We arrive at Ellis Park. Excitement is high. We’re part of a throng of expectant fans streaming into the zone. First we must pass security. Gidon has a backpack filled with illegal substances. Egg sandwiches, water and lord knows what else. It’s a tense moment as he passes through the electronic device and is accosted by an affable security fellow who would clearly rather be one of the beautiful game worshippers. “I’m sure you don’t have anything we need to worry about in your bag do you sir?” “Absolutely not,” says Gidon. “Well you’re in then,” says affable security fellow.
Meanwhile, Eytan and Ilan, Gidon’s young sons are being patted down thoroughly by an ex Boss agent two feet away. Indeed, this man is single handedly protecting us from the dangers these two clearly dangerous scallywags might wreak on an unsuspecting public. I thank my lucky stars we’re in such good hands.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Welcome to My Office
“Welcome to my office sir, you’re number two in the queue.” The friendly greeting as I enter the bathroom in the departure lounge at the airport. A short while later, the stall door opens and before I can shuffle in, the happy “office worker” slips inside with disinfectant and lappie in hand to give the seat a quick spruce up so that it’s clean, ready and reset for my royal ass. As I leave, I’m of a mind but sadly lacking in the ability to say thank you in all eleven official languages.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Germany 1 Ghana Zero aka Parking Attendent 100 US 0
It's another big night. Germany Ghana at Soccer City in Soweto. We pull up to Park Station and my bro in his finite wisdom decides to take up the generous offer of one of those orange clad parking stewards to park on the sidewalk on the bridge. For a small fee of fifty rand said steward fellow and his cohorts will keep things copacetic in our extended absence.
And then we enter the station. Into the womb of Africa. When I was a child, Park Station was a mythical place. Setting foot in its lofty halls was like stepping into another dimension where the very essence of adventure was contained with promises of extraordinary journeys. In the past decade or so, it has become a forbidden zone for white people. A place where the signs read "Beyond here be adventures that will swallow you whole."
And indeed, we are swallowed whole my bro and me. We are sucked into a meeting place of nations, a conduit of communication, a world of possibilities. The party on the platform is welcoming to all who dare let go and connect to a new paradigm. And so with Vuvuzelas echoing in the caverns of an intoxicating Halloween-inspired underworld, we board a train heated by goodwill and move slowly and inexorably toward Soccer City, Soweto.
The vision of that stadium as you cross over the bridge takes your breath away. It looks like a cross between a UFO having a service and a Hundertwasser on steroids. There’s something about it that renews your faith in excellence and blasts the idea of mediocrity clean out of existence. The stadium is at once gentle as it nudges the night sky out of its way and bold as it redefines the possibility of what humans can do.
You don’t climb to get to the top of this stadium. You are invited up and you effortlessly ascend its wide ramps with no sense of gravity. It feels like you’re alone on a private journey. And when you enter the gathering of the tribes at its core, the cosmic energy ignites your soul and you dance your way into the light of a hundred thousand pumping hearts.
As if to keep the spirit of unity alive, the Soccer gods grant entrance to both teams to the second round. Nice touch. My bro and me play the journey in reverse and arrive back at the car only to find that the parking stewards in a flash of economic inspiration have double rented the parking spaces. Yes, we’re parked in and prospects are dismal for a speedy departure.
For the next half an hour we are treated to a spectacular Oscar-worthy performance by these fellows as they hold their heads in consternation and gesticulate wildly to give punctuation to their incredulousness that such a thing could possibly have occurred on their watch. And then to cap it all, when Jimmy the Greek finally does arrive, he wants to beat me up for parking us in. Yup, a piece of that old South Africa is still alive and well. Ayobo!
And then we enter the station. Into the womb of Africa. When I was a child, Park Station was a mythical place. Setting foot in its lofty halls was like stepping into another dimension where the very essence of adventure was contained with promises of extraordinary journeys. In the past decade or so, it has become a forbidden zone for white people. A place where the signs read "Beyond here be adventures that will swallow you whole."
