World Cup fever
I am that most looked-down-on of beings - a football fan once every four years (would that be a quadrennial football fan?). I'm with Posh Spice on this one - in everyday life there is not enough time between wiping bottoms, burning porridge and surfing the net to bother learning the off-side rule (although I'm sure Posh has other pressing activities to distract her).
Still, at least it means I remember the classic games, because they are the only ones I watch. The first one I remember was the hand-of-god goal. I was 11 years old and at a friend's birthday party, and all the boys wanted to do was watch that match - classic male behaviour and a sign that puberty was on the march. I confess that I felt little beyond a very English feeling of crossness that Johnny Foreigner had got away with breaking the rules (plus ça change).
Fast forward four years to 1990, in the full throes of adolescence. I had a crush on Gazza, and cried along with him when he did whatever he did (memory fails me I'm afraid). I'd invited my school friends round to watch that semi-final, and I do remember that game ruined my chances of snogging someone I fancied (memory fails me again) because everyone was in such a foul mood. Summary: frustration, heavily laced with cider (mine is the lost generation, before alcopops were invented).
The 1998 tournament marked a turning point in my life - it was lived between a post-exam haze in Cambridge, when I watched the Argentina match with my entire family in a pub, and France, when I spent my first week as an expat supporting Brazil. I found the French incredibly apathetic towards their national team - they are not a footballing nation. Even though the atmosphere in Paris was great, it was thanks to all the foreign football fans, in particular the Brazilians.
I have patchy memories of Korea and Japan 2002, beyond a few matches that I watched in the middle of the night while feeding a tiny baby. I don't even remember what happened to the England team.
But that's all changed this time round. For 2006 marks another turning point - this time I'm going back to England and in the process of packing my bags here. Patriotism surges through my veins. A car drove past me today with two England flags fluttering from the roof, a rare sight in a suburb of Paris, and I spontaneously waved and cheered. The lady inside waved back. Hubski scoffed 'Oh, the poor English!'. I turned to him and thumped my chest defiantly.
All this goes to show that I have turned into a person I would have crossed the street to avoid ten years ago.
PS My American friend L. has an even more economical (and in my view far more efficient) attitude towards the beautiful game. She watches the line-up, when the camera pans down during the national anthem, 'you know, check 'em out', and the shirt exchange at the end. It is a source of great shame to me that I have lived 31 years on this planet without that ever occurring to me.
Still, at least it means I remember the classic games, because they are the only ones I watch. The first one I remember was the hand-of-god goal. I was 11 years old and at a friend's birthday party, and all the boys wanted to do was watch that match - classic male behaviour and a sign that puberty was on the march. I confess that I felt little beyond a very English feeling of crossness that Johnny Foreigner had got away with breaking the rules (plus ça change).
Fast forward four years to 1990, in the full throes of adolescence. I had a crush on Gazza, and cried along with him when he did whatever he did (memory fails me I'm afraid). I'd invited my school friends round to watch that semi-final, and I do remember that game ruined my chances of snogging someone I fancied (memory fails me again) because everyone was in such a foul mood. Summary: frustration, heavily laced with cider (mine is the lost generation, before alcopops were invented).
The 1998 tournament marked a turning point in my life - it was lived between a post-exam haze in Cambridge, when I watched the Argentina match with my entire family in a pub, and France, when I spent my first week as an expat supporting Brazil. I found the French incredibly apathetic towards their national team - they are not a footballing nation. Even though the atmosphere in Paris was great, it was thanks to all the foreign football fans, in particular the Brazilians.
I have patchy memories of Korea and Japan 2002, beyond a few matches that I watched in the middle of the night while feeding a tiny baby. I don't even remember what happened to the England team.
But that's all changed this time round. For 2006 marks another turning point - this time I'm going back to England and in the process of packing my bags here. Patriotism surges through my veins. A car drove past me today with two England flags fluttering from the roof, a rare sight in a suburb of Paris, and I spontaneously waved and cheered. The lady inside waved back. Hubski scoffed 'Oh, the poor English!'. I turned to him and thumped my chest defiantly.
All this goes to show that I have turned into a person I would have crossed the street to avoid ten years ago.
PS My American friend L. has an even more economical (and in my view far more efficient) attitude towards the beautiful game. She watches the line-up, when the camera pans down during the national anthem, 'you know, check 'em out', and the shirt exchange at the end. It is a source of great shame to me that I have lived 31 years on this planet without that ever occurring to me.
posted by francesca tereshkova | 2:05 PM
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