Friday, June 25, 2004
Days 3 and 4 - Life as an Englishman
Well looks like I will be writing every other day for a while. Without internet connection in my room, like slows down quite a bit. I am truly an American.
Or am I? Signs that you are becoming an Englishman-
1) You go to the grocery store and you actually think that Prawn and Salt potato crisps could be tasty. (yes, I am still a vegetarian, but my taste buds are becoming English)
2) You find yourself explaining to the Chinese student at the bus stop how to wave down the bus (and it even stopped for me).
3) You see the last two days of downpours as ?good summer weather? (okay, this one doesn?t apply ? I tried to enjoy the rain, but now every part of my body is growing mold!)
4) You are buying clothes in a store (clothes are the only thing cheap here) and when you ask where to check out you actually say, ?Where?s the til love?? (Yes, I referred to a woman at the store as love ? but so was everyone else ? she was about 90)
5) You pick up the daily Manchester paper, read the stories, and they all make sense (scary!)
6) You correctly explain to someone that the flag that is white with a red cross in the English flag, not to be confused with the Union Jack, the flag of the ?Kingdom.?
7) You go into a pub an order a ?lager? and know what it is you have just done.
8) You learn how to walk, read the paper, and carry your umbrella! (This is not as easy as it sounds)
9) You actually begin to wonder if you should get your nose pierced, show your navel (its back from last summer), and grow your hair into the rope-like dreadlocks (this would make me appear just like the average Manchesterite under 40).
10) You find yourself caught up in ?Football Mania? ? the Euro Cup
So last night (Thursday night for those trying to figure out the chronology), was England vs. Portugal (the host country) to see who made it to the round of 4 in the Euro Cup. My experience of England this past year has been of a people completely devoid of passion and resolutely unhappy. I mean, you smile at folks when you are walking and they give you a look like you just assaulted them . But not this time over. People are nuts for football, and with England having made it to the quarterfinals I saw for the first time massive patriotism. There literally was not a house, a business, or a car that was not flying the English national flag. The papers were all focused on Rooney (the new English star), Beckam (Posh Spice?s husband), and the rest of the ?side.? I mean, literally, that murders were moved to page 4 and 5 (except for the story about an English fan knifed to death in Lisbon). Guess you know what really matters around here.
If you heard a sound like someone jumping and landing yesterday, that was me, my good friend Phil and the rest of the Americans jumping on the English bandwagon. I guess we figure we are now ?honorary Brits? so why not cheer our fool heads off. WE bought our cheap English soccer shirts, our flags (you can get flags here for a pound!), and settled in to watch the match with all the others here in Manchester. Huge crowds at every pub (where I started watching the match). Huge crowds back here at school where I finished. Nothing in this country got done yesterday ? everyone (unfortunately this included the ?dangerous? folks behind the wheels of the buses I was on ? was too focused on the match.
It was, to be honest, the most exciting sporting match I have ever watched, including the first Bronco super bowl win. It was thrilling, it was tense, it was filled with everything except Morganna the kissing bandit. The match started at 745 our time. It ended at 1100. England took a quick 1-nil lead on a terrific goal by Michael Owen in the 3rd minute. He took the long kick from keep, split the defence, and then laced a wicked kick of the side of his right foot while being spun by the defence. The crowds went wild. I mean, the GNP of England bounced at least .2 just on the pints being sold at that moment. ?We? were ahead. We were winning. We were going to make it to the semis. But then, in the 20th minute, the great Rooney had is ankle stepped on, and had to be substituted. For the rest of the half and into the next 35 minutes of the next half, the ball seldom left the English goal box. Portugal was trouncing the English defence, but the English keep, James, kept knocking the ball away. Only ten minutes to go ? no one was sitting. But, in the 80th minute, after a mess up by the not so great Beckham, Portugal scored their first goal. The crowd sank. Pint sales likely increased. In the first round match against France, England was up 1-0 until the 78th minute, only to give up 2 goals in the final 12. That was the confirmed opinion of the future of this game as well. But wait, in the 91st minute (they add extra time for stoppages), a great cross, a header, GOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLLLLLL. The place went nuts. We are waving our flags cheering, hugging (who says English men are not affectionate). Then we realize the ball is going up the far side, towards to the English goal, and the score still says 1-1. We are stunned. Everyone in England is stunned. The referee, in what we are all sure was a call in no way influenced by the fact this match was in Portugal, had called a foul in the goal box (the replays showed none and if there was one, the ball should have been dead, not allowed to move up the side). It was like the Queen had died. No one spoke, no one did anything. Except, I am sure, order more pints. So we go into first extra time (not sudden death). No goals. Second extra time (15 minutes), and the Portuguese break through with only 10 minutes left. A nation mourns. But, being an American, I pointed out there was still lots of time and the Portuguese looked tired. I was right, with less than 4 minutes to play, a great kick, GGGGOOOOOOAAAAALLLLL, score tied 2-2. The English breath again, pints are ordered again, the Queen lives! So, we go to penalty kicks. England (Beckam again) misses the first one, Portugal scores on their first three attempts, but misses on #4. The English score on their next four. If only we can stop them once. The Portuguese player does a fake hesitation move (illegal by international standards), and scores. The next Brit shoots and scores, same for the Portuguese. And then we miss, wide to the right (had ground). We need a stop. We have to win. We deserve to win. But no, the Portuguese goalie takes the last penalty shot and drills it home. A nation goals into the deepest depression I think I have ever seen, including this American-English football fan. Pints are likely ordered to drown the tears. We are all just standing there. Now I know why people riot after matches here ? you get so pumped that you need to do something with your energy to overcome the loss. We all headed home instead.
So?that is the story of my official baptism into English football life. No truth I am changing my major to sport announcing so I can be the next voice of the BBC football match of the week (though it did cross my mind). Sorry to bore you with the details?but hey, its raining and this is the most exciting thing that has happened.
Talk to you again soon?
Manchester • Summer 2004 • (15) Comments • (0) Trackbacks • Permalink
