the World Cup cometh

We live in a curious age. For most of us, the first experience we have of cultural events like concerts, theater, and so on, is a television experience. The same applies for sporting events. An orchestra concluding a mighty symphony, a singer dancing wildly in front of screaming fans, the Olympic games – all these are experienced in a lesser reality (don’t try to make me jealous with tales of your high-tech home theater system – it still isn’t real). We get so used to these events as TV events that we come to expect, for example, that Olympic games are always held at 2 am and filmed in some exotic far-off land. We expect that the choice of sport to watch is always decided by someone else. The real thing might then one day come into your vicinity like Halley’s comet, for a brief moment before it goes off again, not to return in your lifetime.

My first live World Cup was almost one of those experiences. This comes around only once every four years, where the best national soccer/football teams in the world compete to become the world champions. It happened during my postgraduate school days at Stanford. I had watched the occasional game on TV before, and had even been caught up in world cup fever before, or so I had thought. In places like Malaysia or Singapore, world cup fever is about a month or so of watching games on TV at funny hours, then getting together for drinks with friends and reliving together the thrills of great goals or commiserating together on near misses and on the effects of sleep deprivation. Considerable bonding and camaraderie may develop during this time. It’s like the bonding that may occur between a group of wanna-be soldiers on a paintball field – not quite the real thing, but something close enough so that you don’t thirst for the real thing. So anyway, the World Cup was coming to the US and some games would play at my doorstep, in Stanford Stadium, and I was just happy that the matches would be televised live in the daytime.

The World Cup was in 1994. Towards the end of 1993, I became vaguely aware that people were buying tickets for world cup matches. It was only when one of the original ticket buyers couldn’t make it, and needed to sell her tickets, that I even considered buying tickets. Furthermore, those were first round tickets but once I got them, my mind started the crucial psychological shift. Therefore, when another friend posted his announcement of sale of 2nd round tickets, I jumped. He had a pair of tickets for the July 4th match in Stanford stadium.

My first match, though, was Brazil versus Russia on June 20th in the first round. It was a hot and dry day. The area outside of Stanford stadium was a bazaar of sound and colors, rhythm and painted faces. The section of El Camino Real just outside the campus, and the road from there in towards the stadium, had both been blocked off and were filled with streams of people. They were loud and energetic, extremely looking forward to an afternoon of live entertainment. Drums and samba mingled with the crowds. Some people sang. Some people chanted. Some people danced. It was a foreshadowing of the Carnival I might have seen in Rio De Janeiro 5 years later, except that I didn’t because it was the wrong time of the year when I went (but that’s another story). There were lots of beautiful women (and some not so beautiful women too) clad in tight T-shirts, bikini tops and so on.

There is a mystique about the Brazilian team. They are known for playing “the beautiful game” – superb ball handling skills, dribbling and passing, with numerous crowd-pleasing moves and tricks. However, they are sometimes criticized for unnecessarily showy moves and a lack of focus on defense. Brazil is said to be the team that is everybody’s second favorite team – after their own team. Now, if you come from a country whose national team has never before made it into the World Cup (I won’t name names here, but you can rest assured that you’re in good company), then you can comfortably support Brazil without agonizing of the sort “Well, I really should be supporting the other team, but Brazil is more fun to watch”.

A cynic has said that soccer is about twenty two grown men chasing a silly ball around a big field. That's blatantly wrong! There're only twenty of them since the goalkeepers don't count. Seriously, though, the players debated powerfully (with their play) against that myth that day. Suddenly, Brazilian striker Romario was charging towards the Russian goal. He had two Russian defenders running at his sides, both trying to stop him. Yet, amazingly, he powered on, with the ball seemingly glued to his feet. Before we knew it, he had gotten off a shot that went by the goal keeper and into a corner. There were many other moments of beauty like this during the game.

After the game was over, the real partying began. Drums, singing, and dancing kept the samba beat going and going, as if it the energizer bunny had gone wild. People were reluctant to disperse and go home. Some friends and I followed the people into a big open tent where the samba lived on. This was totally different from a television experience.

Despite all I have had to say about the pleasures of watching a game live, I will admit that one of the most memorable experiences of the 1994 World Cup was a TV experience. People started noticing that the coverage of the World Cup on regular English TV was but a pale shadow of the coverage on the Spanish network. Watching the regular networks, you would see a player make a move to get out of a corner and hear the commentary explain what just happened (in case you didn’t realize it). The next minute would be filled with apologetic remarks – yes, unfortunately you didn’t see many goals but you did see moves like that, so – (drum roll, added by me) – “that’s why it’s exciting!” They would look at one another and nod slowly, their brows furrowed as if pondering the thought. Then you would surf over to the Spanish channels and it’d be like in the movie Titanic going from the very proper and restrained after-dinner entertainment of the upper crust to the unfettered exuberance of the 3rd class party. You wouldn’t understand a word, except for one – GOOOOAAAAAAAL – and that word would tell you all you needed to know. When a goal was scored, you would not be told how exciting it was. Instead, the next minute would be filled with screaming – GOOOOAAAAAAAL … GOOOOAAALL … GOOOOOOOOAAL

