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Day 0: My Life and Soccer
A few people have been wondering whether or not it's true that I am going to South Africa to watch the World Cup. The short answer is no, I'm going to Bafana Bafana to watch the World Cup. Currently I am sitting in seat 17D on the tarmac in a relatively swank Ethiopian Airlines 767 on my way from Addis Ababa to Johannesburg; and then to Pretoria (which will soon be named Tshwane). Due to the nature of this trip this story will be as much a retrospective as it is a travel journal.
May 28th, 1989 is a day I'll never forget. It was the scariest day of my life to date. For a shy 6 year old that is a pretty big claim to make since for me even mere social interaction was absolutely petrifying. A few weeks prior my dad and brother were watching a World Cup qualifying match which featured Argentina and the then top of his game Diego Maradona. My dad used the excitement of the match to suggest to me that I should start getting into sports, particularly soccer. The moment he finished his elevator pitch on how soccer will be an excellent way for me to overcome being so fat in his eyes, I turned to the television screen to avoid what felt like shame and witnessed something worse. An Argentina player took a blow to the head causing blood to race down and a substitution. Again, a few weeks later, May 28th, when the registration date for the Scarborough National Malvern Soccer Club house league came, and my dad dragged me to the Malvern Recreation Centre to sign up for this sport of bloodshed, I was petrified. My brother gave me one of his amazing pep talks which to me he was famous for when I was young, but still there was unease.
"What number would you like?" the lady Hyacinthe asked me.
"Pele's number is 10," my dad said to me.
"Ten?" I asked of her.
"Sorry, we're out of 10." I jumped ahead and said "Eleven, please!"
My dad was proud for he knew I remembered the classic soccer numbering system he had taught me and remarked, "Good, 11 is a striker's number." Hyacinthe looked at me for a moment and said, "I think I've got just the jersey for you" and she handed me the first jersey I would ever own or wear. With vertical green and yellow stripes and a black trim around the neck and biceps my dad exclaimed, "Those are Brazil's colours!" I knew that this was a declaration from him that I will have a great responsibility of soccer tradition to uphold, despite the fact that I was not on the Brazil national team. With this jersey, I was official starting member of the Bombers. The pride of that moment lives with me every day of my life. The rest is history
I don't mean this in jest. 21 years and two knee surgeries later (possibly a third to come), competitive soccer is truly in the past for me. Demoted to the green pastures of Men's Leagues, Social Clubs, and impromptu Futsal runs, soccer is now only exactly what my father meant for it to be, a way for me to keep fit and have fun. That's a bit of a half truth; soccer still has the powers of a spiritual therapy to which in my life I have not experienced a match.
Stern as my dad may have been while I was growing up, forever flowing from the heart is my father's bounty. The same can be said for my older brother's benevolence. And so, 21 years after my inception to the sport they have offered soccer to me in yet another fashion.
The short version of the story which brings us here to my journal is: My father swiped his Sobey's card to buy some cake and won a trip to South Africa. The trip is designed for young adults to partake in a 5 days skills assessment camp to groom talent, awareness, and love of the beautiful game. My dad said that he felt as though he is too old for the hustle and bustle of this camp. He asked if I wanted to go in his place. My secondary reaction was one of reverence and so I called my brother and asked him if he wants to go. I must mention that while my dad introduced me to the sport, my brother is directly and ostensibly responsible for my progression in soccer. Ball control, as an example, becomes a secondary reflex when as an 8 year old one spends 4hrs a day on his driveway playing 'keep away' from his taller, faster, in better shape, 15 year old soccer veteran brother. My brother said, after I explained to him the circumstances of this prize our dad has won, that his lease was coming up at the end of the month and so he wasn't sure if he could attend the trip. Another likely story. Here, between my dad and brother's claims you can see evidence to suggest that not all lies are evil. Indeed, if anything my dad and brother must both have stamped their seats in the kingdom of heaven with these lies, as they have bestowed upon me a gift which touches me more deeply than I could ever let them know.
