M) Spain v South Korea... from Madrid

My record leading up to Spain was abysmal. From thirteen games I had
three wins, four draws and five miserable losses. If I were a team that
I managed and coached, I would have gone on strike, resigned and sacked
myself by now.

I yearned to see some dancing in the streets. With a strong team and a
country full of Spaniards, I believed that Spain might provide the
remedy. I dearly hoped they would reach at least the quarter finals for
which I hoped to make Madrid. They did and I did. Just.

Italy's railways conspired to make me miss all the best trains. A final
flick under the chin in my direction on my departure. I had to get
creative and concocted a path from Milano to Madrid via Paris where I
deposited Deb.

"Goodbye, I love you" I said.

"Love you too. Pick me up something nice. Remember its my birthday
soon!"

"Of course I remember!" Of course I did not.

"The thirtieth of June" she said reading my mind.

"2002?"

"Well, yes... its the same every year."

"Um... okay, sure!"

The thirtieth of June 2002! The same day as the World Cup Final! Never
mind. I smiled and waved. Surely, by then I will have mastered being in
two places at once. After all, I have been practicing so hard all of my
life.

I tried and tried to get a ticket to Madrid, but all of Spain had been
shut down by strikes. I could only get a ticket to Irun, a little
nowhere town just over the border, but Madrid may have well been on the
moon. I decided to go to Irun and take my chances after that with a
bus, hitching, walking... anything.

I had a little time to spare before my train to Irun, which I found
quite unsettling. My habit of running for transport is so well
ingrained that I find myself running for buses even when I am not
running late, just in case I just miss one. When I die, I am sure my
personal heaven or hell will entail forever running to catch something,
the only difference being whether I always arrive just in time to make
it or to watch it pull away.

I decided to line up at the information desk once more to see if
anything had changed with Spain's strike situation. With about fifteen
minutes left before my train to Irun departed, I discovered that they
had managed to arrange for one direct train to Madrid that night. If I
could get a ticket on that train, I could forget about Irun. If I could
not get a ticket, but also missed my train to Irun, I could forget
about Madrid. Game on. Running time!

I ran to and talked my way through a queue only to find that it was the
wrong one! Five minutes squandered, less than ten minutes left. Still
enough time to risk break for make. I repeated the process, but this
time my sweating was begging was in the right place and with only two
or three minutes to spare I secured my prize! The train to Irun pulled
away with one more empty seat, one less so on the train to Madrid that
night.

I boarded the train and was locked down in a cell with three other
gents for what was to be a twelve hour journey, but which grew to
twenty four. Unapologetic conductors advised us that two trains had
crashed on the track and we should be very grateful that ours did not
make a third. It could be arranged.

Our cell grew tense. The guy from Sierra Leone took exception to the
American. The Asian guy, whose only words were a request to use my
phone (politely declined), took exception to me. I took exception to
all the taking of exception by everyone except for the American guy who
just talked and talked to everyone without exception.

When we were finally released, I found a room in a 'hostal' near the
Palace Mayor. This was where I expected the locals to gather to
celebrate if they were to win. I then searched the city for hours for
the best place to watch the game, ending my search exactly where it
began: at a little taberna called La Maja, almost right next door to my
hostal.

La Maja advertised 'Espana v Corea' on a chalkboard and the barman,
Cristo, wore Spain's colours in anticipation of the big game. The walls
carried regalia of bullfights, the bar was busy with bottles and tapas
and there were no tourists about. There were barely any customers at
all in fact despite, or I suspected because of, the pushy pressed and
pleated owner grabbing at all passers by and getting stuck into his
workers.

He stood obnoxiously adding to, rather than helping to clean up, the
generous pile of cigarette butts that lay heaped on the floor. He was
well tolerated by Cristo who seemed to me to have quite a sense of
humour, or at least so his short blonde dyed hair and lamp chops
indicated. I drained a couple of 'San Miguels' and then, feeling
inspired by Cristo, went home to shave.

Shaving is no small exercise for me. Its an all over job. I have
adopted the common bald man's technique of shaving off all of the
little hair I have left. A kind of reverse psychology, a bluff if you
like. When I did have hair, I knew it to be thick. One day the stupid
stuff will think I do not really want it and will return to my head.
And when it does, I will wear it in such ridiculous styles it will rue
the day it ever left me. The last laugh will be mine!

After a long time of shaving and slicing my head (from throwing it back
when evil laughter overcame me), I retired to blot my cuts on my pillow
and mess up my bed.

I rose early and discovered plenty of bars and cafeterias open early.
It was not so much a case of deciding where to watch the game as
choosing where not to watch it. Of course I already knew where I would
not be not watching it. La Maja of course.

The drums beat loudly outside La Maja, but on my arrival I found the
place to be empty. Across the way, one of Madrid's many Irish bars had
set up a big screen and was drawing in the youngsters by the hundreds.
It was for La Fontana de Oro that the drums beat that morning.

Cristo sat alone, ever so proudly wearing the same shirt from the night
before. He recognised me and beckoned me over. Call me a softie, a
pushover, all heart if you will, but I walked straight past the Irish
bar and into La Maja, sat down and ordered a beer to enjoy kick off
with old Cristo. He had become my new friend, but was always my barman
first. He still made me pay.

