The Koreans were full of piss, vinegar, and elan - at least those off the pitch, crowding the bbq pork joints that make up much of the Kyungsung University area here in our fair city of Busan. They wore the requisite red; the pretty girls were out in mass, sporting lit-up devil's horns and short shorts (oh my). The Korean fans were pumped up, coming off a 2-0 spanking of former European champions, Greece. Now they were to face the monster of a team representing Argentina, but they were not cowed. After Greece they figured they could take anyone on, including Maradona's marauders, led by a certain Lionel Messi, said to be the best player in the world.
I joined some friends at a rotiserrie samgyupsal place, where I crammed myself into the one remaining spot at the crowded table. These guys had already finished two bottles of soju; a pile of crispy pork lay on the grill and I dug in mightily. Lotte Giants baseball played on the TV. It was a 12th inning tie and you could taste the tension on the field, though it was decidedly diminished by the REAL game about to begin. LOTTE shat the bed in the end, losing the game, and the channel was quickly changed to South Africa.
Class vs. Cass? Might vs. Hite? Well, it became quickly apparent that the Korea squad didn't really even deserve to be on the same field as the Argentinians, who played pitch-perfect soccer - total ball control, effortless passes - in short: grace. It was like they were playing in butter. They Koreans were totally chumped every time they tried to take the ball downfield, and quickly the Argies had racked up two goals on the hapless Hanguks. The Korean fans groaned and did their took it in stride, and a quick break-out goal by Korea in the final seconds of the half had the place in spinning goal-induced hysteria, giving the locals false hope that their boys could come back on this seemingly invicible side.
No such luck.
Anthony Garcia ate and drank with us (a total foreigner table). He openly supported Argentina, wearing a homemade jersey with a number ten and the name Messi stuck on in black electrical tape. He cheered when the Argies hit their third goal, at which point he began to receive glances of death from the growingly frustrated Korean fans. He took the opportunity to slink out of the place before surrounded with red-faced soju-enraged Busan ajosshis. Smart man. Goal four for Argentina sealed the Koreans' fate, and when the whistle was mercifully blown, it was clear to all that the Red Devils got beat THE FUCK down, which made the already rank soju gnaw at the lining of my gut.
* * * *
Germany opened the games on Friday night, getting upset by Serbia and its malevolent looking fans. Serbs have no love for Germans, who came into Yugoslavia during the war and butchered their way through the mountains of the land. I'm Belgrade was alive with hyper-nationalist fervor that night. I was down at the Basement with my band The Headaches. We were opening for an act called King Khan and The Barbecue show, who were swinging through on a brief Asian tour. King Khan was a no-show however. We only got Barbecue, due to some sort of soju-fueled intra-duel altercation which resulted in Khan trashing his hotel room, meeting a monk on the street, and going with him to live at a monastery. Real story. Evidently months of coke use led up to this implosion. Let us hope he is finding his serenity amonth the mushy vegetables that make up "temple food." The Headaches played undeterred, to a smallish but appreciative crowd. The USA-Slovena game started towards the end of our set, and much of the crowd was standing at the back, taking in the match on the TV. During our final song I saw a look on their faces that could only mean one thing: A Slovenian goal. My fears were proven correct when I got confirmation after asking about it on the mike. It's pretty rare that I'll talk over a song in order to get a sports score, but I do have the fever pretty fuckin' bad.
After the set I tore away to The Red Bottle, only to see the US squad go down 2-0 at the half. I hung my head into my beer and nearly convinced myself that it was hopeless, that again we had fielded a pack of total sad sacks, that we should just go home before getting whipped any more.
But there's always an Act 2. We are Americans and we are at our best when down, and the team proved just that, coming back like a sqad of swashbucklers, playing the most daring and physical second half seen yet in the World Cup. I was now at Crossroads, hoping a change of scenery would bring on some better luck. The place was full of Yanks, and both goals were like TNT in the joint, with our motley pack exploding in the ecstasy that is a come-from-behind, beautifully-placed goal. It was simply awesome, until...
...well, you know. We scored a third goal to win it, but it was disqualified. Why? No reason given. Just a whistle and a wave of the hand by either the most corrupt or incompetent ref on the African continent. Maybe he was paid off. Maybe he doesn't like our uniforms, or hot dogs or apple pie, but this ref, this Malian malpractitioner, totally FUCKED the USA out of a win, on his whim. He walked off the field witout a peep as to how or why, when, and if one reviews the tape, it is quite clear that OUR guys are getting fouled, wrapped up in more than one Slovenian bear hug.