To take a little spice out of this story, I have in fact been to 2 world cups before: USA '94 and France '98. It's not my first, but believe me, virgin appeal rarely adds value to the moments in life that are truly special. If they truly are special they'll be special the third and fourth time as well. I'm happy to not be a rookie, in fact I think having seen matches before will only heighten my appreciation for what is about to unfold. The truly priceless feature to this trip is that it is in Bafana Bafana! Just implore me for a moment and think: A few hundred years ago the world's leading colonials dragged my family off of the continent as a measure of better financing their endeavours to extend their ideals, customs and products westward towards unknown markets. Now one of the world' largest conglomerates, namely the Coca-Cola Corporation is flying me back to Africa free of charge to extend its ideals customs and product eastward, to markets I fear it will never truly understand.
Out of appreciation for the gift Coca-Cola has provided for me might I take this time to announce my honest feelings for the 2010 World Cup's official Sponsors?
I love Coca Cola. If I'm ever offered the choice between Coke and Pepsi I will never waver. I spent a good many years addicted to Coca-Cola, drinking on average 2 cans a day in highschool. It was to my and their great fortune that since the 1920s Coca-Cola has no longer included cocaine as its key ingredient. Although one would have to present the numbers to decide whether cocaine or caffeine wins in terms of profitability and risk management. All the same, I only drink Coke at theatres or to chase rum now, but it still has a special place in my heart, as do most items containing high-fructose corn syrup. I love Powerade. Despite the fact that warm Powerade tastes exactly like liquid Tylenol without the medicinal value or nice aftertaste, Powerade is typically my choice over Gatorade because Powerade is more readily available in dollar and discount stores than than Gatorade. Out of convenience and adjacency to my house I've also come to enjoy Sobey's. I love Electrolytes. When neuronal passages to my muscle fibres result in a reaction that is faster than my opponents I am given a certain sense of pride, and with the same certainty I'm sure to enjoy the results from Powerade's new sub-brand ION4. In summation, tongue-in-cheek as it may be, you cannot find me to be a hypocrite if you come across any advertisements this year where I happen to mention that I love Sobey's Coca-Cola Powerade ION4 for sending me to the World Cup!
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Day 1: Airports or Planehaus as I call them now
It is not a short flight to Johannesburg, particularly not when you have two stop overs in Frankfurt and Addis Ababa. Longer still when you are travelling with complete strangers. There were four Canadian winners for this contest, 2 from Calgary and 2 from Toronto. As well, our chaperone Diego currently lives in Toronto. Diego is meeitng us in Jo'burg. Lauren, from Calgary, took a direct flight to Frankfurt and seems to be an elusive character so we will probably meet her alongside Diego.
That leaves Curtis from out west and Jenn from Toronto. I met them both in Terminal 1 at Lester B. Pearson Airport. Being social is not nearly as difficult for me to produce but a lot harder for me to sustain, as it was when I was younger. I will never question or cast shame upon my better judgment, and believe me my judgment is typically better. But I must say it's a lot harder for me to not judge characters whom I know nothing about. Immediately I knew Jenn would have the most words to share of the three travelers, and that before 10am each morning I would want to hear them the least. However, that is more snark than Jenn deserves, it's actually a commentary on me and sleep deprivation. The point is Jenn is extremely pleasant and talkative which makes it easy for me to recline in my chair into myself periods during these long flights where I need to rest my tongue. Curtis is an older gentleman who couldn't find a good way to decide which of his 3 kids should go on this trip. Indeed, he proved to have a diplomatic tongue and disposition and is pretty laid back.
