Red, Wet, and Blue
Today is perhaps the day that we all looked most forward to on the trip...and the one that turned out somewhat different that expected.
The US is playing Germany, hoping for at least a tie to guarantee a berth in the Round of 16.
The USMNT's highest placement ever was 3rd, and that was in 1930, in the first World Cup in which only 13 countries partook.
It has been a long dry spell since then (it won't stay dry for long).
From 1954 through 1986, the USMNT didn't even qualify for the World Cup finals (yes, the last 32 teams are in the so-called "Finals").
Since 1990, we've been to the Round of 16 only three times (this will be the fourth), and we've made it to the quarters only once (where we lost, placing 8th in 2002).
So we had high hopes following Will Ferrel's inspirational speech the night before.
We even planned to attend the American Outlaws event early in the morning, and march en masse to the stadium from a bar near the arena.
And then Brazil happened.
We woke to pouring rain, which isn't unusual, because it rains every day in the winter here (often several times per day), and 20 minutes later the sun comes out again.
It was almost 9:00. The trip to the Arena Pernambuco takes about 2 hours on a good day. The game was slated for 1:00 pm, so if we left by 10:00, we'd miss the American Outlaw march but make it to the game with an hour to spare. We didn't really want to march in the rain anyway. We'd either be marching in sandals, not great for long distances, or marching in wet sneakers, not good for much of anything.
But this rain was heavier and it didn't stop.
A panicked Whatsapp message from a Brazilian friend at 9:25 warned, "I think you have to go! Recife when it's raining stop the city. And it's raining a lot!"
No problem, we'll rouse the kids, find an taxi with Easy Taxi, and take our trusted route to the metro and eventually the arena.
We wore sandals. Our street was a river, the sidewalks nearly impassable as cars drove through six inches of water that slopped up against the buildings lining the sidewalk. Two words for you...Open. Sewer.
For the first time in our trip the EasyTaxi app, was no help (we love you anyway EasyTaxi, it's not your fault!). Whereas usually there are 20 taxis nearby and one instantly available, the screen was devoid of available rides.
I walked up to the corner, looking for the road less flooded, but found nothing. I asked a passerby going to his car if he knew where we could get a taxi, nearly just offering to pay him to drive us 10 minutes to the nearest metro. He suggested the nearby mall.
We made a mad dash in the pouring rain the half-mile to the mall, where I found a taxi that had just dropped someone off. Salvation, step one accomplished.
The metro was only a mile or two further, but the traffic was heavy. No matter, it was only 10:00 am and we had time.
When we got about 3 blocks from the metro, the traffic was literally at a standstill, Our cab driver suggested we get out and walk, which we did. Still only 10:30.
Soaked to the bone, we had at least reached the familiar metro. Step two accomplished. We should be at the arena by 12:30 if all goes well.
We made some friends, helped some newbies, made all our connections and were ahead of schedule.
On the train, we befriended a couple (she Brazilian, he Brooklynite) and she haggled on my behalf with a vendor for four rain ponchos. Yes, there are vendors on the subway trains, selling Doritos, water, and rain ponchos. It was R$20 (about $10 USD) for the four. Even though my kids said they'd never wear them, we had a long trek from the last dropoff point to the stadium, plus the game to sit through.
On the plus side, there was no doubt the game would be played. All the fans were going the same direction, knowing the game would be held, however sloppy/wet the pitch might be.
We made friends with some Germans on the train and asked if we could agree to a tie match, which would send both teams through to the Round of 16 (regardless of the outcome of the Portgual-Ghana match). They shook their heads and explained about the Shame of Gijon, that still haunts German football today. There would be no agreement.
After 75 minutes on the subway, we made it to the waiting shuttle buses. We donned our rain ponchos as we exited the bus for the half-mile trek to the Arena. My daughter acquiesced. My son refused. A German couple asked if we had extra. I offered our fourth poncho to her for $1,000. They smiled. I said, "Okay, free, but you have to root for the US." They opted to stay wet. No matter, there were hundreds of poncho vendors at the end of the tent covering.
We headed down the hill to the Arena and, against all odds, had made it there nearly an hour before kickoff. We are still arrayed in our dork bags, while many people carry umbrellas.
We reach the security line, which is quick and painless. I have my sopping wet jacket in one hand, while I fumble with my cell phone and loose change that sets off the metal detector. I've been using my jacket as an ersatz umbrella. All the smarmy, dry people with actual umbrellas who didn't read the FIFA list of prohibited items are in for a rude awakening and/or an appointment with a divorce attorney. My bag goes into the maw of the X-ray machine to be gurgitated shortly on the other side. There are no umbrellas on this side of security.
We pass security successfully for the third time this week. A total of eight minutes of each of our lives, which we don't need back.
I'm futzing with a pill carrier as my daughter needs some Motrin. Our water is gone, guzzled before the security checkpoint or confiscated at it. My daughter insists she can't swallow the pills without water and spits them out, her hand now a reddish/orange from the FDC approved dyes.
My wife asks for the umpteenth time if we all have our bags. Of course I...wholly fuck...where is my bag!!!! Oh crap, I left it on the conveyor belt of the security X-ray machine. It is still there, with the tickets inside the appointed pocket.
