Superman Saves The Day

June 23 Day 14

USA 1 Algeria 0 Pretoria

From Durban, I relied on 1 Time again to get back to JNB in time for the 4:00 pm USA game in Pretoria. Yet another time 1 Time came through. When I arrived at JNB, I knew First Car had no available cars. I decided to take a taxi. That is not so simple here as many crooks masquerade as taxi drivers. I found the reputable taxis. I paid around $90 for the 30-mile trip to Pretoria. The driver told me his company raised rates 50%. I do not have any problem with that, as South Africa invested several billion dollars for the World Cup.

However, the driver claimed his company ordered the drivers to work extra time to handle the World Cup demand, but with no extra pay. I do not know if this tale was an elaborate way to encourage a tip. I have heard similar South Africa stories, though.

As the airport road into Pretoria is World Cup world class nice, I rapidly arrived at the hotel. The next issue was how to get to the stadium. I saw from the map that the stadium was less than a mile distant. However, the game would end after dark, and I was alone and in an unfamiliar neighborhood. I chose a taxi. The hotel people call only a few companies they know, again for security reasons. I also suspect the hotel gets a cut, but that was no matter. I just wanted to get there.

The taxi cost $9 one way, which may have been three times the usual rate. Also, because of the security perimeter, the driver only could take me about 60% of the way. I walked the rest.

Because entrances are so limited, I had to walk way around the stadium to enter. I do not know what fans do who cannot walk long distances. I just do not remember such walking in Korea nor Germany. Not to worry, poo-bahs, corporate types and high rollers get to park next to the stadium gates.

Finally in the stadium, I made my way to my lower level seat, even with the penalty box outer edge, to the left and opposite the player benches, as the players see the field. The entry tunnel from the concourse was far more narrow than I remembered, but appropriate for a stadium originally built more than a century ago. A bulky African policeman stood on a retaining wall and warned us to watch our wallets.

I had trouble finding my seat, and since I was confused, of course no one was around to check my ticket, even though I was in the top category. Usually, stadium attendants abound. Once successfully there, I found myself among the hardcore USA fans. Such fans are as rabid as, say, the Hokie football fanatics who would follow the team to Zimbabwe, if Tech played there. These USA fans stood the entire game. It seemed a little strange to be around so many Americans. Even though there are more Americans than any other foreigners at this World Cup, I have seen mostly people from somewhere else, especially English, Mexicans, Brazilians and Argentines.

Along the way, when people learned I was from the USA, they often would say things like “I love America” or “I want to live in America one day” or “My brother lives in America.”

Speaking of foreigners, there were a surprising number of Algerians supporting their team, more than most other teams I have seen. I have also seen Algerians out on the tourist trail. I suppose after waiting 24 years since the team’s last World Cup appearance, the fans were starved. In addition, as an African continent team, the South Africans supported them as well. Except against Slovenia, USA supporters have been in the distinct minority.

Algeria showed up in light green uniforms, with white trim, different than any World Cup team I have ever seen. They are a plucky lot, who play with energy and play well, for the talent they have, which is not so much. They really did not test the USA defense, though the USA started a new defensive back line combination, and without mainstay Onyewu, who was benched.

Coach Bradley was not afraid to make changes.

He also drastically reduced the long, high passes into the attacking zone, which proved close to useless against Slovenia. The new strategy produced some chances, and Dempsey scored on one in the first half. My fellow fans cheered. However, I had learned to watch the referee, who stood in the penalty box. No goal: offside, allegedly. The stadium screen flashed for some seconds the electronic shading system TV viewers see. That was a mistake, as we stadium fans were not supposed to see the truth, but the instant was enough to determine that Dempsey was not offside. Brian sent a message to my Blackberry, “Dempsey clearly not offside…” Surely many other USA fans received the same message. Murmurs abounded in my section, “Robbed,” “Again!”