I've had my moments as the diva of the group. I've traveled a bit on my own now I can say, so I was pretty confident about traveling around Germany with no plans, ideas or knowledge of the country and language. I was dubbed 'most responsible' by Jenn and Curtis which I supposed got to my head as I lead the way into to Zara, Nike Town and a tea store for my own purchases. Not exactly their ideal way to kill a 12hr stopover in Frankfurt. However, a good 6-8 hours were spent in the heart of Frankfurt learning, from our prejudices, about Germany and each other. Sausage was consumed, but not by me. I had...Gaffehaffen? Pig calve, salted and roasted. Chocolate was purchased at the Duty Free and man was it tasty. To be honest I think the bar I purchased was a Swiss Brand - Milka? However I tackled one stereotype properly. Believe me please here and now for I tell you the truth: German beer is absolutely delicious in Germany. A bottle of Beck's is not what I mean by German beer. I had a half-pint of Diesel served perfectly chilled in a glass. It was served with a cappuccino-like whipped froth, light flakes on top of the beer head. The only thing that would have made this beer taste better is if it was served at breakfast beside an omelette. The glass left me with a wholesome feeling, no doubt due to the natural ingredients and larger proportions of wheat and hops. If the point of this trip was to visit Germany I would have ordered beer until I was tanked, and I am not a beer drinker. Alas, there were 2 flights ahead of us and so pace was a virtue. I'm reconvinced I need to visit Germany one day as a vacation. It was a beautiful day in Frankfurt and a marvelous introduction to German architecture. Anything else should be said only with photos which will come. Also, I must remark that if I were to ever hire a cleaning person, they would not be Filipino or Mexican. Fear of theft notwithstanding, I would hire a German. In every corner of the city I noticed that Germany (sorry Philippines, I'ma let you finish) has the cleanest washrooms of all time! Of all time! This is the end of the installment written from the plane on the last leg to Jo'burg. We just passed Mount Kilimanjaro in the air but I'm sitting int he aisle and had to view it through the LCD screen of a stranger's camera. Stay tuned for the next update where I will share my reflections on Africa so far and yet to come.
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Day 2: Reasons why this trip is not perfect
I hate when things in my life end with a whimper. Then again, I don't exactly like it when my life falls apart with a crash. All the same, at least for playing soccer I always thought there would be an epic moment when I would leave the game, which I suppose is silly. 4 years ago my game changed dramatically after a random dude decided he'd take out his frustrations from losing the ball from me and made way with 3 of my cruciate ligaments and meniscus in my right knee. 4 weeks ago the turf at Downsview Park had its way with my left knee and I'm yet to get a diagnosis on it. However, 4 hours ago I got a prognosis: It was a drill like any other drill, until I reached forward to collect a through ball and heard the kind of pop that never means anything good. I walked to the medic who looked me over. It's highly advised I have this looked at the moment I get back to Canada, and it's highly advised I don't push my knee any further.
The saddest part is, I have expected this but i couldn't face the truth. This morning, armed with my knee brace and high hopes I started to feel my knee feeling tighter than it should. Just as I thought maybe I should take a break, one of the coaches began talking to one of the players from Mexico. He asked him, "You know what is N'doda?" the Mexican replied "Que? What?" Coach said, "N'doda. It means man. Like me. And you. You are a man. Because..." Coach grabbed his pair "...you have these! Yes, you are N'doda" So I thought to myself, "Me, I am N'doda too!" gassing myself up to play through the pain. I am n'doda. Men are stubborn.
I have to say that I was quite liking the idea of playing with people around the world. The scarce moments I could share my skills with the few friends I've made from Mexico, Guatamala and England felt good but not great. I wanted to show them the many ways I know how to embarrass a defender. I wanted to show them my sometimes blistering shot. I wanted to show them the passing Beckham is jealous of that I do. Not to brag but I was good. I am good. But not today. Not until this gets fixed.
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Africa
When we left Frankfurt I was absolutely exhausted. I didn't know how to possibly stay awake to enjoy the flight over the motherland. However the pilot did wake us up as we crossed over the equator. A sudden rush reminded me that I've never been in the southern hemisphere before. There was daylight. I woke again to the Pilot's reminder that we were approaching Mount Kilimanjaro on the left. Funny story about that, the person who's moment I stole by glancing over at her camera's LCD screen was in fact Lauren from Alberta. She didn't see when I crept in to glare through her camera, all she saw was "(me) sleeping with (my) mouth open!" Lauren is a very frank personality. I don't mind it, I'm rarely in the mood for any bullshit that isn't my own creation. Come to think of it I guess that's why it's called that: One can only really bare his own stench. Back to the point...
