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March 10, 2005

Shouting at the TV, Continental Edition

In which I make friends at a sports bar in Europe

Buried somewhere deep in the hierarchy of the phylum known as "My Really Geeky Habits," within the family "Obsessive Sports Fandom" and the genus "Soccer," is my fondness for the UEFA Champions League. Without going much into the details, the Champions League is this competition where they round up all the best teams from all the different soccer leagues in all the different countries throughout Europe and have them play each other in a big (mostly knock-out) competition. The main portion of the competition starts in September and finishes the following May; at this point of the year, we're just finishing off the round of 16.

Tuesday night featured a couple great second-leg matches (I could explain what "second leg" meant in greater detail, but let's just assume it away as irrelevant) with a spot in the quarterfinals on the line. Specifically, Barcelona were playing at Chelsea in one of more hyped matches of the year (lots of extraneous press coverage and whatnot). Between the countries' respective sporting presses insulting the others' style of play, the accusations of cheating between the coaches, and the bold predictions of victory, the game was shaping up to be a dandy.

And, as luck would have it, I was in Europe at the same time! Amsterdam specifically, where an early scouting mission tipped me to the presence of a legitimate-looking SPORTS BAR where I would surely be able to catch the game (said SPORTS BAR had Sportscenter on big-screen TVs in the morning -- I imagine to the delight the grubby-looking Yank backpackers yearning for a little slice of home). That is, I would have a place where I would be able to shout at the television along with 85 complete strangers. Game on.

I arrived about 30 minutes before game time; probably should have gone earlier, but I was on the verge of finishing my book and it was really good. The bouncer asked me what game I wanted to watch.

"Bartha." That's right. I pronounced it with the "th."
"Upstairs."
"Will the other games be on up there?"
"All the games will be on, but they will have sound for Barcelona."

Well this was a good sign! The staff were well-versed in the vocabulary of sports bars! (That is, it was all about where I'd be able to hear the audio.) I rambled up the stairs and was pretty shocked by the scene: the place was packed; it looked like I would be lucky to get a seat. Just I was scoping the place, a pixieish waitress flitted by and motioned for me to follow her. She then grabbed an empty chair from a partially filled table and plopped it into a shaving of negative space, directly in front of the projection screen. Not bad.

"This okay?"
"Yeah, this is great."
"You want a drink?"
"Beer."
"Okay." And she was off!

Wow. This was getting even better. This miniature waitress person had not only carved out some space for me, but she had also managed to take my drink order without the tedium of listing/ selecting a specific flavor of beer (NB: this was a situation where said brand was going to be completely irrelevant). Well played indeed.

As I waited for the beer to be fetched, I checked the scene. Hmmm. Pretty "diverse." Meaning, I have absolutely no idea what language 60 percent of the people around me were speaking. From the hoots and hollering on that accompanied the shots of Barcelona on the big-screen TV, I gathered that most folks were in the Catalans' camp. Makes sense -- Bartha definitely has more of a well-established global appeal than the Londoners. Also, Barcelona has traditionally had an affinity for Dutch players (All-Time-Best-Ever-Dutch-Footballer Johann Cruyff played there) and their current coach, Frank Rijkaard is also Dutch.

The pregame shows were mostly inscrutable, save for the one television playing the replay of the previous evening's Old Dominion - VCU game on something called Orbit ESPN. Right. College hoops. In Amsterdam. Though, when the screen flashed a Rolling Rock-sponsored "Shooting the Rock" statistic, I couldn't help but smile. "Shooting the Rock"? What, maybe six people in this room understand what the hell that means? Seven? Not just the metaphor but the tenuous connection to a beer brand -- in college sports? And then I took a moment to reflect on just how much more fantastic (and delightfully ironic!) our sports productions are than the rest of the world -- they wouldn't figure out the EU version of "shooting the rock" for at least another five to ten years. (U-S-A! U-S-A!)

My beer arrived and the big screen flashed a Mastercard ad -- it's time for UEFA Champions League! The opening shot of the telecast? Chelsea's charismatic coach Jose Mourinho, looking smug. Excellent. (Jose Mourinho has taken "looking smug" to Rumsfeldian proportions.) Then we get the obligatory shots of the teams in the tunnel, followed by -- Is it true? Is it actually him? -- the most famous bald pate in sports: referee Pierluigi Collina!

The presence of Collina officially lent this match Big Game status. There'd been all sorts of griping about the officiating in the first leg, but the buck would stop with Collina! Having Collina referee your game is akin to John Madden doing an NFL telecast (and not just because both have been video-game coverboys) -- it lends the event a serious sense of occasion. This just kept getting better.

