June 2010 Archives

The World Cup series: Part 2 of 4                                                         
(See Part 1 The World Cup: Get Up, Stand Up!)


Back in Texas, the humble, state-funded university had already adopted & even moved beyond the Sullivan Principles without any help from hardball political operatives like me. Akin to the magnetic inclusiveness of my public high school, the diversity of students and campus culture promoted natural connections, an environment where all ethnicities, races, religions & classes belonged. Which was certainly a relief. For it allowed everyone to focus on the really big, world issues. And funnel their energies into what's most important. Uh huh, that's right, talkin' bout Kickin' It Ol' Skool!
 
That's where Chris - a guy who made a persuasive political yet somewhat controversial fashion statement by wearing his $5 'Free Nelson Mandela' ANC t-shirt a minimum of twice weekly - made his pitch. He proudly played for "Agony of De Feet," an intramural team composed of mates from such exotic lands as Lebanon, Syria, Egypt, Nigeria, Greece, Iran, Cambodia, Mexico, Ghana and California. In the heralded semifinals, this left-leaning right winger earned acclaim by scoring the go-ahead goal on a penalty kick, his cleat striking a glancing blow to the ball ground which sent the opposing goalie leaping into the air for a desperate save as earthshaking tremors (aka, 'incidental contact') propelled the ball's torpid-o charge into the net. Another of his citywide clubs, "Albion," was predominantly made up of Brits, a few Scots and a couple of Irish blokes whose brilliant strategizing (when the refs weren't looking) expedited the squad's phoenix rise from 4th division dregs to 1st division victors in only 4 seasons. It, too, was a culturally broadening experience, especially when they'd invite him to partake in postgame draughts at the Richmond Arms pub. There, after discreetly requesting that he please put away his checkerboard, they'd commiserate over what aled 'em by ordering another round of pints, plus a second bottle of Crush pineapple sodapop for their favorite rookie sidekick. 

Once forfeits due to injury exceed the number of actual matches played, it's time to quit. So how swell is it that the World Cup was so accommodating, showing up in our very own backyard just in time for Chris' ankles' retirement party in 1994? The first round-of-16 match, pitting Sweden against Saudi Arabia, proved rather uneventful despite the 3-1 result & those swingin' Swedes' much-anticipated raucous scoring celebrations (e.g., firm handshakes, kindly pats on the back, mischievous hair mussing... Buncha Viking punks). Yet, for us, just being there & sharing in the World Cup communal spirit was a no header. For instance, we gladly paid $20 to discover the 4-wheeling capacity of our Honda Accord when coming to an abrupt, final resting (parking) place mid-wye in our tracks due to all those partially dugout railroad ties crisscrossing the officially sanctioned dirt lot; waited out a thunderstorm in the Dallas zoo's Wilds of Africa aviary (conspicuously absent of football fanatics, who must have been going incognito); and learned why Texas-sized, ten gallon baseball hats never caught on with soccer players. Overall, it served very nicely as a warm-up friendly for Game 2.
 
Which Chris felt certain would be "the one," Brazil vs. Holland in the quarterfinals. The first half was classic, riveting soccer, a purist footballer's delight:  After 45 minutes, still 0-0!  Wholly unadulterated by scoring, the definition of "Fantastic!" Thus, given those fraught-with-suspense circumstances, Chris' Whirled Cup Spilleth Over Incident in the 43rd minute was perfectly understandable. Not that he didn't immediately "Beg pardon!" once he noticed the Coca-Cola cascading onto the fellow's head and frothing in foamy profusion under his collar. Plus offer assistance by fastidiously dabbing at the chap's furrowed brow & magnanimously presenting the now-empty souvenir cup to him by way of making conciliatory amends. Momentarily, it seemed, the day wouldn't be a complete loss in terms of real, interactive soccer spectacle! However, the guy was obviously not a legit football aficionado, for no requisite brawl ensued, but merely a miffed & international-mayhem-averting "No worries." Honestly, this WC experience was proving to be quite a let down. 
 