I vow never to criticize my wife again. Ever. Over anything.
Finding a place to check the tickets away from the rain, we see we are all at Gate L. Although our four seats are split 2 and 2, they are only about 20 yards apart, and we can enjoy the game sort-of-together.
I hand the four tickets to the attendant to scan via the electronic-ticket-checker-o-lator.
Green arrow. Through the turnstile I go.
Green arrow. Through the turnstile Michele goes.
Red "X". What?
Red "X" again. Something must be wrong. Try a different turnstile for f*ck's sake.
Holy crap, Michele and I are on the inside (no re-entry policy if we exit, mind you).
Zach and Ariel remain on the other side, their tickets somehow invalid.
WTF2!!!!!!
Michele starts to shake.
Now, keep in mind, there are many friendly, helpful people around, but few if any speak English. It is pouring rain, and our children are outside the stadium. The tickets have Ariel's and Michele's name on them.
They ask if we have passports or photo ID.
Of course not! Everyone told us to leave our passports at the apartment, and what kid carries photo ID!?
They have to go to a kiosk outside to straighten it out. No big deal, we're assured. Happens all the time. In Brazil!
At least the kids are together and Ariel speaks a lot of Spanish and a little Portuguese.
The kids have to go to some kiosk at Gate M (we are at Gate L). It is pouring rain.
Michele is hyperventilating. I'm telling her to helax, but I'm just as tense.
I travel inside to Gate M as Zach and Ariel walk around the outside. I yell to them and we talk through the fence, like in a Spielberg movie. I try to convince Gate M's attendant to let them in. "We got these tickets on the FIFA web site! They are not scalped tickets! (that was last game)" Her English is at its limits.
The kids go to find the customer service kiosk.
I will wait for you! Survive!
Ten tense minutes later (seemed like thirty), Zach returns soaked to Gate M, looking downcast. "Good or bad?!," I scream through the rain and the gate.
"Good!" He gives me the thumbs up, which is hopefully an obscene gesture to any watching security guards, "...but we have to go back to Gate L to get in." ("Lift your freakin' head," I think. You look that way when you play soccer, too.)
We go on the inside, they on the outside and meet at Gate L.
Michele is about to lose it.
The kids wait in a brief line and get through the turnstiles. Hallelujah!
We embrace. I yell at my son for getting the keepsake tickets wet despite being wrapped in a plastic bag. I apologize. We embrace again.
Zach explains that FIFA had purposely sent us two invalid tickets in the mail. (I surmise they were waiting for the canceled tickets from another patron to be returned.)
There was an envelope waiting with my name on it at the "problem resolution kiosk," containing two "match-day contingency" tickets. Another fan in the same situation declares it "creepy" that they have an envelope with his name on it. We couldn't be happier.
Michele loses it as the tension subsides, and she sobs uncontrollably. Such is the passion that soccer can inspire.
Did you get the same seats? No different section, but still close enough that Michele begins to stop sobbing.
Still 20 minutes to spare before kickoff. I need a Chopp. Michele needs four.
We get to our seats. Kids get to theirs about 30 yards away.
To our right, we meet Jim, an older Michigander traveling without his Michigoose.
To our left, we meet Florian, a boisterous Berliner, who declares that the beer tastes like "shit mixed with plastic." He shrugs as another nearby German chain-smokes despite the Nao Fumar policy.
The anthems are starting. It is 60/40 Americans but the Germans sing louder. They expect to win. We hope to tie.
People in front of us are standing, all the way down to the front row where someone is wearing what looks like a GB Packers cheesehead. We stand so we can see. The people behind us ask us to sit. We shrug.
I asked Florian why everyone is standing. The game hasn't even begun.
He says, "This is a standing game. No one will sit. Maybe in the second half." He was right, and then he was wrong.
On the upper deck, a phalanx of police in riot gear try to get German fans to step back and stop leaning on a tenuous glass railing, clearly not designed to hold back a crowd. I gesture towards them and ask Florian what's going on. "In Germany, we stand," he reiterates, as if any soccer fan unwilling to tumble out of the upper deck to get six inches closer to the match is crazy.
The match is rain soaked. The Germans look confident, the Americans look tense.
Germans possess the ball at will, except for their surprisingly frequent miscues that send the ball skipping over the touchline. Must not be used to playing in the rain.
Easily the most boring game that has ever kept fans on their feet for 90 minutes.
Americans keep it close, and lose 1-0. Portugal bails us out by beating Ghana.
Germans are satisfied. American fans are exhausted, bored, and relieved.
US is through to the Round of 16!
We trek back up the hill to the shuttle bus, to the metro, to the metro transfer station, to the other metro, get a taxi (our old friend EasyTaxi is back in good graces), and are happy to be home.
We watch the lowlights of the game on the news, which is dominated by stories of flooding and gridlock.
We eat grilled-cheese sandwiches and try to dry out ourselves and our clothes.
Our Recife friends tell us it rained enough for a week, nao, a month!
We hear that it is the most rain they've had in a single day since last winter, so we enjoyed a once-per-year day.
Red, wet, and blue.
Go team U-S-A.
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