Same opponent. Same result. Same scoreline. Same outcome: bounced from the World Cup by Ghana, 2-1.
If you want to know what DF’s experience of watching the Ghana game was like, it’s pretty simple—just read the post about the Algeria game and reverse absolutely everything in it. I wasn’t even going to write about last night’s game—didn’t know if I could—but there may be some catharsis in doing this, so what the hell, here goes:
I knew something wasn’t right all day yesterday. The game was going down at 8.30pm, but there was lots to do beforehand, yet somehow I wasn’t able to focus on it thanks to a vague, uneasy sense of pre-game jitters. This is ridiculous, of course—the presence of a soccer game in ten hours shouldn’t prevent me from having a productive day, but somehow it did. And this wasn’t excited anticipation, either—it was something like foreboding. This could all be 20/20 hindsight BS, but I don’t think it is.
Even the scheduling didn’t really work well. I spent some time at the office (so much empirical work to read—but all incredibly interesting stuff), and then decided for a bunch of reasons to haul my ass all the way back up to Rigiblick to do some writing and watch the Uruguay/SoKo game. Game ended, and I remained edgy. Showered, hopped on the funicular, transferred to the nine, discovered that it stops right outside Paddy’s, and guess what—I’m fully two hours early for the game.
So then DF wanders Zuerich for a while, but in a blindly time-killing way, not in a “let’s explore the city and see the sights” kind of way. I ended up getting a snack in an organic grocery store and the sandwich is secretly loaded with sauce. Gross. I kill sometime playing poker on my BB and then it’s finally time to get over to the pub. But that’ll be good, right? Positive memories of the Alg game?
Hardly. The moment I got there, everything felt wrong. I first sat at a table near some other US fans, but they were so obnoxious (in a jock-y kind of way) that I had to move. The next spot was the same one I’d occupied for the Alg game: same room, same table, same chair, same drink, same everything that was associated with the LD goal. Yeah, I’m that superstitious.
But it still didn’t feel right. The room was hot and humid (Europe is simply not a well air-conditioned continent). The crowd was not really that into the game; it seemed like a group of US expats who were using the WC as an excuse to hang out. There were a few moms who spent the entire first half talking about strollers and preschools. Nothing wrong with that of course, but it doesn’t exactly make for good atmosphere. Worst, a couple guys brought vuvuzelas and blew them loudly throughout the half. If you think a vuvuzela is irritating when you hear it on TV, wait til you have a couple of them honking about three feet from your eardrums. I wanted to shove the horns down the guys’ throats.
Oh, and also the US sucked. Gave up the traditional early goal—thanks a lot, Rico Clark (not that Howard did much to save it). And generally looked overwhelmed by the moment and clearly inferior to Ghana. It was up to DF to change matters.
So I moved to the main room of the pub, where I was set upon by two Irish guys who had all manner of questions. They were all right, actually—much more interesting and into soccer than the Americans—and it was fine talking to them throughout halftime, but the problem was that they wanted to talk about all manner of things even after play started for the second half. Even worse, some German guys wanted to talk to me about unrelated things as well. I was like, “Stop talking to me, people, or at least talk about the game, which is happening right goddamned now!!!”
When LD scored the penalty part-way through the half, it was great but didn’t have nearly the momentousness it should have, because for everyone else there, it was a mildly interesting moment of sporting entertainment, while for DF it was a life-and-death, razors-edge experience of salvation. And being the conspicuously most excited person in the room kinda takes some of the fun out of it, and even makes you feel kinda foolish (perhaps justifiably so).
That said, I was in good spirits when the game went to extra time, since we looked better than Ghana at that point and were the odds-on fave to win. And then, of course, of course, we again surrender an early goal (though this was a really good one), and that ended up being it. One of the Irish guys thought it would be hilarious to take the piss re the second Ghana goal, but I wasn’t really that amused, and he ended up apologizing, which was somehow even more irritating.
And then the US lost. No one really cared that much, or at least no one cared as much as I did, which was obvious, and this made the whole thing all the more irritating and disappointing. So I paid my tab and hustled out onto Talstrasse, where the 9 spirited a very, very dejected DF into the Zuerich night. And just to cap things, when I got to Rigiplatz, I learned to my massive exasperation that the funicular railway was closed (or broken, or something), and the swearing that ensued must have seemed scary indeed because it caused a girl to stop babbling into her cellphone in French and vamoose.
So I trudged up Rigiberg, got back to the room, and allowed myself to wallow in self-pity for a good long while. And while I tried to whip myself into shape this AM with the standard self-exhortations (it’s only a game, not that important in the grand scheme of things, hey at least you can walk, people out there are suffering far more than you over far more important things), the somewhat embarrassing truth is none of this really worked and I’ve been in a pretty intense post-loss funk all damn day.
“DF,” you may well be thinking, and very justifiably so, “this is ridiculous. Sports—even World Cup soccer—aren’t matters of life and death, and should not cause anyone, especially not a fully grown and no longer particularly young man to experience these kinds of highs and lows.” Well, yeah. I get that this was all kind of ridiculous, and it’s hard for me to explain why I keep following the USMNT with this kind of fervor, especially when there are other, more worthy things on which I could spend my time. I don’t really have an explanation, except to say that at times like these, I think back to times like Wednesday against Algeria, and it all seems worth it.
