Wednesday began with my stomach grumbling and concluded that way. All the excitement of going to South Africa was replaced with a timid faith that I would really be traveling 8,000 miles away to fulfill the most ambitious dream of my life.
My girlfriend and I drove to the airport unusually quiet. Both of us were nervous for totally different reasons. After waking up late, she was flying toward Jacksonville International Airport so I did not miss my flight.
Meanwhile, I was collecting my thoughts and internalizing my nerves.
We arrived with enough time to exhale, take a picture and give each other one final hug before I went through the security maze and over the cliff in the biggest test of faith in my life.
Moments before my 6:15 flight, I sent a text to the 10 tech-savvy people I am closest to. "The prologue: Jacksonville to New York."
Maybe, it's because I do not fly that frequently, but the precursor to my first international traveling was more accommodating than any domestic flight I had ever taken.
At John F. Kennedy, I truly acted like a tourist. From looking around, getting my bearings, to finding baggage claim, to wasting three trips--and 20 precious minutes--at the currency exchange to looking harried during the security checkpoint I was releasing all the habits I was warned not to exhibit in Johannesburg or Cape Town in the friendly confines of New York City.
The layover in New York was probably the best thing that could have happened to me. I have always had the stereotype that New Yorkers are not the type to pity, or tolerate, foolish people. The people at JFK were true to form.
I grabbed a quick breakfast just as my flight was going to board after giving final assurances to my girlfriend and my brother and his wife that I would be safe. It was obvious Emirates was making a killing off the World Cup, specifically my 11,469 kilometer flight from New York to Dubai.
On my flight I saw a handful of Argentina jerseys, a man wearing a Ji Sung Park jersey, a bunch of Mexico fans, someone who had the number 10 shaved on both sides of his head, two Cameroon fans, a man in a Bafana Bafana jersey and a few people in the U.S. track jacket that I wanted to buy but would have made me a walking target.
At 11 a.m. Wednesday my life changed forever when I walked into the gate and on my way to Africa. After 23 hours and 54 minutes I finally landed on African soil — albeit in Durban, not my final destination Johannesburg.
The flight to Johannesburg was quick. Finding my luggage was not. If I had not already purged half the food I ate on my three flights en route to the City of Gold, I would have done so when South African Airlines told me they could not locate my bag.
Eventually, my bag was located — with just a slight bit of stress. Hopefully my appetite and stomach will follow suit.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Monday, June 7, 2010
You can’t spell globalization with out “Gooaal!”
Like so many boys I wanted to play our version of football. I saw the gladiators pummel each other on the television. The sport that taught me how to multiple by three and by seven was captivating.
Unfortunately, my parents feared I was too small to play football. Their belief was I was not big enough and didn’t display an aptitude for hitting people or being hit.
It was the summertime and they were looking for a fall sport for me to play. Then they asked me the seven words that started my obsession and are the root for my upcoming adventure: “Well, William, do you want to play soccer?”
That was 1989. Well before I knew what a World Cup was and why so many people are borderline lunatics around a simple game with even simpler rules.
Mike Shannon was my first coach and the one who convinced me that a game could be played without our hands. We wore blue jerseys with black shorts and played at a field across from the Sarasota-Bradenton International Airport that has since been turned into a Par-3 golf course.
Even as a four year old, I loved everything about the game. Thanks to Coach Shannon, I was even excited to go to practice!
Most of those days playing at Airport Field are a blur, but it was hard not to think of them as the 2010 FIFA World Cup kicks off June 11 in Johannesburg.
I will be there, in South Africa, in part because of people like my parents, Mike Shannon, Skip Arrich, my girlfriend and so many others who encouraged a love for soccer that never left — though my skills as an outfield player eventually did.
There is little questioning that Tallahassee is a football and a baseball town. What I was surprised to find out once I arrived her for college is this place has a soccer undercurrent that will sweep you up, whether one is looking for it or not.
Gadsden County’s obsession is worse than anything here in Tallahassee. The Sunday League games have a cult-like following in part because the word on the street is those are the most competitive games within 50 miles of here.
It has been said countless times that soccer will become the next big thing in America. I have gone from the clueless four-year old, to the indifferent pre-teen to the pudgy goalkeeper as an adolescent, continual bench warmer at the varsity level and weekend warrior as an adult and have yet to see the sport take off in the “mainstream” like some would hope.
It may make for an interesting conversation with my editor when I return, but I have always surmised there have been two glaring reasons why the sport has never become as covered as football, baseball and basketball.
Soccer is not a sport Americans created or dominate, at least at the men’s level. Since hands are not used for scoring—unless you are Thierry Henry—it will never compare with the big three sporting behemoths in this country.
But the game is not why I am going to Johannesburg and Cape Town. Soccer is about the cultural experience that has stopped civil wars (Cote d Ivoire), been a one-finger salute to a fascist (Spain), made national pride acceptable again (Germany) and healed a country like South Africa after years of decades of blatant racism.