Half time came; still no USA goal. I knew we needed a win to advance. Truthfully though the team was playing better than against Slovenia, I was not inspired, as I made my way to the mandatory half time visit. Men crowded into both entrances, while others were exiting both. The result was a slow-moving mob. All that was needed was just one of the hundreds of stadium attendants to funnel men into one door only, and out through the other door solely. No one showed up.

Once inside, I heard a man say to his son, about 10, “We’re in trouble.” Then the man said to me, “I lost my wallet in this mess.” I did not know what to say. I felt for my own wallet, and resolved in the future only to carry what was necessary. I wonder what happened to the man and his son.
In the second half, minute by minute passed, and no USA goal, with few good chances. Things were getting more desperate. We had to have that goal. With less than 10 minutes to play, I began nervously looking at my watch. The minutes quickly ticked down, 7….6….5….4….3…2…1. As the 90-minute mark approached, I lost hope. “Not going to happen,” I thought. Three extra minutes were added.

The USA team pressed on. Suddenly, there was a scramble in front of the Algeria goal, just to my right. This was our big chance! However, the ball bounced away. No goal. Still the USA team forced the action. Just over a minute into stoppage time, again, there was a scramble in front of the Algeria goal. The ball bounced and spun wildly, as men tried desperately to control it. Then I saw the ball dribble straight out in front of the goal. Someone in white, a blur, raced in and slammed the ball into the net!!!!

Only later did I learn that man in white was none other than Superman himself, Donovan.

My section exploded in ecstatic celebration. I was afraid to utter any sound, until I saw the huge white-clad pile of USA humanity in the far corner. Only then did I start yelling. My fellow fans were screaming, and jumping up and down.

The Algerians sank to their knees on the field.

Still, there were about two minutes to go. The Algerians arose and attacked desperately. How could two minutes go so slowly? Every precious second was another chance for some crazy ball skip, while any Algerian goal that would be a dagger in Team USA’s chance to advance to the next round.

Again the Algerians attacked. And again. The American fans kept shouting and hollering, arms waving madly. Vuvuzuelas? Who could possibly hear them now?

It was the longest two minutes in World Cup history. Finally, finally, the whistle blew. USA 1 Algeria 0. We did it!!! We escaped to the second round!

The Algerians collapsed to the ground, with hands covering their eyes, surely hiding tears. Clearly their hearts were set on earning a point in a draw with the USA. Superman crushed that dream. Such is sports.

Now the USA fans went truly berserk, jumping up and down, screaming, waving flags and banners, blowing vuvuvzuelas. Americans are blasé about soccer? Not this group! Even ten minutes after the game ended, my fellow fans were still celebrating wildly.

Darkness had fallen. The mad celebration continued without let-up. I had had enough. I made my way out of the stadium. Even outside the gates, people were shouting, dancing and waving flags and banners. Who said Americans are blasé about soccer? Who?

In the darkness and amidst the boisterous crowd, I could not recognize where I was. I walked around a bit erratically, and ultimately made my way out to a familiar street. Now I had to call Lloyd in the dim light, noise and confusion.

I did reach Lloyd. Then he had to find me. I wondered how he would do so amidst the tumult. I knew he had a white VW Jetta. I scrutinized every white car. No Lloyd. I never knew there were so many white cars in Pretoria. No Lloyd. Where was he? The crowd began to thin. I decided to stay put. So many white vehicles. My phone rang. It was Lloyd! He had pulled up and was looking at me. I had not seen him. I suppose I was rather recognizable in that South African throng.

Lloyd steadily drove his way through the crowds back to the hotel. I saw people walking back to the same neighborhood. I could have walked as well. Oh well, I made it safely. Starting in Durban, another day, another World Cup game, this one with a very special attendee….Superman!

BUS-ted Again

June 22 Day 13

South Korea 2 Nigeria 2 Durban

The day broke bright and sunny, yet again; certainly one could not have asked for better weather. I spent a pleasant morning at my computer, with the window shades wide open to the lovely sea view.

The afternoon was set for exploring Durban. The central business district looks like Johannesburg, mostly run down and very crowded. Also, Durban has extensive port facilities, plus warehouses and industrial sites. Outside these areas, especially along the coast, north and south Durban has a coastal Florida feel, and is quite pleasant.

