Soccer Is Cool

One thing you should know about the Monkey – and something that might go a long way toward explaining why I am the way I am, and why you have that vague feeling of indigestion when you read my stuff. Well, those three of you who actually do read my poop. The thing yiz have got to realize about the Monkey is that I am a hardcore, dyed in the wool, no holds barred, ole-ole-ole-ole, Forza Azzurri, get out of my face, wake at 3 AM and fire up the BBQ, gooooooooooool, soccer fan.

I’ve been in the stands to watch Pele, George Best, Franz Beckenbauer, and Johan Cruyff play in the old NASL. I’ve been to international friendlies at the LA Coliseum, Mexican league matches, and LA Galaxy games at both the Rose Bowl, and at the Home Depot Center in Carson. I’ve attended three matches during the 84 Olympics, and three matches during the 94 World Cup, including the finals between Brazil and the Azzurri.

I watched every minute of every World Cup tournament since Spain 82, and every European Cup since 1996.

But I still have a mission in life.

I've never had the chance to experience watching a soccer match in England. For a fan, seeing a game, particularly an international match, in England is like a pilgrimage. It's like watching hockey in the old Montreal Forum, baseball at Yankee Stadium, basketball at the old Boston Garden, or football at Lambeau Field. Well, I've still not seen a match in England, but at least I did the next best thing when England were set to play Germany in the second game of the group stage of Euro2000.

I, along with my friends Duende and Eggs, wanted to watch the game. It promised to be entertaining, as both sides desperately needed a win to keep any hopes of advancing past the initial stage alive. In their first matches England had given up a two-goal lead and lost to Portugal 3-2, while Germany was fortunate to end level with Romania 1-1. This game also had added significance, as England had not beaten a German side since the final of the 1966 World Cup in Wembley Stadium. That 34-year legacy of futility hung around the English neck like a millstone, as there was no one they disliked more than the Germans - except, of course, the French.

Unfortunately, the match was not to be broadcast over network or cable TV, as it was only available via pay-per-view at a ridiculous cost of $20.00 per game. One thing about being a soccer fan in the US, it costs a lot of money. Anyway, our only real option was to try to find a bar that was showing the match and go watch it there. A quick call to one of the local Brit ex-pat pubs confirmed that they would be showing the game, with the helpful suggestion that we get there early, as they were expecting a crowd.

The game was set to start at 11:45 on a Saturday morning. We arrived at at 9:30 only to find the place already packed with representatives from all over the UK. There were Scotsmen, Welshmen, Irishmen, and Englishmen - even a Canadian, and each was proudly wearing their colors, whether they were the National team jersey or that of a club team. The entire pub was a sea of blues, reds, whites, greens and blacks, and the air was filled with competing chants and songs that not only proclaimed the superiority of England, Manchester United, Scotland, Arsenal, Ireland, Leeds, and Wales, but also insulted Germany, France, Italy, Scotland, England, Wales, Ireland, Manchester United, Leeds and Arsenal.

We made our way to the bar through the crowd and shouted our orders over the din. It was at this point that a really fat, red-faced Englishman sat down next to me. He was wearing an England jersey that was far too small for him allowing his world-class gut to show hang like the tongue of an overheated dog. His hair was pale and thinning, and he had the trademarked teeth of British dentistry. He turned toward me, smiled, held out a huge, sweaty, thick-fingered paw and said in a alcohol-slurred accent, "My name's Jocko, mate. What's yours?" For the rest of the day we were to be the best of friends. Over the course of a couple of beers Jocko told us a few dirty jokes, tried to teach us a few disparaging songs about Catholics, and engaged me in a heated discussion over the benefits and drawbacks of catenaccio.

When the game started the entire pub became energized. There was barely room to turn around, and the atmosphere was electric. A non-stop stream of chants, songs and jingoistic comments came from the crowd for the entire first half, although neither team scored and the play was sloppy. An acrobatic save by the German keeper of an Owen header from a cross by Phil Neville injected new vigor into the songs by the crowd, but when the half-time whistle came and the score was still level, things entered that weird space of unfulfilled expectation.

With the start of the second half, the crowd seemed to have grown not only in size, but in aggression as well. It was getting ugly. The curses rained upon the Germans became much more personal and offensive, and included a surprising number of references to World War II. The crowd was angry, and the air was thick with a frightening weirdness. I looked at the bartender, and he had a strange expression on his face. He'd seen this before, and was frightened. He had the look of someone who had previously experienced a sudden explosion of vicious destruction, and recognized the potential here. In anticipation the staff had begun quietly collecting bottles and replacing mugs and pint glasses with plastic cups near the end of the first half, so if things did go bad, the crowd would have fewer potentially harmful weapons within immediate grasp.

There was only one thing that would diffuse the increasing tension, and it came when England wünderkind David Beckham took a beautiful free-kick, placing the ball right at the feet of captain Alan Shearer, who deftly put in the back of the German net.

One - nil to England, and the place erupted.

Half eaten breakfasts of eggs and bangers, congealing kippers, molested burgers, greasy chips, and a lot of beer was immediately airborne, and people were high-fiving and hugging each other in a genuine display of raw emotion and love. Jocko grabbed me and squeezed as if he thought I was an Obie doll, saying over and over again, “Brilliant. Bloody brilliant." The bartender was so relieved that he offered a round on the house, which meant another one for me.

The remainder of the game consisted of the Germans trying to come up with an equalizer, but it was England's day. As the last minutes ticked off the clock, the crowd inside the pub began to acknowledge the fact of the win, and sang triumphant songs about the virility and honor of England. Jocko bought me two more beers.

The referee finally blew the whistle signaling the end of the game, which was greeted with another explosion from the crowd. This one was less physical than before, but the emotion was more intense. The men were drained. A combination of poor ventilation, large quantities of alcohol, and having their nerves on a razor's edge for near 90 minutes had taken its toll. These same hard, savage men who looked ready to spill blood only minutes before were now crying unabashedly. In a far corner several men gathered together to attempt a celebratory dance, although their lack of rhythm and elevated blood-alcohol content made their effort look more like five spastics trying to kill a roach. Even Jocko let the moment get the better of him. In a surprising display of agility and coordination he pulled himself onto a table (which protested loudly under his weight), and tried to lead the crowd into a spirited version of God Save the Queen. Evidently, when happy and drunk, the British feel compelled to sing.

As I watched the perverse deluge of pride flowing around me, the totality of the day finally hit home. I was spent. I looked over at Duende, and I could tell he was also drained. We nodded at each other, and he left to go to the phone. Eggs and I continued to sit dumbstruck in our seats, watching the bacchanalia around us. We were drenched in a combination of beer and sweat - much of both Jocko's. As Duende made his way back through the self-congratulatory crowd music began to play in the pub. At first I couldn't make it out, but then I recognized it, and I started to laugh. It was Vera Lynn singing the World War II spirit-lifting anthem White Cliffs of Dover. The really funny thing was that gradually, all of the lads in the pub began to sing along. That parallelism was just too weird.

It was time for the three of us decided to leave. It felt voyeuristic being there -- this was their moment, not ours. Besides, the combination of liquour and heat was starting to make me hallucinate. We said our goodbyes to Jocko and Gilly, who were now joined by more of their mates. They insisted that we stay and celebrate with the lads, but when Jocko turned his head and nonchalantly vomited, I knew it was time. We left the pub, went outside into the too-bright daylight and waited for our ride to take us home.