The World Cup

Vomit and beer coated the streets and shards of plastic cups scratched at my ankles as my sandals slurped across the sticky, slick ground. Hundreds of loud, drunken Englishmen surrounded me on all sides, this faces glowing red and yellow, lit by dim German streetlamps and bright neon bar signs. The air was thick with smoke and song, carried by the roar of drunken voices. They never stopped singing – not for a moment – and the old men too tired for early morning festivities slept in the gutters outside the bar with bottles on their bellies and flags across their shoulders. The police stood ready with their arms across their chest and batons behind their backs. They watched from the sidewalk a few yards away, scanning the crowd for partiers who couldn’t pick their faces up off the ground and fights that got out of control.

A young woman in her twenties wearing a tight, while dress stood on the top of the entrance to the underground station. She was one of a handful of female fans in the crowd. The men cheered and raised their cups in the air as she pulled down her top and exposed her breasts to their eager, intoxicated eyes. I looked on, disgusted in my gender, and she pulled up her skirt revealing a tattoo of the English flag where pubic hair should have been. This was too much for the men and they reached for her legs, grappling for a feel as the man behind her put his mouth all over her body and groped her like an animal. Drunk and patriotic, she doesn’t seem to mind, dancing with her skirt around her waist like any random stripper in a XXX nightclub.

Once the girl was off the platform and soccer balls cascaded through the air, the focus was back on sports and showing pride for one’s country.

“There are ten German bombers in the aaaaaair / And the RAFs from England shoot them dowwwwwn.”

I learned the words and sang along as a soccer ball collided with the side of my head and Philipp chased after it, eager to punt it back into the crowd. The men stared at me as I walked carefully through the mess. There was so much testosterone floating around, I felt like an alien and stood close to Philipp so that it was clear I wasn’t alone.

Every four years one lucky country turns into a giant beer-filled piñata. People travel from all over the world to meet one another and share in their common love of soccer. Only the wealthy, connected few actually get to the games, but most of the partying occurs in the streets and it’s enough to watch the match on a big screen TV with a thousand rabid fans boozing it up and singing ‘til their voices give way.

I feel lucky that I’m here and have a German friend to take me all around Frankfurt. He said that I chose the best possible weekend to come to Germany and I definitely agree. I’m not even a soccer fan, but it’s impossible not to feel something when you see grown men crying as their team scores the first goal of the game. I’ve learned a few things about the sport and might even take an interest in it when I’m back home, but nothing will compare to the excitement and the energy I’ve felt these past couple days. This country, these people, this culture. I love it.