In 1994, the first time the Cup was staged in the United States, the haters could barely contain themselves, braying about how no one, especially Americans, would show up for such a snooze of a sport. But when Italy played Ireland at the sold-out Giants Stadium, the atmosphere was as thrilling as any match I had experienced in the World Cup in Italy four years earlier. The green-draped Irish fans, the ones from Ireland and the ones from Queens, were singing in full force, as were those of the Azzurri, both those from Italy and Little Italy, Brooklyn and every other Italian American neighborhood in the area. Sure, it was a low-scoring match, 1-0 to the Irish, but a brilliant night.
When the unfancied American team beat the highly rated Colombians, the tournament erupted. The Yanks had finally learned how to play in the big time. In the meantime, fans from the Netherlands, Germany, Brazil, Nigeria, South Korea and Norway toured the country, drinking in the Budweiser and the sights from Orlando to San Francisco. Sunburn was their biggest risk. The cops had little to do. Major League Soccer, now in its 30th season, got off the ground because FIFA demanded that the United States start a top-level pro soccer league to win the bid.
In France in 1998, Parisians seemed initially blasé about their team, which included the incomparable Zinedine Zidane, as well as Thierry Henry and Marcel Desailly, a trio that represented France’s colonial past — their ethnicity tied to Algeria, the French Caribbean and West Africa. The “Black, Blanc, Beur” team (Black, white, North African) was culturally challenging for a country that had done little to reckon with its colonial past. By the time France found two second-half goals to beat a wonderful Croatia team and advance to the final, the nation had fallen in love with Les Bleus. France became world champion. It might again this World Cup.
In 2010, skepticism about whether an African nation could even host the Cup hung over South Africa like the clouds on Table Mountain. Then Bafana Bafana, as the South African team is known, tied its first match with Mexico, and the Soccer City stadium bordering Soweto drowned in the deafening noise created by the vuvuzela horns that fans blew incessantly. Happiness seemed to envelop the country everywhere you traveled. The United States faced England in the mining town of Rustenburg, which featured a newly renovated stadium surrounded by a neighborhood of tin-roofed houses. The locals were overjoyed that fans and journalists showed up to their country, to their town, pressing their hands into ours with gratitude as we walked toward the stadium. Even better, the Americans held England to a draw.
Once this tournaments starts, the Brazilians will show up with the catchy cadence of their drum bands — just try not to dance — and a dedication to partying. The Dutch will be orange from head to toe, welcoming anyone into their fold (OK, anyone who isn’t German); Australians are so passionate about sports they’d watch a worm race if one of the contestants was wearing green and gold. Supporters from Senegal and Ghana and the Democratic Republic of Congo will be painted in national colors and rocking nonstop for 90 minutes in support of their players. And this year sees the return of the Scots, who are absolutely over the moon about being in the World Cup. They’ll be a counterweight to the often over-served and gloomy England fans who drag around the unbearable weight of expectations. It’s been 60 years since their country won a major title.
