GOL?

by Kubhaer T. Jethwani

The moment of realization came sometime after the giraffes but definitely before the lions. It possibly happened on the way to Eugene’s Hill where the ranger had caught wind of a rhino sighting. Wherever in the African bush we were, it dawned on us very late that we had forgotten the most important thing in our preparations to watch our first live World Cup match: the Jalur Gemilang.

The next morning was a mad rush to the stationery shop where we picked up the required supplies and got to work on making our own flag. Being production boys, we needed the flag to be as TV ready as it could be and that meant it had to be dimensionally accurate, look good, and ready in 1 hour because we were going to miss the bus to the stadium.

Zureen was supporting the Dutch, and in an effort to maximize potential social encounters, I was dressed like a Fat Brazilian Ray Mysterio. Armed with our mixed media (collage + crayon + ink) and completely dimensionally accurate flag, we rejoined our group and headed for the bus. I thought our getup and props would give us a fighting chance to be featured on the broadcast for a few seconds, but alas.

Moving towards the Nelson Mandela Bay Stadium in Port Elizabeth was an electric affair. The energy was palpable and got madder the closer we got. People were honking their car horns and blowing their vuvuzelas, vendors hawking the last of their Dutch and Brazilian flags. Finally at the stadium gates, it was FAN-demonium at its best! An orange double decker bus playing what sounded like polka music pulled up and a stream of weird Dutch fans came out. Among them were a whole flight crew dressed in orange, people in orange bathrobes, orange afro wigs, and one guy dressed as an orange Tarzan. The Brazilians relied less on fancy dress and more on massive call and response dance sequences. The Samba Girls though, were noticeably missing giving the Dutch fans an early upset in the “WHOSE FANS WERE HOTTER?” stakes. It was not as much of an upset as the Dutch eventually BEATING the Brazillians, but it was definitely upsetting. I was looking forward to a big-hipped mid-riff baring twirl-o-rama but I did not get what I wanted.

By the way, you should know that vuvuzelas are incredibly fun. They are REALLY noisy and come in all your favourite colors! They get a bad rap because on TV they sound like angry bees, but I blame whoever is doing the sound mix on the broadcast. At the stadium there is a whole karaoke lounge full of singing and chanting and general football fannery that extends PAST tooting ones own horn. Some vuvuzealous monkeys will have the endurance to blow it the whole damn game, but to the average lung-ed we are completely spent after 15 minutes and quickly put them away. After that the vuvus are reserved exclusively for goals, cards, or other specifically vuvuzelic moments. Those moments are dictated by the crowd and are beyond anyone’s individual control. I lost one on the way to the stadium, and another on the way out of the stadium. I blame Budweiser.

The World Cup and Malaysia are two concepts that you hardly associate with each other, and I suppose that’s why we felt so strongly about having to bring a flag. We bumped into three other Malaysians and we were mutually full of glee at having other members of the rakyat there. Everyone who recognized the flag did so with a smile. Everyone who stopped to ask us what it was were very confused as to what the hell we were doing there. Even we were confused about what we were doing there. Friends of ours who found out we were going to the World Cup were in complete disbelief, like we had said “the Moon” instead of South Africa. Their disbelief quickly turned to bitter envy.

I lost count of the number of times Zureen and I turned to each other to say “I CAN’T BELIEVE I’M AT THE WORLD CUP!” I was constantly mentally pinching myself because it was quite an overwhelming moment. The Nelson Mandela Bay stadium is very beautiful and what a match-up! Netherlands vs Brazil is a common answer to one of those “If you had to pick ONE game to watch” questions.

Robinho took a picture with me in the toilet. He’s a big fan of Fat Mysterio. So was Giant Sombrero Man. In fact I have to say that my choice of wardrobe was a massive hit. Three different kids demanded to have their pictures taken with me, and everywhere I went people were shouting “MYSTERIO!” For such an attention whore like myself, it was fantastic.

Let’s not forget that 90 minutes of football was actually played in the middle of all this. The actual athletic display was ok, I guess. Seeing such famous players score goals live is pretty awesome but it’s like watching the match on mute. Without the commentators, I was honestly quite lost. TV lets you actually watch the game. The slow motion replays during the administrative parts of the game help punctuate the match, help you get your head around what’s going on.

Experiencing such a big game live is entirely about the atmosphere and not the football, because you sure as shit aren’t going to watch much of it. There are too many distractions. Imagine you are looking at the field, staring straight at the ball and following its every move. All of a sudden it clicks that you are watching KAKA and then your brain just goes off on a bloody tangent. Mine concluded that Kaka runs like a girl holding up her big foofy skirt trying not to get it dirty as she runs over a dirt path… then I concluded that a dirt path must mean she runs like a cabaret showgirl from the Old West because why else would she have a big hoopy foofy skirt AND be on a dirt path… then I concluded that he must be a Tyrannosaurus Rex because his arms are completely useless and he keeps them up so high like he’s evolved that way. Next thing you know Stekelenburg has made the save of the game, and I wasn’t paying attention. See what I mean?

As the game progressed and the Dutch began tightening their screws, a couple in Zureen’s head not only loosened but came right off. He rode his vuvuzela hard and was cheering for the Oranje like his name was Van Der Zulkifli. It was really nice to see him LET GO and not have to worry about being a dad or a husband or a producer or whatever. He was just an outright fan and he was doing a damn good job of it, running up and down the aisles high fiving the Holland faithful.

Fat Brazillian Ray Mysterio sat quietly on his seat, attempting to eat potato chips but it was hard to find the mouth hole and kept crushing them against my mask. In my heart I was ok with the loss because though my colors were Brazil (and Kedah), my wallet was for Netherlands. Here’s to me winning that office pool.

At the end of the match, Zureen and I hugged each other in true sportsmanship. I took the opportunity to wipe some of my chip grease on his jersey and he took the opportunity to call me a fatty, but mostly it was the hug of a great shared experience.

We never dreamt of catching a game live, but with the world getting smaller and now that I have a paycheck (Alhamdulillah), who knows what dreams may come in 2014? Maybe we’ll send a larger contingent of Malaysian fans over.

Maybe we might even send our football team over as 1^st time qualifiers. Now that would be something truly special, because Malaysian football fans are GAGGING to support something good. Maybe something good is pushing it, but something that is free from political bickery, finger pointing, and laziness. We are great fans, we just need something to get behind. Unless of course it’s Malaysia vs England or any club from the Premiership, then the Harimau are on their own.

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