We watched in complete silence. Cristo, the game and I, him. He rested
his meaty elbows on the counter, lightly tugging on one lamp chop,
smoking and ashing onto the floor, still filthy from the night, or
perhaps week or even month before.

It started a most passionate game, one to be fought hard by both sides.
The attacks were courageous, the defence inspired. A leaping kick by a
Spanish player that would have made for a spectacular goal brought a
huge roar from La Fontana de Oro. I knew I could not just ignore the
place the whole game. It had the biggest gathering of people in the
area, even if it was in an Irish pub. What an odd and misplaced
celebration must have occurred there when Spain so recently brought
about Ireland's demise.

I took my leave from La Maja when another customer wondered in. La
Fontana de Oro was bursting with a crowd, quite young and excited,
dressed up and face painted. They were a disorganised rabble and could
not keep together a chant, some taking to body painting each other or
even sleeping instead of watching the match. Cristo would not have
stood for such nonsense. There was a game to be watched and so I bought
an overpriced Guinness and settled in for some watching.

An indiscretion by Spain gave South Korea an early penalty. The room
held a collective breath of bar fumes, released in a gust when the
penalty brought naught. Another South Korean attack followed, but it
was defended too well in what seemed to me to be a great goalkeeper's
game. For me, the highlight of the match was when South Korea's goalie
leapt with a stretch to catch the ball, stopping what seemed to be a
sure goal, just landing on the safe side of the line. Defence ruled
supreme throughout the first half and it ended with the scores tied at
nil-all.

I went for my usual half time wander. I checked out 'Bar Cadiz',
basically a butcher with beer, the television competing for space with
what were once something's legs. I was in 'Nueva Galicia Cafeteria'
when the second half started. A group of old men played cards while
watching the game, but when Spain had a goal disallowed, no one moved
or flinched or so much as muttered. This was no good. Quiet character I
could handle, hell I just watched kick off with Cristo, but I sought
some sort of reaction. I moved on, leaving them to what must have been
one hell of a card game.

Like so many others, I found myself drawn back to La Fontana de Oro,
perhaps beckoned by the drums that beat from within. I tried to settle
back into the match, but was distracted for a moment when a chest
painted fellow thrust me a set of keys. I took them bemused only to
slowly deduce now held the keys to his hostal room and it seemed to his
heart. The offer was touching, but I fancied no more and after I
returned him his keys and he my hand, it was back to the game.

A magnificent match of back and forth was playing out. Great corner
kicks followed great defence followed great attacks again and again.
Spain's goalkeeper continued to give the crowd reason to keep breathing
and cheering and even inspired them to a rare shared set of "Ole's".
The two sides closed out the half with the bravery of two bullfighters
brave enough to fight each other instead of an unwilling animal. And
like any bullfight neither side looked the winner. The scores were
still tied at nil-all.

I felt it best that I watch the rest of the game in a Spanish bar
instead of an Irish one that just happened to be in Spain. I soaked up
the peace of the quiet crowd in 'El Club 3 Bar' and admired the decor
in 'Restaurant Cerveceria' with a bull's head on every wall. I knew
where I wanted to be and made my way back to La Maja and back to old
Cristo.

Extra time commenced and Cristo looked ill. There was energy, rough
play and frustration and one mighty close Spanish shot at goal,
bouncing off the post in a manner hauntingly similar to Sweden's late
miss in their recent big match. After two full halves of extra time
played out there was still no score.

People rushed in from La Fontana de Oro to use the toilet. Cristo did
not care. The boss strutted in, also wearing exactly the same outfit
from the night before. (These men made me feel positively hygenic!)
Again, Cristo did not flinch, but sat slumped and stared at the
screen.

It was penalty time and we watched undivided. For me, it was my first
time. I knew the general idea. Five shots at goal. Five shots at losing
it all. South Korea went first and drilled it into the back of the net.
I was surprised and disappointed, but this was clearly the norm as the
teams went one for one to make it three all. South Korea's turn again
and sure enough in the net. Then came Spain's final moment for this
great World Cup... a miss. South Korea made sure of their last.

There was nothing. Silent agony. I twirled to take one last photo of
Cristo, but I just caught myself in the face of his despair. I lowered
my camera and left, head down, stomach turning with shame. I felt like
I had just eaten a tub of popcorn at a funeral and then thrown up in
the grave. I respectfully observed a sad procession exit the Irish pub
and enter the streets. Some sat and wept. Most just disappeared. I took
a long lonely walk around the Palace Royal. It was empty save for a few
tourists and together we longed for the Spaniards and the celebrations
we needed to fill the emptiness within.

I left Madrid at about siesta o'clock, a quiet time, though I had no
doubt it was quieter than usual. I faced a long train ride out of
Madrid and it was made no easier in the face of bitter defeat. Four in
a row now. Four times watching a nation crash out of the Cup. No
good.

The next journey will be to a nation that I have been watching from
afar, but which has well earned my closer inspection and inspired me to
make my longest journey yet. May it also bring my biggest reward.
Perhaps in Turkey they will dance in the streets...