An interesting sociological feature is the luxury automobile dealers located on Durban’s north side. The facilities are quite significant scale, not simply small offices, and all within the city limits. The location is only a few minute’s drive from the seedier Durban areas. The contrast is sharp. There is significant poverty here, yet clearly substantial economic opportunity as well.

I did a Durban driving tour, stopping only to briefly view a couple beaches. The nice beaches start rather closely to the central business, port and industrial districts. The stadium is near such beaches.

Well before 4:00pm, I decided to head back for an early dinner and that day's 4:00pm game, South Africa v France . I was downtown in the seedier area. The traffic was very thick, with the private transportation vans everywhere. The travel time back to the hotel was eventually so long, I gave up on seeing the first half.

However, World Cup radio coverage is abundant. We even listened to games in Kruger National Park. Games are broadcast in English, Afrikans and tribal languages. We identified three different English radio commentators, who seemed to take turns broadcasting games, one British, one South African white and one South African black. The South African black was the most colorful. At first his African accent so thick we were unsure he was speaking in English. However, we grew used to his accent. He became so excited calling his matches, frequently shouting as a goal-scoring opportunity materialized, that his games always seemed like the most compelling in history. For we all knew, a TV broadcast of the same game would have been totally boring.

A British radio announcer did the South Africa game. To advance, Bufana Bufana needed a miracle, Mexico to lose to Uruguay and South Africa to win, all by a margin of at least five goals. Plus, France was the opponent. “No way, too bad,” I thought.

However, in fact there was hope. As poorly as the previous game had gone, South Africa came out like world champions, overwhelming France and going up 2 – 0, with numerous other scoring chances. Meanwhile, Mexico was losing to Uruguay. “Am I witnessing a miracle, the South African people have willed?”, I wondered.

I parked my car at the hotel and walked (yes!) just 15 minutes a nearby shopping center, where buses went to the stadium. In the shopping complex, I found a tavern. The management was Indian descent, prevalent in Durban. My meal was lamb, with several vegetables plus rice. Rather good. Most patrons were African, representative of the significant, and hopefully growing, African middle class.

When Bufana Bufana had a scoring opportunity, people jumped to their feet, shouting with anticipation, and raising their arms. When no goal occurred, they collapsed back in their seats, groaning and muttering.

Alas, no miracle was in the offing. Indeed Mexico lost, but time ran out on the nation’s heroes. No more goals came, but reality did. South Africa did not qualify for the next round. A virtual black cloud over the entire populace was palpable. “Mightly Casey had struck out.”

Nevertheless, World Cup life went on. I went outside and the buses were right there! Could World Cup commuting life be so grand? Pretoria, again? No.

The stadium was only about a 15-minute drive. My bus approached the stadium, which has a soaring arch and looks spectacular in the night lights. I hoped the bus would turn in, but I was not the least surprised when the vehicle kept going…and going….and going, past the stadium. Finally, the bus turned back toward the stadium and drove into an area where other buses were waiting.

Yes, we got off the first bus and boarded a second bus, which took us to the stadium vicinity. From that point, people walked 15 to 20 minutes to the stadium gates. There is a beautiful new six-lane divided stadium approach road. Since the whole complex is new, there was ample space to build bus platforms near the stadium, like Rea Vaya at Soccer City. The stadium builders had not taken advantage of this opportunity.

I had an epiphany. These World Cup parking/bus schemes could only he developed in the Extreme Sadism Ward of the national insane asylum. That was the only sane explanation: irrational human beings designed the system.

Not to be outdone, the stadium designers had their own wrinkle. The new facility is indeed quite nice, but nothing compares with Johannesburg Soccer City. Durban’s stadium’s sections only have one aisle bordering each section. Thus my seat numbered one was in the middle of a long row. The good news was the 30-yard-line location, just to the left and behind the player benches, 19 rows up.

