GOL?

by Hwa Yue-Yi

I watched my first full World Cup 2010 match next to the New Castle stadium – that is, Stadium Sultan Mohammad IV in Kota Bharu Bandaraya Islam. Like the last full football game that I’d watched, this Argentina-Germany quarterfinal had plenty of surreal moments. Except that none of these involved headbutting.

There were a couple other similarities between last night’s match and the 2006 final. Both games meant taking a break from schoolwork. Of course, back then schoolwork was A-Levels prep in Singapore; this time it was pretending I wanted to transcribe interviews at the end of my first day ever in Kota Bharu, under a summer research grant from my university.

Another parallel: gender minority. In ’06 we junior college girls were far outnumbered by the secondary school boys in our hostel. Last night the kakaks at the food stalls and this adorable three-year-old were the only other females in a sea of easily more than two hundred people. And that was just at our roadside screen – there were at least two other LCD projectors and five TVs within the medan selera, plus a makeshift stall selling jerseys.

I get there an hour before the game starts, because of a nonexistent traditional music show that I’d planned to see. Inadvertent kiasuism turns out to be a good thing: the tables are packed out by the time Hasbullah Awang appears.

After about five seconds, an invisible hand swaps Hasbullah for the mat salleh Astro commentators. I decide to support Germany because (a) all the Astro experts think Argentina will win, and (b) Oliver Khan was so cool during the 2002 World Cup, i.e. the only one that I’ve properly followed.

Post-national anthems, the Say No to Racism banner is simultaneously cheesy and heartening. And a pointed reminder, as I spot only one Indian and three Chinese throughout the throng of mostly young Malay men. I try not to be malu/perasan about being the lone ah moi, especially the lone ah moi who has both digicam and Bible (the only book that fits into my less-snatch-thievable bag) on her table.

Conspicuousness does have one benefit: both my Milo and my teh O ais limau arrive before the ice has time to melt, unlike the many drinks (non-alcoholic, ini Kelantan weh) that sweat on trays while the drinks stall kid painstakingly looks for the right tables.

The heady third-minute goal triggers a general hurrah that sweeps across team loyalties and jolts the medan selera out of warm-up mode. The rest of the first half hardly sees any lulls in the noise level; when fans are catching their breath, a tauke cheerfully bellows at hangers-on who aren’t ordering anything.

By the time Muller is handed a yellow card at the 36th, the place is ready to erupt. A minute later one bunch of supporters springs to their feet at Argentina’s would-be equaliser, then another bunch leaps up as the goal is disallowed for offside. It crosses my mind that I first came across the name Maradona in a Lat comic book in primary school (I vaguely recall picturing a burly Italian singer).

After the requisite table critiques at halftime – eavesdropping tak jadi because my pantai barat ears fail to decipher some of the pelat – everyone settles down for the second half, by broad definitions of “settles” and “down.” Deft Argentine footwork is counterpointed by someone skulking past the projector, reminiscent of first-generation pirated VCDs.

The ball changes feet, a table near me orders keropok and nerves are wracked. Some players seem to forget that it’s called “football” because the foot is meant for contact with the ball, not body parts. Some spectators seem to forget that the players can’t hear their trash talk, no matter how vibrant. I seem to forget which team I’d chosen.

When Klose scores at the 68th minute, the place explodes again. This time, one Germany supporter near the front waves his red plastic chair in the air, a performance he repeats at the next German goal a few minutes later. By the 80th minute, people are making noise at anything onscreen: a pretty painted face, some fella in a massive Argentina turban, the despairing Maradona.

But by Klose’s second goal, things are petering out. It’s such a done deal that some are paying their bills and leaving with a minute left on the clock. Not so the diehard Germany fans, who groan and cheer religiously right through all the emo close-ups of players sprinting across the pitch in victorious abandon.

As I start to walk back, two Argentina jerseys whiz past me on old motorcycles and I wonder if I should catch the Paraguay-Spain game at the guesthouse TV. So demam bola is contagious after all.

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