Of course the sport has its seedy elements, hooligans, prissy players, uber-capitalistic carnivores and issues with refereeing — “Google Thierry Henry handball” and the hubbub over a perfect game in baseball will seem minute — yet it’s all part of the imperfect beauty of the football.
Many weekends in the fall are still spent following, covering and reading about America’s version of football. But those who know me well know which football has always been my sport.
Unfortunately, my parents feared I was too small to play football. Their belief was I was not big enough and didn’t display an aptitude for hitting people or being hit.
It was the summertime and they were looking for a fall sport for me to play. Then they asked me the seven words that started my obsession and are the root for my upcoming adventure: “Well, William, do you want to play soccer?”
That was 1989. Well before I knew what a World Cup was and why so many people are borderline lunatics around a simple game with even simpler rules.
Mike Shannon was my first coach and the one who convinced me that a game could be played without our hands. We wore blue jerseys with black shorts and played at a field across from the Sarasota-Bradenton International Airport that has since been turned into a Par-3 golf course.
Even as a four year old, I loved everything about the game. Thanks to Coach Shannon, I was even excited to go to practice!
Most of those days playing at Airport Field are a blur, but it was hard not to think of them as the 2010 FIFA World Cup kicks off June 11 in Johannesburg.
I will be there, in South Africa, in part because of people like my parents, Mike Shannon, Skip Arrich, my girlfriend and so many others who encouraged a love for soccer that never left — though my skills as an outfield player eventually did.
There is little questioning that Tallahassee is a football and a baseball town. What I was surprised to find out once I arrived her for college is this place has a soccer undercurrent that will sweep you up, whether one is looking for it or not.
Gadsden County’s obsession is worse than anything here in Tallahassee. The Sunday League games have a cult-like following in part because the word on the street is those are the most competitive games within 50 miles of here.
It has been said countless times that soccer will become the next big thing in America. I have gone from the clueless four-year old, to the indifferent pre-teen to the pudgy goalkeeper as an adolescent, continual bench warmer at the varsity level and weekend warrior as an adult and have yet to see the sport take off in the “mainstream” like some would hope.
It may make for an interesting conversation with my editor when I return, but I have always surmised there have been two glaring reasons why the sport has never become as covered as football, baseball and basketball.
Soccer is not a sport Americans created or dominate, at least at the men’s level. Since hands are not used for scoring—unless you are Thierry Henry—it will never compare with the big three sporting behemoths in this country.
But the game is not why I am going to Johannesburg and Cape Town. Soccer is about the cultural experience that has stopped civil wars (Cote d Ivoire), been a one-finger salute to a fascist (Spain), made national pride acceptable again (Germany) and healed a country like South Africa after years of decades of blatant racism.
Of course the sport has its seedy elements, hooligans, prissy players, uber-capitalistic carnivores and issues with refereeing — “Google Thierry Henry handball” and the hubbub over a perfect game in baseball will seem minute — yet it’s all part of the imperfect beauty of the football.
Many weekends in the fall are still spent following, covering and reading about America’s version of football. But those who know me well know which football has always been my sport.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
The Tweet that made my heart sink
I’m completely new to this Twitter game.
I used to find the short messaging service the most inane waste of time until my girlfriend convinced me it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to get an account to help my chronicle South Africa.
With few ideas about what to do and fewer people following me, I thought my foray into this social medium would be as gentle as the one I will have tip toeing into the Indian Ocean off the coast of Durban this month.
It didn’t take long for two things to come across my radar that made me change my mind and realize how fast word—and in these cases trepidation may spread.
First it was news that American forward Jozy Altidore sprained his right ankle in practice earlier this week. The 20-year old is listed as day-to-day with the injury and few people expect him to miss his team’s opener against England.
First it was news that American forward Jozy Altidore sprained his right ankle in practice earlier this week. The 20-year old is listed as day-to-day with the injury and few people expect him to miss his team’s opener against England.
The other news, which I found more depressing, despite being an American, was the arm injury to Cote d Ivoire captain Didier Drogba. There are conflicting reports about his condition. The Ivorian football federation has not ruled out the possibility the forward, and Vanity Fair cover model, will play in the tournament while other outlets are reporting he is done for the World Cup.
(Then again, how can one trust either source when it was originally reported the Ivoirians opener is June 13 instead of June 15?)
Drogba is the heart and soul of a team that some say have the talent to make the semifinals—or beyond. What was more heartbreaking to me was he was suspended due to yellow card accumulation for the Elephants only victory in the 2006 World Cup.
There are other teams whose captains will miss the tournament, but when one thinks of soccer in England or Germany Rio Ferdinand and Michael Ballack are not instantly the first men to come to mind. The two are very good players and may be in the conversation, but they do not mean as much to their team and their country as Drogba.
