World Cup Fever, Brazil
06/15/10
Warning: The following post might contain evidence that you are just so attractive.
Massive waves crashed across Copacabana´s shoreline with the sound of rising thunder, mixing in with the echoes of horns blasting through the air. Drummers pounded out samba rhythms by tables draped in yellow and green, overlooking a beach filled with soccer players in restaurants covered in Brazilian flags. The tamberine´s rattled. Air horns raised above our heads. All the while, a constant stream of cars drove by honking with passengers out the window screaming and waving flags.
You would think they had already won the World Cup, yet they were over two hours away from their first game against North Korea. We were on route to the Fifa Fan Fest - a massive outdoor T.V. located on Copacabana beach for games.
We were walking amongst of crowd where locals wore toques shaped like soccer balls, sure to watch our pockets as the crowd thickened. All around us was green and yellow, from green high heals and yellow bikinis, to bandanas, clown hair, whistles and plastic horns. Yellow. Green. The entire city united. The array of focused colour was only broken by brown police officers armed with massive sticks and helmets.
“Are you serious?” I said, before laughing. Above our heads, three small planes began flying in unison, before drawing a giant circle to represent the center of their country´s flag. Helicopters circled the crowd growing with passion like spreading fire. Men held massive steel drums on either sides of their hips, armed with cups across their chess worn like ammunition. Imitation World Cup Tropheys were held in high, often kissed, surrounded by crowds dancing.
Again. The first game did not start for two hours. The line-up to get into Fifa Fan Fest was as wide as half a soccer pitch, where more air horns were held in the air, shaken at their hips to be reloaded, adding fire to the growing flames of yellow and green. Boxie-boo and I did our best to blend in by wearing our Kaka jerseys, while she also painted her nails national colours and cheered with an enthusiasm normally reserved for a new episode of The Hills. We had passed massive sand castles of Rio, walking under the close watch of circling helicopters. We were now shoulder to shoulder, before being pushed on all angles as the mass of people moved as one entity.
“This is too much for me,” said Steve, before walking around.
The number 1 was added to the zero drawn in the sky, mimicking Kaka´s jersey. The sun beamed. The smell of bum crack sweat. Horns and drums. My entire body bumped while I tried to write. Yellow.
Green.
You are attractive (I warned you!).
The line moved up once more, then stopped. Minutes later the crowd disperced. The Fifa Fan Fest was at capacity. It was time to pull the strings of public relations, Ribatron-don style.
The crowd moved like ants surrounding a discarded apple. Boxie-boo and I walked up to security officials. Pointing at the camera around my neck and my notebook open, I said “Journo!” at which point I was told to talk to another security official. Passing through the crowds sounded like a war zone with helicopters sending bassy rhythms through the sky, sirens wailing, where people ran in all directions. The second guard told me to head left, pointing, before holding people back who tried to jump the front fence.
“Journalisto,” I said at the side media entrance, a word I hope would sound Spanish enough to jump over the language barrier. An official scanned my camera and notebook, the complete confidence of my stance. “Canada,” I said, pointing to my chest. She waved us through, at which point we were given green wrists band that allowed us into media-only areas. I will now cue the disapproving headshake of my mother and my father´s laughter.
Sitting on padded mats of green and yellow, of course, I grabbed us a couple free beers and Powerades, small sandwiches, at which point we were given large blown-up red hands, used to clap when Brazil scored. Handing Boxie-boo a beer and Powerade, I gave her the grin of the grinch who stole Christmas.
“You surprised?” I gave her the look of the dog who had just been invited for a walk.
“I never doubted your bullshitting capabilities for one minute,” she responded. My dog face changed to the confusion of an unknown wagging tail. Ra roo roo?
Now that was unfair. I was a journalist, I was planning to write about the game (and did) and every media agency I mentioned might potentially run this story or another version of it. The only lie, a mild one really, was explaining to the lady that I was simply told on the phone to come down and did not know why my name was not on the list. “My editors will be pissed if I don´t come back with crisp copy,” I remember saying. Alright, maybe she had a point, albeit a small one as the story is now published on Page59.com.
Within minutes of the first half, a massive wall was pushed over and a huge crowd powered in, moving security officials aside, the sun beaming over a mountain across the fans. It took minutes for the wall to be closed, at which point police had entered, trying to spot jersey wearing suspects in a sea of yellow and green. Their job, at this point, was impossible.
I looked away briefly. A moment to take notes. Suddenly, the crowd was standing around me, screaming and cheering. Dust clouds of sand were kicked into the air, beers aimlessly spilt, while horns blasted from the mouths of adults and children alike. Brazil had scored. Boxie-boo whispered to me that she farted.
By the second goal, our entire stand thundered. The plastic blow-up hands banged against my back and chest. Groups of women were cha cha dancing, while young lovers gave celebratory kisses. Boxie-boo returned from the outhouse.
“It doesn´t look like the Koreans are gonna see this at home,” she said, referring to North Korean´s media cencorship - a government that has openly proclaimed game highlights will only be shown if the country wins.
The only time their horns were lowered was when North Korea scored. By the time we left the stadium, the streets were mardi gras packed, a city filled with celebration, where advertisement screens blew steam at the crowds. Boxie-boo began our commute home by constantly smacking my bootae with her giant hand clappers. All I could think of was 2014 - of the adrenaline-fuelled soccer frenzy that will fill these streets for the next World Cup. It was a nuclear bomb of football passion, of a shared dream to watch Brazil - the most winning nation in World Cup history - to raise the cup once more.
That´s all for now.
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