Cherrypicked stories

more diary wittering

Lush swathes of sound Ripple, roll from the piano. I realise I'm swaying. H's home for the weekend. The air becomes a jungle, Unfamiliar, exotic...

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...

another diary effort

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