British media have castigated the 32-year old forward as a brooding brute on occasion, but there is little denying that Drogba is a predator in front of goal. He’s the type of person who can not only score goals, but win games—attributes many managers preparing for the World Cup would envy.
Of course I have a highly selfish rooting interest in Drogba’s health. I have tickets to see the Ivoirians opener against Portugal—and this guy.
I used to find the short messaging service the most inane waste of time until my girlfriend convinced me it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to get an account to help my chronicle South Africa.
With few ideas about what to do and fewer people following me, I thought my foray into this social medium would be as gentle as the one I will have tip toeing into the Indian Ocean off the coast of Durban this month.
It didn’t take long for two things to come across my radar that made me change my mind and realize how fast word—and in these cases trepidation may spread.
First it was news that American forward Jozy Altidore sprained his right ankle in practice earlier this week. The 20-year old is listed as day-to-day with the injury and few people expect him to miss his team’s opener against England.
First it was news that American forward Jozy Altidore sprained his right ankle in practice earlier this week. The 20-year old is listed as day-to-day with the injury and few people expect him to miss his team’s opener against England.
The other news, which I found more depressing, despite being an American, was the arm injury to Cote d Ivoire captain Didier Drogba. There are conflicting reports about his condition. The Ivorian football federation has not ruled out the possibility the forward, and Vanity Fair cover model, will play in the tournament while other outlets are reporting he is done for the World Cup.
(Then again, how can one trust either source when it was originally reported the Ivoirians opener is June 13 instead of June 15?)
Drogba is the heart and soul of a team that some say have the talent to make the semifinals—or beyond. What was more heartbreaking to me was he was suspended due to yellow card accumulation for the Elephants only victory in the 2006 World Cup.
There are other teams whose captains will miss the tournament, but when one thinks of soccer in England or Germany Rio Ferdinand and Michael Ballack are not instantly the first men to come to mind. The two are very good players and may be in the conversation, but they do not mean as much to their team and their country as Drogba.
British media have castigated the 32-year old forward as a brooding brute on occasion, but there is little denying that Drogba is a predator in front of goal. He’s the type of person who can not only score goals, but win games—attributes many managers preparing for the World Cup would envy.
Of course I have a highly selfish rooting interest in Drogba’s health. I have tickets to see the Ivoirians opener against Portugal—and this guy.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
One week to go!
It’s hard to imagine that in a week I will be waiting for my plane to take off from New York City.
All the work and the preparation for my big trip to South Africa is seven days away. Shoot, I’ve spent that much time watching soccer games over the past four years.
My parents were justifiably concerned for my safety. Other family members wondered aloud whether I could afford it. My girlfriend wanted to ensure I had a place to sleep. But for me, the one big thing that left me fretting many nights was finalized Wednesday.
How am I going to get tickets to the matches?
Through a Facebook group and an obsession with the FIFA website for ticket availabilities I was able to find tickets to all three United States matches and what may be the most intriguing match of the first round Cote d Ivoire vs. Portugal.
From watching in heartache in 1994 as the US had a golden opportunity against Brazil in the Round of 16, to the embarrassment of 1998. There was the joy of the 2002 quarterfinal berth and the disgust for the loss to Ghana in 2006 I have followed American soccer for quite a while. Being able to see my first US matches in person — at the World Cup to boot — is going to be special.
Or as the person I bought my US-England ticket from told me. The World Cup is the one chance to act unabashedly pro-American and have no shame about it.
There are some minute details to hammer out, but the concerns of my family, friends and cheerful supporters have all be answered in one way or the other. Now all that is left is to enjoy the trip of a lifetime.
All the work and the preparation for my big trip to South Africa is seven days away. Shoot, I’ve spent that much time watching soccer games over the past four years.
My parents were justifiably concerned for my safety. Other family members wondered aloud whether I could afford it. My girlfriend wanted to ensure I had a place to sleep. But for me, the one big thing that left me fretting many nights was finalized Wednesday.
How am I going to get tickets to the matches?
Through a Facebook group and an obsession with the FIFA website for ticket availabilities I was able to find tickets to all three United States matches and what may be the most intriguing match of the first round Cote d Ivoire vs. Portugal.
From watching in heartache in 1994 as the US had a golden opportunity against Brazil in the Round of 16, to the embarrassment of 1998. There was the joy of the 2002 quarterfinal berth and the disgust for the loss to Ghana in 2006 I have followed American soccer for quite a while. Being able to see my first US matches in person — at the World Cup to boot — is going to be special.
Or as the person I bought my US-England ticket from told me. The World Cup is the one chance to act unabashedly pro-American and have no shame about it.
There are some minute details to hammer out, but the concerns of my family, friends and cheerful supporters have all be answered in one way or the other. Now all that is left is to enjoy the trip of a lifetime.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