The teams were warming up when I entered. Nigeria wore its traditional green with white trim; Korea wore navy blue pants with white tops, a combination I had never seen.

Nigeria has a whole team of wonderful athletes, even more than other African sides. Indeed, for years many people, most notably Pele, have predicted great things for Nigeria. However, Nigeria has not yet realized its promise, akin to all of Africa. Indeed, if anything, Nigeria is going backwards. The current team is not as strong as past sides. In 2006, Nigeria did not even qualify for the World Cup.

Just as the World Cup is an institution of contrasts, while all play the same game, Korea could not be more different than Nigeria. On the field, Korean teams usually perform to the extent their natural talent allows. This game was no exception. Korea played well and lead most of the game.

Rather few Koreans had made the trip. That surprised me, as Koreans are generally tough-minded, determined people, and emigrate all over the world. Indeed the crowd was overwhelmingly South African. As always, they vocally supported the African team. Any past African conflicts are forgotten, at least for this World Cup in Africa.

No mater the crowd loyalties, though Korea outplayed Nigeria overall, and the teams skirmished to the end, a draw resulted. Nothing new about FIFA tie games.

Following the game, I hiked out to the bus pick-up point. I saw people walking past, and suspected they knew where the first bus stop was located, less than a mile away. I wanted to join them, but I was not sure where I was going, and it was dark and late. “Discretion is the better part of valor”…..particularly in strange cities.

Despite the 15 minutes driving distance, I spent two hours getting home. World Cup BUS-ted again.

Down in Durban

June 21 Day 12


Wisely, for once, I decided not to charge around South Africa in my automobile. I flew yet another time on 1 Time from JNB to Durban. The distance is about 400 miles. I booked on line the night before, and I spent about $250. The fare could have been cheaper with less attractive hours.

1 Time performed still another time and I made it to Durban Airport around 2:30pm. 1 Time is so spartan that one pays for water. Yet, they are very efficient.

The Durban terminal is modern but much smaller than we would find in a comparable American city. The airport is in rolling green countryside, not far from the ocean. When I walked out of the terminal door, I had a sensation, like “What I am doing out here alone. I must be a bit daft to do this just for a soccer game.” I laughed to myself. I am.

I headed for the next local find, First Car Rental. They have worked very well for me so far. I did not even have a reservation. I arranged the same car I had in Joburg, Chevrolet Aveo. There is always a careful check-over process with a rental car agent, which takes time. Street crime in South Africa is clearly worse than in the USA, but not that much so. Fraud, on the other hand, is exponentially more rampant. Thus, for example, the agent verifies the spare tire’s presence and its make.

The process is much longer than in the USA. Finally, I got into the driver’s seat. I noticed something odd. There was an extra pedal. I had forgotten to specify automatic. No way I would try to drive a stick shift left-handed while driving on the left. Left-side driving is not so bad, once one gets used to the experience. The problem is that it is not natural and every move is the reverse of right-hand driving. The most difficult aspect, for some reason, is judging clearance room on the vehicle’s left side. That judgment is ingrained for right-side driving.

Another challenge, especially in the dark, is gauging a wide street's width when turning right. If the way is really wide, one can be lured into the incorrect belief that he has successfully found the far left lanes. I did make that error a few times, but survived.

Many Americans probably do not realize that stick shift is the world’s preference. It is cheaper to buy; cheaper to run.

I returned to the rental office. There was one automatic, but it had just been returned, so I had to wait 30 minutes. No problem. I had not had lunch, as usual. Also, by then it was 4:00pm, time for the that day’s game. All restaurants with TV’s were deemed eligible for my patronage.

By the time I entered the airport exit highway, the winter darkness was setting in. Fortunately, my hotel was only about 20 minutes away, in a nice seaside northern suburb. The problem was I only had general directions for a nearby hospital as a landmark.

I exited the expressway at the correct place, but soon lost the hospital trail. Darkness had fallen. I was in a foreign country, a strange car, a new city and driving on the left. I meandered on to another highway. At least I had the ocean as a landmark. The parking gods told me to exit the first possible chance. I did so, and found myself driving up a long, winding road with construction. At the top, I looked to the right. In the distance, I saw a green and white sign high on a building reading, “Holiday Inn Express.” I cheered out loud. I thought, “Thank you, parking gods, yet again!”