As we flew over the African airspace it was quite funny to see all of my conceptions of Africa unveil themselves in the clouds. I give myself no literary license with what I'm about to say. My first glance out the window over Africa there was a small cut in between the clouds below us where sunlight seemed to pierce upwards towards us. It was perfectly in the shape of a riverbed piercing between a mountain. Second, there was an open terrain with a few bunched up clouds to look like tumbleweeds and small hedges, the type a Hyena might lurk behind until a main course has officially been declared leftovers. Shortly after, a little closer towards the bottomside of the plane was a wild herd running expertly close together through the terrain. I thought I actually saw proof that the lives of the creatures below the clouds were in fact pre-written above the clouds. You didn't even have to go so far as space to see the story.
Africa is not, and has not been, the Lion King. I'm sure parts of Africa are in fact the Lion King. But not Ethiopia, and certainly not Bafana Bafana. When I touched down in Ethiopia there was no sunshine, there was heavy overcast. What i did see of Ethiopia was the fundamentals of human existence. The life of a nation starting in the age of technology. Fork lifts and plows creating the dirt pathways between sets of huts. A more efficient way of transporting resources creating the bare essentials of communities. Humans need food. The huts themselves with a fundamental design. A roof, made of iron, and a foundation made of cement, and holes in the cement which serve as windows. Humans need air. Sporadic areas away from those huts housed treatment plants and refineries. Humans need water. They already had the love. All the same, I expected a bit more out of an international airport, which regrettably was all I got to see. A flea market style customs and duty free area, a departures gate which seemed to contradict logic (Why am i getting a boarding pass after I've taken my shoes off and am now sitting in the terminal? And why is it hand-written? And why is the stamp of authenticity a red circle sticker? I got better stickers in grade school!). Anyhow, a server connected to a terminal plus point-of-sale solution would be overkill for this airport. They flight through Frankfurt 4 times for the week. I'm sure the next time I'm in Ethiopia there will be changes, especially since they're now securing a 787 jet that can fly direct from Boston. It will all come, in time. Africa stand up!
South Africa isn't all gaming fields and wild animals either. When we got to the airport one of our Chaperons asked us if we've ever been to South Africa. We all said no. He said, "When you go outside you'll actually get to see Lions roaming around." I had jumped ahead and thought he meant they created an exhibit for the World Cup in a TIA (this is Africa) marketing spin. Regardless, both Curtis and I sounded like fools when we said, "Really?" That was a big laugh for him. As he mentioned, a lot of people have misconceptions about South Africa. It's actually a very developed nation, obviously with much room for improvement, but definitely worth visiting. South Africa's problem is crime, and I suppose apartheid but I can't offer testimony there. The crime needs to stop however. When I told people back home I was going on a Coca Cola paid and chaperoned trip to South Africa, I was received with at least 15 "stay safe" and "come back alive" replies. I thought to myself, "Do people really need to hate on Africa so bad?" It's funny how exorbitant crime in Los Angeles, Washington, Detorit, New York, Louisiana, San Francisco and Miami, doesn't make North America a bad continent to travel to, but the odd story here and there about crime in non-specific African countries makes the whole continent a write off.
Bah, humbug. My boy Hugh is down there right now and says its beautiful! He's right. He says the people there are actually really nice and Torontonians could learn a lot from them. He's right. It's all true, come to South Africa. But South Africa isn't at a place where I can tell you it's perfectly safe. The day i arrived, after having already signed my life away to Coca Cola in the event of injury or accidental death, I had to sign a brand new disclaimer stating I will not leave the premises. A few blocks down a few tourists left their camp and wandered into a local area and were killed. Details about the tourists' sobriety and the nature of the altercation were later revealed but really weren't important. The story alone, coupled with the extra security at every corner of our campus, are convincing enough. I'll tell you the same story for Pretoria that I'll tell you for New York, since I've now been to them at both: Don't wander at night, and if you do, do it in a group. You're equally likely to lose something in either city, only carry what you're prepared to lose, including your life. Anyhow, I have four more days here. I hope to have softer words for Pretoria sooner than I do for New York, since crime in New York is like the cheese on their pizza, thick. But if that's going to happen, all I can say is Africa, stand up!
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Day 3: Yo Soy Español...Español....Español!