The game kicked off with gusto, and the first couple minutes had the bar crowd loud and rowdy. More folks kept sauntering in, and my fake row was now about 12 people across. They even had people sitting on white plastic stools. The audio appeared to be in Spanish. In Holland. Of course.

Chelsea's opening goal drew lots of shouts (what a ball from Lampard and then Kezman!). The second goal was a bit more subdued. Somewhere between Chelsea goals number two and three the audio switched over to English. In Holland. (You bandwagon-jumping TV audio!) The third goal, courtesy of a sublime Damien Duff finish, and my own subsequent exclamation of "Duffer!" alerted me to the fact that no one outside my apartment actually refers to the Irish winger as "The Duffer." Check.

At this point, eighteen minutes in, I actually had the thought that I might switch over to the Man U - Milan game on one of the smaller TVs. I actually thought that! File that as Reason #412 Why I Am An Idiot.

(Speaking of Man U, I've had enough of the Brit sports press calling their young Portugese winger "Ronaldo." There already is a Ronaldo. He's really famous. Calling someone else Ronaldo is cheap, fake, and disespectful to the actual Ronaldo brand. The Man U guy should be called "Cristiano Ronaldo" at all times. Though, if this is the US and he's subject to the Sportscenter blathermonkey treatment, the kid would have been "Cronaldo" (CROE-nall-doe) for years now. I'm just sayin.)

Of course, I'm an idiot because Bartha scored two goals in quick succession and suddenly were back in control of the tie. After just 38 minutes. My notes at that point read "Best 38 minutes ever." This was also when I started to make some friends. And all it took was "HOLY SHIT! All this in 38 minutes! We're in for a long night!" And suddenly I'm making chit-chat with two separate groups -- a Scottish guy and his girlfriend, and then a couple journalists, one of whom was a Barcelona native. (Note to self: be polite about potential results!)

Halftime was uneventful, save for my own sublime timing in getting to the bathroom JUST ahead of the rush. Nice.

The second half was tense from the get-go: Barca had the possession, but Chelsea were holding their shape and seemed up to the challenge. Both keepers made some clutch saves. It was tense. Far from over. I turned to the journo from Barcelona:

"Barca REALLY needs to score another goal to win this game."
"No, they will win if the score stays the same."
"No no, I get it, but I just think they need to score again to make sure they win."
"But because they have scored two goals [on the road -- meaning they had the away-goals tiebreaker], they will win."
"I get the away-goals thing, but I don't think this is over."

(This clearly wasn't going anywhere.)

More saves, more shouting. The bar was getting louder and louder. I met some dudes from Liverpool who were in Amsterdam for the evening on their way to the following day's Liverpool - Leverkusen match in Germany. Uh-huh. Gotcha. These guys looked like they'd been drinking for approximately 7.5 hours.

At some point in the second half, Barca defender Carlos Puyol made a notable play, prompting me to turn to the guy next to me (you know, the one from that part of the world) and try to explain how I thought Carlos Puyol was a sweet player. Only I put that statement in the context of "usually most Spanish players are cowards," and Puyol stands out by "not being a coward." Smooth. Maybe I should talk to the British guys again.

A few minutes after another aborted "Barca REALLY need to score again" conversation with no one in particular (prompting another aborted explanation of the away-goals rule), John Terry scored for Chelsea. And now they're ahead. And Barca really DID need to score again. I made a point of not looking at the dude next to me.

The last fifteen minutes were tense. Tight. Barca had some looks, but Chelsea managed to survive and win the game. Much hooting and hollering from the Peanut Gallery, though it hadn't sounded like there was so much Chelsea support at the bar during the game. I would guess it was mostly the Brits in the place looking for a reason to taunt the rest of the place. Not to point a finger or anything.

After a few exchanges of "Helluva game!" and "Good one! Good one!" I said my goodbyes and made my way back into the Amsterdam night. Needed to find some food and make my way back to my hotel. Of course, it wouldn't be Amsterdam if I hadn't run into two drunk-looking eighteen-year-old British kids (and eighteen is generous) who asked me if I knew the way to the Red Light District.

Oh man. I should have conducted an intervention. I really should have. I should have told them to go home, or played dumb, or something. But hey, if these kids wanted to film some scenes in their coming-of-age drama this evening, that's their story.

"That way." (Pointing in the direction they were already walking -- I really had no idea how to tell them to get there, but I figured it was roughly that way, where "that way" = "near the train station.")
"Thanks." And they stumbled off.

Remarkably, the away-goals rule didn't come up.

Posted by thatkid at March 10, 2005 6:17 PM under Sports

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