Eugene’s World Cup 2002 Diary

Day 10 (9th June 2002)

Another last minute decision – I head for Sendai to see Mexico v Ecuador at the Miyagi Stadium.

After a 2 hour bullet train ride, I purchase a US$60 ticket at $US40 above face value from a dodgy American tout by the name of Moose - greenbacks accepted.  He tells me that the Americans have sown up the ticket distribution at these games and reckons that he’s done me a good deal.  The ticket is made out in the name of the Mexican Football Federation.  He gives me a mobile number should I want any more tickets – even for the final. 

It's somewhat of a stroll to the bus station, where I meet two lawyers from Guadalajara on route.  They don't seem too worried that it looks like we're going to miss the start of the game.  They only begin to panic as we pass through the security checks and hear the Mexican anthem being played.  A sprint ensues and it is some distance from the entrance to the stadium proper.

The Miyagi Stadium, even though modern, is probably one of the poorest of these championships.  It is located in the middle of nowhere, a good 20-minute bus journey from Sendai.  I only have to assume that there isn’t much rainfall or strong sunshine in this part of Japan, as there is virtually no roof.  The stadium resembles an open bucket and the pitch is surrounded by a running track.  Not the best for atmosphere.

Mexicans are even more relaxed about timekeeping than the Irish.  Many arrive at their seats as the game is about to kick off.  Then, their objective is not necessarily to watch the game – more to enjoy the occasion.  One hombre spends the entire match blowing up balloons, writing messages on them, releasing them and watching them float away.  Another bloke takes great delight in catching and bursting any that should float in his vicinity, then shouting to the instigator his latest burst tally.

Many fans get into the chants, drumming, whistle blowing, etc.  (I have to confess that by half-time the effects of several thousand whistles resulted in a severe headache and I feel like ramming the whistle of the drunken guy in front of me down his throat.  But he looks really mean; I smile at him and neglect to point out that I can’t see the game because his sombrero is in the way).

There are two types of Mexican fan here: one is well dressed, appears educated and speaks good English; the other looks like they haven’t shaved or changed clothes since leaving Mexico and make the roughest, toughest thug from The Coombe seem like a choirboy.  I don’t bother finding out what their command of English is.

The Mexicans start off comparatively quietly (I guess the fact that they’re soon down 1-0 may be a factor), and then become louder and more animated.  By the end of the game all (except the few unfortunate Ecuadorians) are standing and chanting rhythmically.  Thankfully, no Mexican Waves.  Mexico win 2-1, but have to defend well during the last 15 minutes.

I feel somewhat sorry for the Ecuadorians as their fellow Latin Americans sing “Adios Ecuador”, and just to rub it in, translate for the non-Latinos, “Bye Bye”.

The train journey home is complete chaos.  I realise as soon as I board that it’s absolutely packed.  I attempt to get off and wait for the next one.  No good – too many bodies are now behind me and I’m trapped.  I helplessly watch the doors slide closed and watch the train depart precisely on time.  Realising that the next stop is an hour away, I decide to make the most of the situation I find myself in.  Sitting on the only free space on the floor I strike up a conversation with an amenable lawyer from Mexico City.  This isn’t too easy as he has broken English and I have virtually no Spanish.  The difficulty eases the more his amigos supply us with beer.

The Mexicans are somewhat puzzled as to why an Irish fan should travel all this way to see Mexico play Ecuador.  I discuss the USA ’94 Mexico v Ireland game and they sing to me.  I join them.  This answers their question.

My new Mexican mate has suspicions that many of his compatriots (which he estimates at 15,000) have financed their World Cup trip on the back of ‘narco trafficking’.  I'm now glad that I didn't tackle the bloke in front of me at the game about his 'drunken' whistling.

One determined Mexican squeezes his way back from the front of the train carrying a crate of beer.  The militaristic transport policeman smiles nervously as the train explodes to a deafening chorus of “Cerverza! … Cerverza!  … Cerverza!”.  I can only imagine what he must be thinking – he must have absolute nil experience of anything like this.

A rather attractive girl who ‘knows it’ makes the most of the laws of supply and demand; there are very few females on the train.  She skilfully fends off the attention of the hoards of intoxicated young men, partners thousands of miles away.  She looks at me quizzically and asks do I speak Spanish.  I reply “no comprendo”, which she doesn’t believe and speaks at some length to me in Spanish.  I shrug my shoulders and smile; I think I may have said about the only other words of Spanish I know: Hermosa... Bonita… Guapa... Cerverza… She gets the jist and moves on. 

