Foster’s?), South Korea (I love kimchi, but where to get it?) and Russia
(boycott) we’ll just ignore.
The biggest challenges are going to
come from the African contingent: Algeria, Ivory Coast, Cameroon, Ghana and
Nigeria. It would be a grave injustice to ignore an entire continent, and
having lived in Nigeria, despite the limited dishes it has to offer, I can say
that I really enjoyed Nigerian cuisine. The trouble is, where the hell to find
the ingredients to make egusi soup – the proper fish, pounded yam, plantains –
that we’d need? I’ve scoured the markets, but to no avail. We’ll have to get
creative with some of these.
And of course, with the World Cup
kicking off in just a couple of days’ time – 12 June – with just one match on
offer, we start with a major challenge: Brazil v Croatia. Working till 9.30
most nights means I have to be creative with the offerings – I’m not coming
home and attempting some intricate, exotic Brazilian dish that will take me 2
hours to make. And I can hardly ask Olya to cook something, when this is all my
idea to get her to at least ‘tolerate’ me and the football for a month. So day
one’s menu will feature a Croatian grilled calamari dish, along with
caipirinhas. What a combination: ola olé!
And so there you go. My 2014 World Cup
Cooking Challenge.
Let the games begin.
Basque-style pintxos that Olya made for my birthday a couple of years ago. A pity the Basques don't have a team eligible for the World Cup.
Comments
Post a Comment