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This was written in near real time yesterday. I will need to go back and fix the special characters later:
My computer's boot sector betrayed me by dying today; however, there may not be another time in my life when I am in a country on the day they play in the world cup final, so I will record this for posterity on the Blackberry, whatever happens.
Yesterday, a Saturday night, it was din until four or five in morning. Earplugs did not help at all; I had to finally open the window despite the heat. Right now, already, the honking on the car horns and vuvuzelas (I have a hard time telling them apart from a distance) is continuous as it had been after they won the semifinal. Even apparent bums on the street are wearing red Espana soccer shirts. Madrid's landmark statue of Cybele in her lion-drawn carriage is apparently draped in a Spanish flag, we saw on the subway newscast. On the subway, a girl tunelessly belted out "Viva Espana" through six stations. I believe that song has lyrics beyond the title; most Spaniards apparently don't know them either.
People are also raucously shouting out the tune of the Russian song "Kalinka" with the lyrics "Ah, espanol, espanol, espanol!" Random strangers honk at each other and join in. Spanish flags are painted on faces; my favourite sight was of a lady in a scarlet flamenco skirt and scarlet bolero over a yellow top - a stylish rendition of the bandera espanola!
I do not know if they started drinking already, or this is just the excitement.
My brother proposed getting a Dutch flag from somewhere, just to be different. However, doing that may just be insane.
Nothing is open any more except the bars, I think, and possibly the souvenir shops and vuvuzela hawkers. The game begins at 20:30; I foretell the streets will fall deathly silent at that time. We are still not sure where we will spend the game.
Part 2:
Correction to the first message: the lyrics are "Yo soy espanol, espanol, espanol" - I am Spanish, Spanish, Spanish.
Against all I would have expected of myself, I actually had a nap. With the windows open. And a heat of 44 degrees outside. And vuvuzelas blasting without a moment's silence. There is something there to prove a point of some sort.
Somehow, I was very cheerful afterwards and in favour of the idea I had nearly vetoed pre-nap: "Come on, let's go find a bar. Let's watch the Spaniards watch their game."
A car just drove by, blasting a different "Viva Espana" song, with other drivers tapping out the rhythm. As I have mentioned before, Spanish and Russian martial music is very much alike; I can picture the two countries stealing tunes... *checks first paragraph* Oh wait, they do that already.
"Does the king watch the game?" My brother asks. "He has to. They'll impeach him if word gets out he didn't."
Kickoff. The streets have not fallen dead silent, but except for stray vuvuzela solos they are much quieter than before.
Ten minutes into the game we found standing room at a games arcade, where the game was going on four big screens, including two in high definition. And we watched.
I am not a sports fan. But the sight of people who are the best in the world at what they do is beautiful. And I got caught in imagining what it felt like to be those men on the screen, what paths they took to get there. What pains they strategically flaunted, and what pains they hid. I have some idea of what forces are involved in collisions when you play at this level. I could see pain in the way they walked.
I watched the shots of the coaches. They, at least, I can imagine what they were feeling. What I had done was not the final of the World Cup, but I too have left the fate of a championship in the hands of my proteges after having done all I could for them.
At halftime we went walking, got ice cream bars, and ended up returning to this same arcade.
Ninety minutes with the score 0-0. Will someone please score? I thought to myself even as I ached along with the others there at Spanish players' penalties, at Spanish players falling, at shots on goal going wide. At the wonderful Puyol, at Xavi, at David Villa, at Iniesta, and at the brilliant, brilliant Casillas. "At this level," my Urban Dialectology interviewee had told me about NHL goalies, "you are stopping shots that have no possible right to be stopped." I found myself having faith in Casillas. Like the rest of Spain had faith in him.
And when Iniesta scored, I like the others in the bar jumped up and down and shouted, carried along in the soccer passion as vuvuzelas trumpeted behind me.
It is only a game with a ball. It is only a game with a ball.
When you watch yourself caring
About a minor sporting triumph, sharing
This world of esoterics,
Paranoids, hysterics,
Who pay no attention to what goes on around them,
They leave the ones they love the way they found them,
A normal person must dismiss you with disgust
And weep for those who trusted you.
- Chess (from memory)
It is, yes, a minor sporting triumph. But it is more.
And when the game ended...
We went out into the Puerta del Sol to join the party in the streets. For ten euros we got a flag that my brother streamed behind him as we went walking in the party in the streets.
Crowds walking, shouting, singing, dancing together in the colours of red and yellow. You cannot make out any more what are human voices, car horns, vuvuzelas. The occasional petard launched breaks through the other noise. The police and the civil guard try to keep order, placidly. Cybele does have a flag around her shoulders, same as the one we were trailing.
And I sang. I have not dared sing, to draw attention too much, in all the previous days I have spent in Spain. In the dark sleep deprivation talking of the previous night, I had realized this, and thought I should go mad, for I know, empirically, that I cannot live without music.
There was no shame. I would be just like everyone else if I sing in a mezzo soprano to the glory of Spain.
I do not know the official song of this World Cup, "This Time For Africa". Instead, I sang parts of the Spanish official song for the 1998 World Cup, because I have a low opinion of Ricky Martin as a singer, but his lyricist was awesome:
La copa es un benediction
Tu ganaras - go go go
Tu instituto al vencer a tu rival
Tienes pelear por una estrella
Consigue con honor la copa del amor
Para sobrevivir y luchar por ella
Luchar por ella
Luchar por ella...
And I sang "Que Viva Espana", because, from long long ago, I do recall some of the lyrics to it:
La vida tiene tanto sabor...