I've made new Spanish friends. I should have been born in Spain. The title above is one of the few chants I learned on the bus to the game. Toronto FC has some work to do when it comes to chants and team spirit.
There's a lot I could say about going to the Spain vs. Chile Match, a lot that I probably will say later on. But for now I'm going to just show you. The World Cup is like Disney World but better; unless you've seen it you won't get it. I've loaded a facebook album with photos. I'll see if I can link it here. For now...
Here is a photo of the Canadian Group: Diego (Chaperon), Jenn, Me, Lauren
The Crew
Curtis took the photo so he's not in it. :(
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Day 4: The ball is no different than any ball
I generally take good advice. You'll know I took your advice if I make little to no acknowledgment of how wrong I was but your advice starts to manifest in my behaviour later on. Really, I'm open to suggestion. I'm just not open to suggestions that stand in the way of me playing soccer. Last night I had what I like to call The 11 hour Naps. Tossing and turning in my sleep like a malaria victim I spent the night overcoming my cold and the general malaise that overcame my body on this trip. I got a bit of a pep email from a loved one in response to my complaints that my knee was shot, I was here unable to play soccer or even walk without pain, I was sick as a dog almost unable to breathe at night in what felt like the coldest country in the world. She basically told me to not miss out on the experience while I was here experiencing it. And so, after a night of hot physical and spiritual expulsion, today I was able to say "I'm back!" Big up to Z and my room's space heater.
So I slept through breakfast and the assessment camp - I didn't really need anyone to tell me at this point which side of my body is stronger. But at lunch I summoned the will from within and went against the better advice of everyone here and went back to playing. Armed with the tensor band and some creative wrapping I made new ligaments for myself and got on the field. I joined the team named "The Rejects" and boy did we strike fear into the eyes of our competitors. The first round was outdoors, 5 on 5. My first few touches on the ball were magnificent. Before I left my bro made a clever observation about soccer. Africans, if you don't already know, are known for doming some dangerous tackles. I think the 2-footed studs-up tackled was in fact invented in Nigeria. Anyhow, whenever an African team has their backs against the ropes, they regress into this natural feature of the African game. West Indians have a regression as well. It's called SALAD!!!!!! Yuh dun know I-man love fi put ball truu all ah unah legs! So, I used every opportunity I could to beat everyone I could in lieu of being able to pivot and sprint. Man did I dirty some Mexcans. In the outdoor series I even actually scored a goal. And not a cheap one either. I thighed down a cross. The ball fell into what real soccer players would call "the wheel house" and the rest was pre-written. A left footed blasted bottom right corner. In spite of the language barrier. The entire Mexican team saluted me with thumbs ups.
Later they begged our team to play in the evening indoor matches: Round of 16 playoffs to correspond with the actual round of 16 going on now. We accepted and mustered together half of our squad. This time we were playing the staff team in the playoff death match. Quickly it was observed by the fans that our team was mostly in it for a moral victory. The Mexicans yelled VAMOS REJECTOS!! and I was charged and ready to go. Moving to a central defense roll I did a series of dirty moves on a few unsuspecting staff members. As I beat them the Mexicans yelled "OLE!!" with each move and the smile was back on my face. Then I offered what seemed like a simple pass, and turned into a pain that turned my blind for a moment. For the first time in a long time, I felt the adrenalin rush to my knee as I muttered to myself, "Just finish the game!" We were down 3-0, and needed some pride. In the end an outlet pass I sent to one of our ringers (whose name I actually still don't know) made it a 3-2 final. A fair enough result for the rejects. We went home like Trojan warriors. Well actually we kinda hung around for awhile and watched the other matches.
Tomorrow, for all you patient readers, I actually get to visit parts of Pretoria, not just the University or stadium. So I might have something to write that isn't just all about me. Thanks for your patience so far.
Might I leave tonight with a small remark? We've been playing with the official world cup balls for 3 days now. There's nothing funny about it. The ball is like any other ball. The Chinese guy who took the fantastical free kick a few weeks ago deserves his credit. If a Brazilian took that shot it would have brought nothing but praise to him and his nation's football history. The ball is quite regular, if anything just a bit hard. But not too hard for my fantastic left foot!