ReadingLipps

As a student studying abroad in 1998 I had serendipitously stumbled into the heart of Europe during the World Cup, held in France.  I knew of the World Cup but I didn’t KNOW about it.  The hype was building around me but I was just a normal American, raised on baseball, football and all things American.  The first real moment I knew the World Cup was something different was when I was in a small coastal town in Italy.  I had stepped off a train into the center of a tiny village.  I thought the train and town had seemed rather empty.  Italy was playing a World Cup match.  No decent Italian would be anywhere other than in front of his TV at that moment and here I was wondering around lost.  Just as I reached for my map a man ran out from a nearby café and fell to his knees. He was yelling in Italian and covering his head.  Curious about what the man was hiding from I peered into the bar to see Italian player Roberto Baggio squaring up for a penalty kick near the end of a match against Chile.  Italy was down by a goal and a loss to Chile was more than any Italian could bear.  The pressure of this moment sent the man into the street, unable to stand the tension of a penalty kick. Baggio buried the ball into the net and saved Italy from an embarrassing loss.  People flooded past me cheering and screaming and hugging.

The next moment I knew this was a special event was when I was in Barcelona.  As I wandered up and down the famous street Las Ramblas, I could not escape the sound of samba music.  I checked into a hostel and the man who had the bunk above me was carefully making his bed with a Scottish flag as his blanket.  He invited me to take in the USA – Iran game.  Again I heard the mysterious samba in the distance but this time it was growing nearer as I drank beer, taking in the sidewalk full of TVs.  Finally a troupe of Brazilian soccer fans came past me. Beating drums and tambourines and shaking maracas the samba line moved past me in a parade of yellow jerseys.  I don’t know if it went all night but it lasted longer than I did.  As my Scottish friend curled up in his flag, drunk as could be, the Brazilian samba beat echoed up from the street.

My final moment in World Cup 1998 was in England when I watched England play Argentina in a pub in London.  Argentina are hated by the English and the pub was packed with rabid Englishmen.  As with every year since 1966, it was not England’s.  Argentina beat them in a penalty shootout (tie-breaker) delivering yet  another tragedy to the English football team.  David Batty needed to score on his kick but missed.  The pub emptied faster than sinking ship.  By now I was a veteran, and hooked on World Cup soccer.  Despite the US putting up a shameful exhibit by losing all three matches in group play, I was smitten.  Soccer can be tough to watch, but nothing compares to the international and worldwide spectacle that is the World Cup.