I spent the next two hours spitting venom and cursing the man, but by the end of the night, felt much better. I mean, yeah, we were hosed, but it could have been worse: I could have been an England supporter.
I joined some friends at a rotiserrie samgyupsal place, where I crammed myself into the one remaining spot at the crowded table. These guys had already finished two bottles of soju; a pile of crispy pork lay on the grill and I dug in mightily. Lotte Giants baseball played on the TV. It was a 12th inning tie and you could taste the tension on the field, though it was decidedly diminished by the REAL game about to begin. LOTTE shat the bed in the end, losing the game, and the channel was quickly changed to South Africa.
Class vs. Cass? Might vs. Hite? Well, it became quickly apparent that the Korea squad didn't really even deserve to be on the same field as the Argentinians, who played pitch-perfect soccer - total ball control, effortless passes - in short: grace. It was like they were playing in butter. They Koreans were totally chumped every time they tried to take the ball downfield, and quickly the Argies had racked up two goals on the hapless Hanguks. The Korean fans groaned and did their took it in stride, and a quick break-out goal by Korea in the final seconds of the half had the place in spinning goal-induced hysteria, giving the locals false hope that their boys could come back on this seemingly invicible side.
No such luck.
Anthony Garcia ate and drank with us (a total foreigner table). He openly supported Argentina, wearing a homemade jersey with a number ten and the name Messi stuck on in black electrical tape. He cheered when the Argies hit their third goal, at which point he began to receive glances of death from the growingly frustrated Korean fans. He took the opportunity to slink out of the place before surrounded with red-faced soju-enraged Busan ajosshis. Smart man. Goal four for Argentina sealed the Koreans' fate, and when the whistle was mercifully blown, it was clear to all that the Red Devils got beat THE FUCK down, which made the already rank soju gnaw at the lining of my gut.
* * * *
Germany opened the games on Friday night, getting upset by Serbia and its malevolent looking fans. Serbs have no love for Germans, who came into Yugoslavia during the war and butchered their way through the mountains of the land. I'm Belgrade was alive with hyper-nationalist fervor that night. I was down at the Basement with my band The Headaches. We were opening for an act called King Khan and The Barbecue show, who were swinging through on a brief Asian tour. King Khan was a no-show however. We only got Barbecue, due to some sort of soju-fueled intra-duel altercation which resulted in Khan trashing his hotel room, meeting a monk on the street, and going with him to live at a monastery. Real story. Evidently months of coke use led up to this implosion. Let us hope he is finding his serenity amonth the mushy vegetables that make up "temple food." The Headaches played undeterred, to a smallish but appreciative crowd. The USA-Slovena game started towards the end of our set, and much of the crowd was standing at the back, taking in the match on the TV. During our final song I saw a look on their faces that could only mean one thing: A Slovenian goal. My fears were proven correct when I got confirmation after asking about it on the mike. It's pretty rare that I'll talk over a song in order to get a sports score, but I do have the fever pretty fuckin' bad.
After the set I tore away to The Red Bottle, only to see the US squad go down 2-0 at the half. I hung my head into my beer and nearly convinced myself that it was hopeless, that again we had fielded a pack of total sad sacks, that we should just go home before getting whipped any more.
But there's always an Act 2. We are Americans and we are at our best when down, and the team proved just that, coming back like a sqad of swashbucklers, playing the most daring and physical second half seen yet in the World Cup. I was now at Crossroads, hoping a change of scenery would bring on some better luck. The place was full of Yanks, and both goals were like TNT in the joint, with our motley pack exploding in the ecstasy that is a come-from-behind, beautifully-placed goal. It was simply awesome, until...
...well, you know. We scored a third goal to win it, but it was disqualified. Why? No reason given. Just a whistle and a wave of the hand by either the most corrupt or incompetent ref on the African continent. Maybe he was paid off. Maybe he doesn't like our uniforms, or hot dogs or apple pie, but this ref, this Malian malpractitioner, totally FUCKED the USA out of a win, on his whim. He walked off the field witout a peep as to how or why, when, and if one reviews the tape, it is quite clear that OUR guys are getting fouled, wrapped up in more than one Slovenian bear hug.
I spent the next two hours spitting venom and cursing the man, but by the end of the night, felt much better. I mean, yeah, we were hosed, but it could have been worse: I could have been an England supporter.
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