I fully intended to publish a post I started to write early yesterday. However, after having met a nice person in the park whilst running (or, more accurately, whilst giving Mara a respite in the shade between runs), I was happily invited to watch the United States v Portugal match in a nearby pub. Suffice to say, it was an offer I couldn’t well refuse. I mean, a nice person and a World Cup match? You cannot ask for anything more, really. Save for a win, of course.
A win, however, was too much to ask for, it would seem. It was a real pity, as I’ve never seen such a matchday atmosphere for a US men’s national soccer team match before. Apparently, we watched the match in an Outlaw-approved venue, which meant that all of the city’s hardcore fans turned out ready to support their team. And to drink. Copiously. For my part, I didn’t drink nearly as much as most, but I cannot say that I minded any. It was fun enough to people-watch.
And there were so many people to watch. Most were dressed in red, white, and blue, of course. Some had the new USA kit, which is so much nicer than the denim-esque effort mercifully last sported in 1994. (If I would ever wear it, I’d consider getting one myself.) Some wore Uncle Sam-like top hats. Some had their faces painted in the manner that is practically de rigueur at international matches these days. And everyone sang their new favourite chant: ‘I believe that we will win!‘
At least everyone sang until the ninety-fifth minute. I’m still pretty cross about the result, not least because the crosser of that final unfortunate ball happens to be my least favourite player currently playing. It was even more sickening that the Portuguese didn’t even celebrate their equaliser, even as they put an abrupt end to our own festivities. Typically thoughtless of them. It was amazing just how quiet it got after they scored. I’ve never heard (or, rather, not heard) anything like it.
Before leaving for the match, I read the expression ‘a real curate’s egg of a performance‘ by a Guardian writer describing the play of the Dutch against Australia. And though it chagrins me to admit it, I couldn’t help but think of that very expression after our own match. The USA has come a long, long way, both in terms of its own play and in the fervour of its growing fanbase. And while there was much to praise about a goodly part of how they performed, it remains a very bad result.
Now the optimist in me wants to think of this particular idiom in terms of it meaning something that can be perceived as having both good and bad qualities. The pessimist in me, however, keeps going back to the inescapable fact that a bad egg is a bad egg, no matter what the curate says. It’s a pity, really. I had a really good time with a really nice group of people. And now I must wait until Thursday to see if we will make the next round. A curate’s egg of a performance indeed.
three pipe pod 