This hotel is new and has an ocean view, though the water is about a half-mile away. However, I was so exhausted I could not explore anything or even watch that night’s game. I collapsed on the bed. Durban could wait for the next day.

The Lion in Prime Time at Soccer City

June 20 Day 11

Brazil 3 Ivory Coast 1 Soccer City

The first order of Sunday business was Table Mountain, a Cape Town must. Though, again, we had seen rain in the forecast, the day in fact was yet more brilliant sunshine. We had a good view of Table Mountain from our hotel room window.

Table Mountain is only about 15 minutes drive from our hotel. Indeed Cape Town is not that big, so attractions are accessible.


Already by 10:00 am, a large throng had gathered. We felt we were in the midst of an international convention. Seemingly every foreigner in Cape Town had come out, probably resulting from previous rainy weather and cloud cover. We parked on the road up to the cable car station, and walked up the crowded road. The temperature was in the mid-70’s, with no wind.

From the cable car station, one rides up the steep, sheer mountain face to the top, a huge flat area.The eons have worn down Table Mountain flat, and hence its name. There are two other mountains adjacent, but they do not have flat tops. Green vegetation combines with rock cliffs, reminiscent of the Sabino Canyon cliffs near Tucson, but lacking the cactus and with much more greenery. Framed by the brilliant blue sky, the scene could not have been more spectacular.

Brian and I agreed: this cable car ride to the top of a tall cliff face sure looked about as thrilling as they come. However, the line to board was very long. Since we were short on time, there was no need to get in line to board that thing. Someone else can tell that story.

We walked the main road for a time, and drove around to an adjacent mountain. That spot did not have the crowds but did have the city views. Easy to see why everyone loves Cape Town.

We consumed lunch by the harbor, at one of the many pleasant waterside restaurants; San Francisco, South Africa.

After lunch we caught 1 Time back to JNB; 1 Time became two times.

Brian and I parted in the JNB parking lot. I was now alone, and without my navigator. I had wondered from time to time what strangers thought about a very middle-aged man accompanying a much younger male. You see fathers and boys, but such an age gap is not common. Indeed, World Cup fandom is a young person’s game; maybe 10% I have seen have been in my age range. In light of the recent scandal involving an anti-gay rights loudmouth and his male European “travel companion,” I wanted to make a sign: “This man is my SON; he is NOT from Rent-a-Boy.com.”


I started down the airport parking lot exit ramp. However, my trunk lid flew open. Fortunately there were other exits, so I was not blocking anyone. The trunk latch is defective. Two African men stopped their car on an adjacent ramp, and helped me get the trunk lid closed and latched. This act represents the African people we have met.


That crisis solved, I headed into the South African winter darkness, this time driving alone. I studied the signs carefully. However, somehow I ended up off the freeway and heading through a seedy downtown Johannesburg neighborhood. The city is dark and many street signs are missing. We hear people take them, just for amusement.

Fortunately I know the downtown reasonably well by now. I kept my windows up, doors locked, and I was alert for potential trouble. With significant effort, thanks to missing street signs, I manged to move in the right direction, toward the Westgate parking lot, AKA The Promised Land. Suddenly I realized I was in the central bus lane, forbidden to cars. Before I could vacate the lane, I came to a stop light. Two traffic police spotted me, and approached. OK, I already knew what they had to say but I stopped and rolled down my window. One stared at me for a moment and said, sternly, "You cannot drive in the bus lane." I wanted to say, "Well, if you would just get out of my way, I would not be in it."

I held my tongue. I meandered on. Wow, it sure is dark downtown. Angelo was waiting for me at Westgate. He had called me several times, to help me figure out where I was. Finally, turning up and down one way streets, I made it. I handed my "fee" to the attendant, who also said, "I will make sure your car will be safe, sir." Well, that is his job. Anyway, I like everyone happy around here.

