Sunday, June 27, 2010:

It’s been less then 12 hours since the USA lost to Ghana in overtime of the Round of 16. I’ve just forced myself to get up for breakfast, which is only served until 9 am. We got in at 4:15 am, after the complete cluster it was leaving the Royal Bafokeng stadium in Rustenburg.

Am I disappointed with the result? Of course! Am I happy to have been here – absolutely. Will I be returning anytime soon – I really can’t see how I come back here.

You see, I’m also bitter, and perhaps that comes in hand-in-hand with such a defeat. Call me hypocritical, because I’ve been the one criticizing some of my friends on their negative views about many things we’ve experienced here. I’d say, “It’s the Africa World Cup,” and “things are done differently here.” Or "don’t worry so much, it can’t be that bad," etc. Today, you get a different view from me of Africa.

I’m going to skip the Friday night story, when three of the guys went to watch Spain vs. Chile, while Jim and I – in a bar – were approached by a man from The Congo asking us if we were interested in helping him and his uncle with their under-ground Black Diamond and white-gold business back in the States. That conversation is still being processed in my mind.

Our Pack was down to five for Saturday’s game. We lost Ryan last week, and Clint on Friday. We learned from the first trip to Rustenburg, so we passed on the bus and decided to drive this time. We squeezed five of us into one car – imaging how comfortable the ride was considering three of the guys are over six foot. Me and Curtis, being the smallest, had to sit behind the driver, and the middle back seat.

We got there in 1.5 hours – having to keep our windows up because of the amount of smoke in air. The reason for the smoke, of course, is because most of the roadside has been burnt or is currently on fire. The air quality is the most disgusting I’ve even witnessed. My pinky and index fingers are stained black from picking my nose, and my throat feels like sandpaper from coughing / breathing.

Once near the stadium we’re in search of a place to watch the early game, and we find ourselves driving into – the only way to describe it, is – an open-air ghetto. Wow.

Incredible to see people really live like this. We had previously seen tiny tin-built shanty houses – which would have looked like 4-star hotels next to this. This, this looked like a flea market – because it was apparently an outdoor shelter with ‘rooms’ built like tents at a market on a huge dirt lot.

We quickly drive out and head to the park-n-ride that was about five miles away. It's the only place to park, from where we then take a bus to the stadium. I make the mistake to comment about how friendly and smooth the experience was.

The parking lot was in a huge open field. We drive in – no one asking us for tickets or money – and of course, no visible signs of parking attendants; just a couple of people that appeared to be waiving aimlessly at cars. It appears to be a free for all, just stop your car wherever you want and walk to the buses. The system of parking next to another car doesn't seem to apply. Why would we want to make rows?

Getting on the bus, no problem. It’s about a 10-minute drive down a traffic-free street to the stadium.

Once there, we find there’s a shabeen on the corner, across the street from the stadium entrance we were to use. A shabeen is an old-school type bar typically found in neighborhoods – but to me, it’s someone’s house that’s been turned into a bar.

We look at each other and decide to enter. Four older men are sitting at a table on the front porch. We walk in from the front door – and…the smell was overwhelming.

There were four people (locals) sitting a dinner table in the front room, and more at small table in the room behind (kitchen?) watching the Uruguay vs. South Korea game. Next to the front-room table, a small hallway is turned into a bar. Stacked milk crates are covered by a few pieces of wood to create a knee-high ‘bar,’ which is the width of the hallway. The ‘bartender’ stands in the hallway and charges us for 70 rand for five tall beers – which to us are ridiculously inexpensive (less than $7 dollars for five 25-ounce bottles). We couldn’t believe it. While two guys paid, the other guys had to walk out – the smell of body odor was that intoxicating. I got stuck.

A maybe 40-year-old man sitting at the front table gets up and approached me. He begins to try hug me – I held my breath, as I couldn’t believe it – it being his smell. What do I do? Am I in his house? Do I have to show some type of respect and reciprocate? I stop breathing, close my eyes, and give him a tap on the back.

