world cup fever

The World is my Muse. What can I say? I am but a vessel, nay, a conduit and the words you read are the sweet nectar of life. So I had to hit you with another Blog this week. I did it for YOU.

“Hey Siri, define Narcissist.”

With the US Men’s National team qualifying for the World Cup for the first time since 2014, I’m reminded of one of my favorite sports memories. The first time I caught World Cup Fever.

Summer, 2006

When I was in high school I had the privilege of having the opportunity to travel abroad at a rather young age. I was 14 years old and going to Europe. To say I was “jacked out of my fucking mind” would be an accurate depiction of my emotions at the time. Not only was I going to Europe, but my cousin, (Who since this story has become Godfather to my children and the Best Man at my wedding) was going as well. We was ‘bout to rage, bro. 

I packed my polo shirts and cargo shorts, my money pouch and passport, charged up my iPod (Top song: Shoulder Lean by Young Dro) and boarded that 747 bound for Paris by way of London.

During the flights and bus rides, getting to know some of the other travelers in our group (we were there on a Student Ambassador program) I came to find out a few of them were really into soccer. I played soccer as a kid, like everyone else, but it took a backseat to football and basketball as I got older. Not to mention the abysmal coverage that Soccer receives from US sports media, really doesn’t make it easy to be a fan. At least that was the case back in the mid-2000’s. Honestly, the fact that the world cup was going down while I was in Europe hadn’t even occurred to me until some of the other guys told me about it. I knew what it was, sure, but just never really got into it. 

We finished our time in France and boarded an overnight train, bound for Italy. Images of EuroTrip ran through my head as I was certain I would run into a handsy, older Italian man with an affinity for young American boys. Didn’t sleep much that night. As I awoke the next day, unscathed, we stepped out into the Italian sunshine and holy shit. It was everywhere. 

Jerseys, flags, hats, scarves. Every storefront, vendors on the streets, in the local markets. Everywhere. 

Everyone was slinging World Cup gear for almost every team. Being a sports addict, and not completely culturally inept at the time, I was intrigued. The phrase “When in Rome” did in fact apply here. I started rifling through the jerseys, looking for a needle in a haystack. 

“Uh.. United States?” I said, pointing first to the flag on my backpack then to the pile of soccer jerseys before me. 

“Hahaha.. No” said the degenerate. 

I was kind of hurt, but I understood. We suck at soccer, relatively speaking. I’m fine with it. Let’s hoop, play baseball or literally almost any Olympic event, we will WAX you. I’ll give you soccer, World, it’s yours. 

At this point I was too invested. I was getting a jersey. So I defaulted, asking a couple buddies, “Hey what's a solid team? How about France?” 

“Yeah, they’re really good.” said my new group of advisors. 

Boom. I found it. Number 12. Henry. A name I recognized on a team I knew was at least halfway decent. An impulse buy, for sure, but now I was basically a part of the European Union and ready to root on my pseudo-team. 

A few days later we arrived at one of the coolest places I’ve ever stayed. A nunnery. These ladies loved to party. 

Not really, but in all seriousness, being in a non-urban area of any new country really allows you to connect with the local culture. We played soccer in the courtyard multiple times a day and at night we watched the World Cup. 

Italy vs Germany in the semi-final tilt. I don’t remember many specifics from the match itself, but what I will never forget is when Italy scored their first goal. Fireworks, literally, going off all around us. Car horns whaling in the distance. Audible cheers from nearby homes. I was hooked. It was impossible not to be. So much excitement, both on the TV and in the air of this neighborhood, it was infectious. I was sick. I caught World Cup Fever. 

After Italy, the final stop on our trip was Greece. We took an overnight ferry (think the “Booze Cruise” episode from The Office) across the Ionian Sea. While there, the stars aligned. Our final night in Europe just so happened to be the same night as the World Cup Finals. Italy vs….. France. Man I sure know how to pick ‘em eh? From the roof-top bar of our Hotel we watched as Zinedine Zidane, in his last appearance on the International stage, decleated an Italian shit-talker with what can only be described as the most bad-ass headbutt of all time. Coincidentally, Zidane was also the best at taking Penalties for the French team and as the game slipped into a shoot-out the Italians walked away with the hardware.

“My” team had lost, but I really did not care. The entire process of the match was amplified by the environment I was watching it in. The energy on that roof-top was possessive. Like it or not, you were going to get into this sport, into this match, and you were going to have fun. 

I wouldn’t trade that experience for anything in the world.

Xoxo

-Corey