Que es Espana la mejor!
My computer's boot sector betrayed me by dying today; however, there may not be another time in my life when I am in a country on the day they play in the world cup final, so I will record this for posterity on the Blackberry, whatever happens.
Yesterday, a Saturday night, it was din until four or five in morning. Earplugs did not help at all; I had to finally open the window despite the heat. Right now, already, the honking on the car horns and vuvuzelas (I have a hard time telling them apart from a distance) is continuous as it had been after they won the semifinal. Even apparent bums on the street are wearing red Espana soccer shirts. Madrid's landmark statue of Cybele in her lion-drawn carriage is apparently draped in a Spanish flag, we saw on the subway newscast. On the subway, a girl tunelessly belted out "Viva Espana" through six stations. I believe that song has lyrics beyond the title; most Spaniards apparently don't know them either.
People are also raucously shouting out the tune of the Russian song "Kalinka" with the lyrics "Ah, espanol, espanol, espanol!" Random strangers honk at each other and join in. Spanish flags are painted on faces; my favourite sight was of a lady in a scarlet flamenco skirt and scarlet bolero over a yellow top - a stylish rendition of the bandera espanola!
I do not know if they started drinking already, or this is just the excitement.
My brother proposed getting a Dutch flag from somewhere, just to be different. However, doing that may just be insane.
Nothing is open any more except the bars, I think, and possibly the souvenir shops and vuvuzela hawkers. The game begins at 20:30; I foretell the streets will fall deathly silent at that time. We are still not sure where we will spend the game.
Part 2:
Correction to the first message: the lyrics are "Yo soy espanol, espanol, espanol" - I am Spanish, Spanish, Spanish.
Against all I would have expected of myself, I actually had a nap. With the windows open. And a heat of 44 degrees outside. And vuvuzelas blasting without a moment's silence. There is something there to prove a point of some sort.
Somehow, I was very cheerful afterwards and in favour of the idea I had nearly vetoed pre-nap: "Come on, let's go find a bar. Let's watch the Spaniards watch their game."
A car just drove by, blasting a different "Viva Espana" song, with other drivers tapping out the rhythm. As I have mentioned before, Spanish and Russian martial music is very much alike; I can picture the two countries stealing tunes... *checks first paragraph* Oh wait, they do that already.
"Does the king watch the game?" My brother asks. "He has to. They'll impeach him if word gets out he didn't."
Kickoff. The streets have not fallen dead silent, but except for stray vuvuzela solos they are much quieter than before.
Ten minutes into the game we found standing room at a games arcade, where the game was going on four big screens, including two in high definition. And we watched.
I am not a sports fan. But the sight of people who are the best in the world at what they do is beautiful. And I got caught in imagining what it felt like to be those men on the screen, what paths they took to get there. What pains they strategically flaunted, and what pains they hid. I have some idea of what forces are involved in collisions when you play at this level. I could see pain in the way they walked.
I watched the shots of the coaches. They, at least, I can imagine what they were feeling. What I had done was not the final of the World Cup, but I too have left the fate of a championship in the hands of my proteges after having done all I could for them.
At halftime we went walking, got ice cream bars, and ended up returning to this same arcade.
Ninety minutes with the score 0-0. Will someone please score? I thought to myself even as I ached along with the others there at Spanish players' penalties, at Spanish players falling, at shots on goal going wide. At the wonderful Puyol, at Xavi, at David Villa, at Iniesta, and at the brilliant, brilliant Casillas. "At this level," my Urban Dialectology interviewee had told me about NHL goalies, "you are stopping shots that have no possible right to be stopped." I found myself having faith in Casillas. Like the rest of Spain had faith in him.
And when Iniesta scored, I like the others in the bar jumped up and down and shouted, carried along in the soccer passion as vuvuzelas trumpeted behind me.
It is only a game with a ball. It is only a game with a ball.
When you watch yourself caring
About a minor sporting triumph, sharing
This world of esoterics,
Paranoids, hysterics,
Who pay no attention to what goes on around them,
They leave the ones they love the way they found them,
A normal person must dismiss you with disgust
And weep for those who trusted you.
- Chess (from memory)
It is, yes, a minor sporting triumph. But it is more.
And when the game ended...
We went out into the Puerta del Sol to join the party in the streets. For ten euros we got a flag that my brother streamed behind him as we went walking in the party in the streets.
Crowds walking, shouting, singing, dancing together in the colours of red and yellow. You cannot make out any more what are human voices, car horns, vuvuzelas. The occasional petard launched breaks through the other noise. The police and the civil guard try to keep order, placidly. Cybele does have a flag around her shoulders, same as the one we were trailing.
And I sang. I have not dared sing, to draw attention too much, in all the previous days I have spent in Spain. In the dark sleep deprivation talking of the previous night, I had realized this, and thought I should go mad, for I know, empirically, that I cannot live without music.
There was no shame. I would be just like everyone else if I sing in a mezzo soprano to the glory of Spain.
I do not know the official song of this World Cup, "This Time For Africa". Instead, I sang parts of the Spanish official song for the 1998 World Cup, because I have a low opinion of Ricky Martin as a singer, but his lyricist was awesome:
La copa es un benediction
Tu ganaras - go go go
Tu instituto al vencer a tu rival
Tienes pelear por una estrella
Consigue con honor la copa del amor
Para sobrevivir y luchar por ella
Luchar por ella
Luchar por ella...
And I sang "Que Viva Espana", because, from long long ago, I do recall some of the lyrics to it:
La vida tiene tanto sabor...
Que es Espana la mejor!
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