I meet a jovial sheep farmer from Queretaro.  He introduces me to his mates, all of whom have excellent English and aren’t too fond of Americans.  By the time we arrive at Ueno Station I decide that I will join them celebrating their win. 

He introduces me to 2 young Mexican girls.  Apparently it is acceptable to introduce yourself to Mexican girls with a kiss to both cheeks, but isn’t to utter ‘come here girl’ at the same time.

We make our way to Roppongi just as the Japan v Russia game comes to a conclusion – Japan’s first ever World Cup win. 

This rapidly turns into a cross between Dublin post Italy ‘94 win and the city of Coventry celebrating their glorious 1987 FA Cup victory.  The police don’t seem to know what to do, nor do their fans.  I encourage them somewhat.  The police politely request me to move on when I nearly cause a riot by offering to take pictures for the Japanese.  "Come on - join us - we can fit more people in this picture".  The impassable throng, whilst still going wild and causing havoc with passing traffic, will only cross the road at designated crossing points.  Attempting to reach Paddy Foleys takes 5 minutes to cross into the midpoint of the main street due to the density of the crowd.  However, by moving a matter of a few feet down the street I can walk to the other side straight away.  (I once got stopped by the cops for doing this in the States - the term jaywalking didn't mean much to a 17 year old Irish man fresh off the plane).

The polices’ crowd control leads to bottlenecks which I can only pass through by pushing those in front of me out of my way.  It’s actually pretty frightening – if anybody should slip they’re going to get crushed.  Fortunately, nobody does.  And that’s the concerns of somebody a head-height above the majority of the revellers.  I’d hate to imagine the situation for somebody five-foot tall.

The Japanese have clearly attempted to learn from the other fans in the same way that they have learnt from how Britain and the US conceive electronic innovations, then 'improve' what they see.  They don’t quite get it right.  I’m a bit concerned to see a few Imperial Rising Sun flags being waved about.

After refusing several times to swap my Irish jersey and joining in the chants of “Nippon … Nippon” I phone the guys back at the hotel, who soon join me.

Conor takes great delight in slapping the hands of the local revellers as hard as possible, hearing them yelp with pain.  Each of his victims is too polite to say anything; they just look confused, smile and move on, probably thinking that this is some foreign football tradition.

The atmosphere on the streets becomes heated as one pissed-up Japanese girl starts to flash her assets.  The Mexican blokes egg her on, the police become agitated and we discretely make our exit.

Further down the street, the police still aren’t happy.  Here, I encounter the politest policeman I have ever met who asks us to move on, which we ignore.  He then gets down on his knees, clasps his hands, looks at us pleadingly and says “Please move, please move, oh please, please move”.  We look at each other, feel embarrassed, say nothing and saunter 10 metres down the street.

An impromptu game of international street football breaks up when a copper, at the end of his tether, chases the participants away.

The Mexicans ask me to write something on their flag before they leave.  I oblige by inscribing “You’ll never beat the Irish … AGAIN”.  Just before we say adios, they join me in singing “You’ll never beat the Irish”.

As the sun rises in the Land of the Rising Sun, Conor, Colm and I decide that a trip to the Tokyo Fish Market is in order.  We board the first subway, joining the more eager sleeping salarymen on the way to their places of work.  Our decision, in retrospect, was a dangerous idea.  Picture three drunken football fans at 5am wandering amongst the frantic chaos of the world’s busiest tuna auction.  

Avoiding being run over by the many crazily, but no doubt purposefully driven forklift-type fish carriers, we search out a sushi restaurant.  This proves to be the source of the best meal of the trip.  Depending on your point of view, we either have an extremely expensive breakfast or a pretty expensive dinner.  From whatever perspective it’s delicious.

We take head of the warning on the menu: “Sushi materials may be change according to the season.  Please concern about it”. (This Japanese-English is only marginally less direct than the instructions next to a button for the hotel toilet in Niigata: “…cleanses the posterior…”.

We are joined by the most relaxed officials in the entire World Cup organisation: the President and two other representatives from the Turks and Caicos Islands FA, all British.  One of them is a Southampton fan.  They don’t seem to have been too busy since they cast their vote in the FIFA president election.  The Turks and Caicos Islands (population 25,000) has the same voting rights as Ireland, the UK and even Brazil!

Perhaps unwisely, when I return to the hotel, I take advantage of the only time the communal PC is free and e-mail the world of the days activities.  I have learnt to my cost once before that writing e-mails when inebriated is an incredibly dangerous pastime.  Firstly, you can't deny what you wrote and secondly, the recipients don't realise you're drunk.  (“I never knew you thought of me in that way Eugene…”). However, with this e-mail, I'm sure everybody who received it realised what state I was in, and I hope made allowances for it.