And indeed, we are swallowed whole my bro and me. We are sucked into a meeting place of nations, a conduit of communication, a world of possibilities. The party on the platform is welcoming to all who dare let go and connect to a new paradigm. And so with Vuvuzelas echoing in the caverns of an intoxicating Halloween-inspired underworld, we board a train heated by goodwill and move slowly and inexorably toward Soccer City, Soweto.
The vision of that stadium as you cross over the bridge takes your breath away. It looks like a cross between a UFO having a service and a Hundertwasser on steroids. There’s something about it that renews your faith in excellence and blasts the idea of mediocrity clean out of existence. The stadium is at once gentle as it nudges the night sky out of its way and bold as it redefines the possibility of what humans can do.
You don’t climb to get to the top of this stadium. You are invited up and you effortlessly ascend its wide ramps with no sense of gravity. It feels like you’re alone on a private journey. And when you enter the gathering of the tribes at its core, the cosmic energy ignites your soul and you dance your way into the light of a hundred thousand pumping hearts.
As if to keep the spirit of unity alive, the Soccer gods grant entrance to both teams to the second round. Nice touch. My bro and me play the journey in reverse and arrive back at the car only to find that the parking stewards in a flash of economic inspiration have double rented the parking spaces. Yes, we’re parked in and prospects are dismal for a speedy departure.
For the next half an hour we are treated to a spectacular Oscar-worthy performance by these fellows as they hold their heads in consternation and gesticulate wildly to give punctuation to their incredulousness that such a thing could possibly have occurred on their watch. And then to cap it all, when Jimmy the Greek finally does arrive, he wants to beat me up for parking us in. Yup, a piece of that old South Africa is still alive and well. Ayobo!
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
South Africa 2 France 1
I’ve always supported the other. Growing up in apartheid South Africa I learned from an early age that where I came from was denigrated, despised, disgusting. I allowed myself no sense of belonging. I always knew that I would leave when I was old enough. I was driven to disown everything I came from, everything around me.
I rooted against the local teams with every fiber of my young being. The Springboks were the enemy, Highlands Park with their arrogant red uniform and attitude, the devil incarnate. Support of the other provided a channel whereby I could rebel against the status quo. It made me different, alienated me from my surroundings, and made me a stranger in my environment.
I became a traveler in an impenetrable Diaspora, bringing with me the need not to belong, determined not to fit in. To Israel, back to South Africa, and then to America. Along the way I learned to walk the middle ground; getting closer to a sense of belonging but never quite letting go of the support of the other.
Today I experienced a shift. Standing in the World Cup fan zone at Melrose Arch, amidst a pulsating mass of electric emotion in support of Bafana Bafana, I felt myself dissolve and become one with a remarkable energy. It was like being born.
I rooted against the local teams with every fiber of my young being. The Springboks were the enemy, Highlands Park with their arrogant red uniform and attitude, the devil incarnate. Support of the other provided a channel whereby I could rebel against the status quo. It made me different, alienated me from my surroundings, and made me a stranger in my environment.
I became a traveler in an impenetrable Diaspora, bringing with me the need not to belong, determined not to fit in. To Israel, back to South Africa, and then to America. Along the way I learned to walk the middle ground; getting closer to a sense of belonging but never quite letting go of the support of the other.
Today I experienced a shift. Standing in the World Cup fan zone at Melrose Arch, amidst a pulsating mass of electric emotion in support of Bafana Bafana, I felt myself dissolve and become one with a remarkable energy. It was like being born.
Spain 2 Honduras 0
It's all moving in one direction. Arteries and veins to Ellis Park. A pumping of global proportions. Red and Blue streams flowing along Jozi streets to the heart of Africa. A world party, a cosmic dance. With new youth as my guide and new perspective as my compass, I'm in the flow -- bouncing around in a city raised on the world's shoulders. Viva!
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