Chapter One

Did I call this just chapter one? It feels as if ten chapters worth of activity has gone by since I finally caught my plane from LAX to Dubai. From the sixteen hour plane ride to my first night in Asia to Nairobi and four bus rides through three other countries to Johannesburg there is plenty to reflect on, but I’ll start with today, while it is still fresh and the vuvuzela are still calling outside.

The United States have come from behind to draw Slovenia two-two, which should have been a win two different ways but for the officials. I arrived in the eighteenth minute after an adventure through the streets of Johannesburg and Soweto that is a story all its own, but includes my first right-hand driving experience in the most beat up little manual transmission Nissan pickup you can imagine. In my pocket were an unused ticket to the Greece-Nigeria game in Bloemfontein the night before, which I had them print up anyways, a handful of used bus tickets and coins in various currencies, and the phone number of a Boer security guard who’d said he’d hold on to my Swiss Army knife until after the game. I found my seat at about the five meter mark from what I believe was the south end of the pitch. The U.S. were defending on my end in the first half, so I actually got to see all three goals happen on my end. The score when I sat down was already one-nil Slovenia and the pretty thirty-something English-South African woman sitting beside me with her very enthusiastic husband told me the U.S. defense had been “stupid, and the keeper didn’t even move” for the shot, although later she allowed as how it was a really nice shot that he would not have stopped anyways.

So I sat down, ate the Wimpy burger I’d snuck into the stadium in my bag and waved my flag a bit and took some photos of the crowd, the field, etc. and chatted a bit with the South African couple next to me. They were from Jo-burg and were drinking Budweisers, which are an international beer now, I guess, and it looked like they were the only ones being sold, though I didn’t drink. I told them about how I’d missed the Greece-Nigeria game on account of being held up at the Zimbabwean border for eight (count ‘em, eight) hours by two women who tried to bring in, literally, thousands of Rand (South African currency) in goods to sell without declaring them. By the time the South African customs agents caught on, they were so suspicious of the whole lot of us, which included Zambian government officials on diplomatic passports, dancers with the Zambian national dance troupe and random individuals like me that they went through every single bag and suitcase twice and checked out immunization cards, to boot, something that hasn’t been done at any other of the half dozen borders and airports I’ve passed through so far, and which I don’t expect to happen again the rest of the time I’m here.

All of a sudden, the crowd roared and I looked up in time to see a Slovenian forward making a break for goal and a lob coming off the foot of his teammate. “Oh, they’re clearly going to call this one back,” I thought to myself, “he’s obviously offsides.” But I look to the line official and his flag is down.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” I yell, as the Slovene picks up the ball in space, streaks up the near side and tucks it past a diving Howard, who, it must be said, did everything that could have been done in the circumstances. The South African guy beside me is going wild but showing me sympathy at the same time. Still, he thinks the guy was onside until we see the replay on the jumbotron, at which point we can all agree that, although his feet are on and the moment the ball is struck, the lean of his body has him clearly offside. So, what can you do? The U.S. is down two-nil and not looking very energetic, although by the end of half they’ve put together a couple of dangerous looking attacks. The South African guy and I agree that nobody really wants the ball. They keep laying off to each other looking for a better look and they end up serving lobs that will have a good result if they get lucky, but come to nothing when they don’t.

I buy a couple half liter Cokes and wander the stadium at half time. The U.S. fans look pretty dejected and only the Slovenes and the international fans seem to be having any fun. I walk past a sad looking cowboy smoking a cigarette (“Ellis Park Stadium is a non-smoking area,” blares over the loudspeaker, “please refrain from smoking anywhere in the building.”). I see the first pretty white girls I’ve seen in weeks. Mostly it’s pretty bleak.

(I couldn't figure out how to rotate it and I'm tired, it's late)

But the U.S. side finally shows some urgency in the second half. Landon shows the first spark of true brilliance I’ve ever seen from him when he receives a ball in space on the far side near touch in the forty-eighth, dribbles in, keeping the goalie honest by showing cross and then coolly slotting it over his head into the roof of the net. The stadium goes wild. The South Africans, who clearly just want to see good football, are high-fiving me and jumping up and down shouting U-S-A, U-S-A along with everyone. I’ve never been a fan of Landon Donovan, I’ll admit: I’ve always thought he was just ‘OK’ in an international context, but he’s earned himself a truce from me with that one, it was absolutely clinical. Clutch. I’m sure he’s been holding his breath.

Everyone knows the rest of the story. The U.S. equalize a few minutes later and the Slovenian side startgetting pretty nasty, booking three or four yellows in about twenty minutes. The only thing worth mentioning is that I took a photograph that proves beyond doubt that no one was offsides on the third U.S. goal. I don’t know what the actual call was, but the picture clearly shows the ball airborne and an easy three or four meters of space, so if it was offsides, someone’s career needs to be ended.

Oh, well. I left in the ninety-first minute even though the Americans were making good attacks to the end because that security guard said he’d only be on duty til six and it was already ten to. I’m glad I found him, because that phone number is useless to me given that I don’t have any international roaming. I’ll probably need that thing in Tanzania and it sure as hell was a comfort walking back to the empty school my friend Rex’s brother owns which I’m staying at these two nights. These two guys were about thirty paces behind me for like eight blocks so I opened up the knife blade and the nasty looking (and FUCKING sharp) saw blade and held the thing inside my hoodie pocket all the way home. I walk around enough to know that no one stays the same distince from you for that long without dropping back or catching up and I hear that’s what they do around here; follow you until you’re somewhere isolated, then they just stab you, bam! Well, I got back alright, but I had to keep the knife out for a while when a rather hostile, possibly drunk guy showed up just as I was looking for a nice stoop under street lighting in the courtyard to write this. Rex’s contact who I’m staying with was gone dropping his girlfriend off and I didn’t feel like hanging out in his room alone. Guess I’ve learned better than to do that in Jozi.

18/6 – 19/6/10