Those were memorable days. Those were days of photo-taking. Normally a cautious photographer, I was not myself those days and I used rolls upon rolls of film to preserve the memories. Now, if only I could remember where those stacks of photos have ended up …

reunions

In June 200x, I participated in the 10th-year reunion of my Princeton University class. I drove over from Eatontown, New Jersey, where I was living at that time. The drive took about an hour. Some of my classmates flew in from far-off places like California or even other countries. The situation was different fourteen years earlier, when I was among the new students who had traveled the furthest to get to Princeton.

Reunions are an annual affair. They are always held in June soon after graduation ceremonies. The clever timing of reunions makes it convenient for many members of the graduating class to attend. There are, however, also members of many other classes gathered on campus for reunions. Some classes show up in larger numbers than others. Other than the graduating class, those who have graduated 1 year ago, or a multiple of 5 years ago (especially the 5th, 10th and 25th), often show up in force. I imagine its more fun going for reunions in a multiple-of-5 year than in an off-year (I say "imagine", because I can't speak from experience about that). If you've ever driven a Toyota Forerunner or Lincoln Towncar and shared the road with a bunch of compact cars, and somehow felt good about yourself while doing so, you know the feeling of showing up at a big reunion year.

The sun was hot. I don't know why, but I just remember that the heat was intense those couple of days. It was one of my most vivid recollections of the reunions. The various impressions of orange and black also stood out. Orange and black are the colors of Princeton. The Princeton mascot is an animal with orange and black stripes - the tiger. At reunions, each reunion class has its own reunion theme, which includes its own jacket and paraphernalia. Usually, these would come in orange and black, especially orange. My class 10th reunion theme was construction, so we each received and proudly donned a hard hat. Then, our heads protected, we challenged each other to head butting duels - well, not that I actually witnessed any such thing, but with that many of us there, I'm sure someone must have been tempted.

The campus is divided into many sections. Each section is occupied by a group of classes, often one of the big reunion classes together with neighboring classes. Makeshift tents are erected in grassy courtyards surrounded by ancient ivy-covered old buildings that have long served as dormitories for students during their sojourns at Princeton. Under the (usually) orange coverings, class officers and volunteers are busily distributing class jackets and gifts, or dishing out food and drink. It is common to find people sipping beer while listening to live music. There are often tables for people to sit around and chat.

People find long lost classmates and exchange greetings. "Oh my God, you haven't changed!" is a common one. However, the resemblance to the person of 5, 10 or 25 years ago is only superficial. People find all kinds of fascinating ways to change during that time! It can be quite disconcerting. It may appear to you that the face doesn't match the person, somewhat like a personality switch, a la John Travolta and Nicholas Cage in the movie "Faces." It's the most ironic thing about reunions - you plan to get together and have things like they used to be - only to find that there's no going back. In chasing the past, you confirm its disappearance.

What's worse is that you yourself may have changed (and if you haven't, poor you - maybe you need help!). You're still the same old chap? Don't be too sure - you may be horrified to find others treating you differently. Usually this means they don't see you as the cool, sophisticated person you have developed into, but as the silly, immature brat you used to be! You know, the persona you thought was gone and out of your life forever; it comes back to haunt you!

So we have a convergence of people from all over for a brief while in a small place, with a common purpose. It is like the south of England on the eve of D-day, the different Allied armies gathered together preparing to cross the English channel and into battle. One difference is that folks are wielding not weapons but orange hard hats. Or orange and black canes and so on. But we do have our own marching out to battle. It's called the "P-rade". It's a parade of all the classes through the campus. That's the time when it's most cool to be patriotic about the university. I once even saw a live tiger in a cage at the P-rade.

During the P-rade, you wait with your classmates from earlier classes to walk by you. Perhaps you amuse yourself by suddenly pretending to be fascinated by a classmate's tales of prowess in suing nasty corporations, or another's stories of exploring the Amazon. Ten years of complete disregard for someone's life can be easily swept away just like that! Finally, you get to walk with your classmates along the familiar path that you walked years ago just after your graduation. Long hidden emotional memories return, of when you were on the brink of going out to a world ready for you to conquer. It's almost like old times again.

And then in a few days, the tents will be gone, some patches of grass may be flattened, and there may be the odd piece of something discarded here and there. Meanwhile, the grand old buildings will remain, unperturbed by the passing of the years and the passing through of class after class. Imagine if Tolkien had written a trilogy about Princeton. He'd have brought the buildings to life. They would be ivy-cloaked slow-moving creatures that took their time to get anywhere. They would speak in deep and lengthy tones, much like their distant cousins, the ents.

One more thing about orange and black - it's orange and black, not black and orange. Yes, it matters. Go, Tigers!