Of course, during halftime, lesser fans found themselves fearing that Brazil was Dunga for. Or perhaps musing, in an offsided sorta way, Wherefore art thou, Romário? But no doubt due to head coach Carlos Parreira's Tom Landry's pep talk in the Cotton Boll locker room, Romário came out striking, then proud papa Bebeto rocked the joint, and finally a buckin' Branco embraced his inner Texan, delivering a free KIKKer for the win!  In celebratory cacophony, everybody simultaneously struck up their belongings -- drums, horns, fifes, tom-toms, kazoos, cowbells, bongos, accordions + bagpipes -- and morphed into anaconda-like oneness to exit the stadium singing "Olé, Olé, Olé, Olé, Brasil, Brasil!" Afterwards, no one admitted they'd rooted for Holland's Lost Boys (sadly, Tink, it's 'cuz they dwell in Never Netherlands).
  
Turned out, this 5-goals-all-coming-in-the-second-half match was considered "the game of the tournament" (even by those who didn't realize we were there) and led the way to an unprecedented 4th World Cup title for the Seleção!
      
See Part 3 The World Cup: Soccer It to Me

The World Cup series: Part 1 of 4

"Get Up, Stand Up!"     
            
Only one professor glanced over long enough to reveal her slanted smile. The rest of the faculty filed past in velveteen caps & satin hooded gowns without acknowledging anything, save their tams' golden, dangling tassels tickling against their tightly clenched lips.

"Stand Up For Your Rights!"

For today's dignified procession was honoring the university regents' annual meeting, a staid rite of passage to uphold the trustees' traditional rights to forever withhold the passage of time at this small, private, liberal arts college in the east...

"Don't Give Up The Fight!"

Lining just half of the short sidewalk leading to the assembly hall, ours was a paltry protest, a smattering of undergraduate rabble-rousers futilely trying to infuse sixties-style enthusiasm into tired, decades-old chants: "What do we want?"  DIVESTMENT! "When do we want it?"  NOW! We held up hand-scrawled, slogan-filled signs to an audience of silent onlookers who mocked our sincerity from across the green. (Yup, nobody there at all besides some exasperatingly unresponsive trees, pruned to remain rigidly neutral & unperswayeded by the blowin' winds of change.)  

"It's not all that glitters is gold; Half the story has never been told"
 
By the time our lil' dedicated core of agitators reconvened -- coincidentally enough, in the school's newspaper offices -- journalistic integrity rallied the cause with unbiased, factual reporting of glorious, indomitable dissidence. (Following a quick, unanimous decision to omit superfluous details, such as the one about an as-yet-unidentified sophomore who panicked and unplugged Bob Marley & Peter Tosh's First Amendment rights -- emanating from a hifi defiant 12" dual-cassette boombox -- mere moments before the college president's impending advance.)  The editor-in-chief made the additionally daring decision to run "Out of South Africa" as the week's lead story, front page & topped with a photo taken at the precise angle to appear jam-packed with no less than 20 laudably heroic students, 18 of whom also happened to be news staffers.

"We sick an' tired of your ism-schism"

Cogent testimony to these overwhelming pressure tactics, the board members did, most likely, put the item on their agenda. Just long enough for it to be formally dismissed as irrelevant. Apartheid had no place here, in our harmoniously homogeneous community. Clearly, this was a black ~or~ white issue.

(Really, arguing with that type of logic is of no hues... sometimes it's simply a matter of Caucasian & effect.)

"You can fool some people sometimes, But you can't fool all the people all the time"
 
The finance committee could find absolutely no reason to alter course on their winning investment policies. Well, maybe with one exception... regarding accrued interest in a certain puny(tive), out-of-state investment. That's okay, at the end of freshman year, I packed up my scholarship & went home. Quite successfully divested, I might add subtract.     

"Whoa yoi, whoa yoi, whoa yo, yo, yo, yoi!"

*For 18 of the 27 years he was imprisoned, Nelson Mandela lived in this cell on Robben Island. While there, he earned his Bachelor of Laws degree from the University of London & encouraged other inmates to pursue their studies. The jail guards, as well as those he inspired, referred to his cell block as "Mandela University."

See Part 2 The World Cup: United We Play