Angelo has never ridden the Rea Vaya bus. I confidently showed him what to do. As before, we made excellent, not traumatic time. We saw people outside the stadium looking for tickets, a sight I had not seen before at this Cup. Brazil is a draw. Ultimately, I learned, as always, thousands of seats were empty. FIFA?

Inside, the stadium was electric, just like a big Monday Night Football game back home. Before the game I went to acquire a World Cup meal for Angelo and I (hot dog and soda). The many concessions stands downstairs did not sell hot dogs. I had to go up a level. There the line was about a dozen people. It was after 8:00pm and the 8:30 kick-off approached.

The line moved slowly. I thought, "Two Korean grocery checkers would have the entire line each with full grocery carts done in a minute each." The pleasant young African woman handling the sales was doing all herself, carefully ringing up each item and purposefully going to fetch each item the customer requested. The people in line became boisterous but not unpleasant. Finally, my turn came. I gave my order quickly and had my money ready. No moss growing under my feet. Brazil was taking the field!

I hustled back toward my seat, literally at field level, just inside the corner flag, opposite the player benches. I tried to go down the first available portal, to make sure I would not miss the kick-off. I planned to make my way around the concourse, while viewing the field. However, each one of four security guards insisted that I had to use the exact portal for my seat, even though I could have accessed scores of other sections, from the concourse below my designated portal. This, too, is Africa. Eventually I made my way to my seat, and the show began.

Brazil wore its famous yellow shirts and light blue pants. Ivory Coast wore white pants, and green shirts, with white and orange piping.

Of course there were thousands and thousands of rabid Brazilian fans. Some had brought large banners. As I was at field level, I observed how a couple Brazilians asked a security official if they could attach a banner to the field wall. That official brought over his supervisor, who said "OK." The fans erected their banners as they do routinely at home. Curiously,during the second half I observed a riot police squad stormed our area and pulled down the banners.

As the game began, at first Ivory Coast held its own. Like the better African teams, the players are swift and graceful athletes. However, the African teams have not yet fully mastered soccer's techniques and tactics, as have big European and South American squads. To catch up, African teams have regularly brought in European or South American coaches. A Swede coaches Ivory Coast.

Ivory Coast has striker Drogba, a major international star, playing for Chelsea in the English Premier League. He is the captain; he is an African lion. He directs his teammates where to line up. They all quickly complied with his directives, from my vantage point. He is Drogba. He is a lion.

Drogba had broken his arm in a warm-up game, about 10 days before the World Cup began. More African soccer bad luck. He had surgery in Switzerland. His cast was not evident, covered under a long green sleeve. The arm did not seem to bother him, but Drogba did not seek physical play, either.

Brazil was content to play its new game under Coach Dunga: no more colorful attacking. The new strategy is patient passing, probing for an offensive opening and defense first. The Brazilians brought lithe players, lightening quick, who make consistently sure passes. A blinking defender will miss at least two passes.

Brazil did not have that many chances, but when they did, they "made no mistake" as the English commentators like to proclaim. The went up 3 - 0 in the second half, a very big blow to Ivory Coast, because goal differential to so important to the frequent tie-breaks, in determining who advances to the next round.

Frustration overwhelmed the Ivory Coast players; play became rough. At the field's far end, we could see a melee. Then Brazilian superstar mid-fielder Kaka received a red card. He sauntered off the field.

Later I saw the game replay. Every game is replayed here, on multiple channels. I know many people criticized the referee for the red card as too stringent. However, he faced a volatile situation. Instead of calming, Kaka instigated. He paid the price.

Tempers dissipated and play resumed. Ivory Coast could not do much, even against 10 Brazilians. However, late in the game, Drogba scored on a clever header. Lions can sometimes succeed with finesse, rather than brute power.

There was some hope, but Ivory Coast's dim prospects ultimately dribbled away.

After the game, Angelo was ebullient over his first World Cup game. He was ready for another. Yes, World Cup fever is quite contagious.