His accent was strong – and he was so drunk - that I couldn’t understand him. Something about happy to see fans, USA something or other, Ghana bla-bla – it was all hidden in the spit that kept flying out of his mouth and onto my face. I wiped my eyes, lips, and cheeks with my sleeve as he continued with his arm around my shoulder.

Disgusted, I push him back and point to the TV with the game on – he wants nothing to do it, and starts hugging me again. With one hand I tried to push him off, the other hand covering my pockets as I understood his next line – ‘10 rand, please.’

It took all of 30-45 seconds, but felt like an eternity. I tried to shake myself from shoulder to feet as I hurriedly turned and stumbled back out the front door. I jumped off the front porch onto the dusty front yard. The rest of our group was outside now. I couldn’t stop laughing inside – my way to recognize the absurdity that just happened and my once-in-a-lifetime bar experience that is completely unique to Africa!

I also laughed at the thought of some of my friends being in this same situation – I’m laughing now as I type this, imagining their reaction to reading this last story or being in my shoes.

The shack outside served ‘food’ – Curtis and Corey asked what the meat was, and the reply was “it’s almost like beef.” Yea, I did not last long in that line! But they tried it.

We walk into the stadium – the American fans are spread out all over the place. There is no one section that could carry a group.

We decide to frustrate ourselves by standing in the concession line, looking to get a hotdog for everybody. The lines are insane – it’s lost money, in our eyes. There is no sense of urgency, or order. After 25 minutes of waiting, I juke my way to the front before the others, order 10 hotdogs, and am told they are out. THE GAME HASN’T EVEN STARTED! How can this be?

The game: we tried to chant, tried to cheer, but the feeling in the stands was not there from the onset. It wasn’t loud – there weren’t enough fans to help spread the fun. The big-flag crew – sitting across the stadium in the first half, apparently saw our attempt and found their way to our lower-level corner section for the second half. It helped, but in the end I think we were all just spent.

When the US tied it, there wasn’t a new level or raised excitement. Not the euphoria that you may expect, or that quite possibly you felt by watching on TV. There was something missing in the stadium this day. We felt as tired as the players looked in that last overtime period.

All of Africa was behind Ghana, a sign we’ve often seen when the U.S. loses – it seems every nationality is cheering against them.

The taste of defeat is often shocking, for some reason. We had never discussed the U.S. winning the World Cup, but we were disappointed and sad when the game ended. Why is that? Maybe because we still came to South Africa, thinking what if? Or because of the run the U.S. had that gave us optimism? Or maybe because of how positive the world seemed to be talking about soccer from the U.S. Or maybe because we just didn’t want the fun to end.

H

We didn’t even get much of a chance to mope, because of the complete disaster of the exit execution after the game. We find the field where were supposed to pick up our shuttle bus to take us back to the parking lot. It was a sea of people – no queues, or barricades, or instructions, or signage or personnel directing fans. It was a 10,000-person mob trying to inch closer to a fence where we could see some buses. After moving a total of three feet in 30 minutes, with backs aching, we walk out and walk further down. Here, we could see there were fences that funneled fans down a short walk to the buses.

It was more than amazing how bad this was organized. By the time we got back to the lot, in disbelief, it seemed like no one had left. There were no attendants directing cars, so every car tried to cut to the front by driving around other cars – we followed, laughing at the ineptitude of this organization.

The game – which didn’t even have 35,000 fans, ended before 11 pm. We got to our car at 1 am. We got on the highway at 2 am. It was a two-lane highway, with of course no one coming from the other direction. It’s the only way out of town – so every car is on this road, in one lane, lights visible in front of us for as far as the night smoke would allow.

If the loss didn’t make us ready to leave, the frustrating lines, inept organization, and just plain pain in the ass effort required to get to / from games has me ready. Or maybe I'm just still bitter...