Part one. The Group stage
The airport effect.
In a recent article in the ‘Spectator’, Rory Sutherland writes about what he calls the “airport effect” – “that constant low-level anxiety you experience at airports by knowing that any deviation from imposed rules – from an overweight cabin bag to a misheard announcement – can spiral into a nightmare. The larger and more dehumanised the airport becomes, the worse the anxiety.”
I had three doses of this on the outward journey. By some act of absent mindedness, I uploaded an old passport while trying to check in online. This was the first dose.
I realised the mistake at the verification stage, but the system would not allow me to remove it. I tried leaving the system and doing it again and was pleased to learn that everything would be lost – except it wasn’t. “Information already uploaded”, it said and there was no way to remove it. I tried a chat facility with an operator from Condor Airlines, and after some time was told that once a passport was uploaded it was locked in the system and it could only be removed at the airport, and I should arrive at least 3 hours early. “Der computer sagt ‘nein’?”, I asked him, but he did not recognise the joke.
In this way, 11 June became a day of 30 hours. Arriving at the airport at 5.30 a.m. required waking up at 4.00. The lady at the desk, after refusing to speak to me in Hungarian (“English only”, which I noted as meaning her intermediate level English), said she had removed the old passport and I should check in online to avoid a fee. Except she hadn’t. Trying to check in again online, I received one of those irritating “something went wrong” messages, “airport check in only” and had to queue again. I had to copy this on to the phone for the lady did not seem to be able to deal with non-standard situations. I paid the €25 fee and in return received two nice old-fashioned boarding cards.
The second was at Frankfurt. Hungary and Germany being both in Schengen, there was no passport control on leaving Budapest, but there was in Frankfurt, which was where I was leaving the Schengen area. Unfortunately, as were several hundred other people at the same time. There were only 4 booths open and the queue was considerable. Part of this was automated and was able to be done by standing in front of a machine which checked your passport, but a physical check and stamp was still required. There was an hour and 45 minutes between the flights and after an hour in the queue we were only halfway to the booths. There was a group of russians with American passports behind me. Not being a lover of russians, I did not say a word to them, but I could understand what they were saying and I understood that they were on the same flight. They persuaded a lady who was supervising the queue to let them jump it, so I tagged along behind it, telling the lady that I was on the same flight.
This is where it helps to be small. When we got to the front there was quite a fracas with those at the front objecting to us jumping the “line” and everyone shouting at each other in lower-intermediate English (hence the “line”, you only get “queue” at upper intermediate or beyond). One of the russians had lifted up the rope to let another, maybe his wife, to get through. I nipped underneath it and slipped in between two tall people, didn’t say a word, and didn’t look at anybody, and in less than a minute was in front of the passport desk, while the police sent the russians to the back. “What was all that about?” I asked the guard, all innocent hem hem. I believe the russians missed the flight as I did not see them on the plane.
The flight was surprisingly not bad at all. My companions were an American lady of Croatian origin and two Moroccans living in France. Why do we keep getting drawn against Croatia, and, more to the point, why do we never play well against them? We did play well against them in the Euros in 2004 when Wayne Rooney burst on the scene, but since then we have had the Wally with the brolly match in 2007, the bobble in 2006, the World Cup semi-final in 2018, and now this match. We have also got them in the Nations’ League in October, a game to be played behind closed doors as a punishment for racist chanting or something by their supporters, which is actually punishing us as well – and for the second time as well. The Croatian was not going to our match with them in Dallas but was going to Croatia v Ghana in New York and had paid over $600 for her ticket. More on the ticket pricing anon but just about everyone is aware of the prices charged. In that respect, it was good to see all the empty seats at the South Korea – Czech Republic match. FIFA have been too greedy – if such a thing is possible – and this is the most effective illustration of it.
The third was on arrival in New York. The passport control here is very very slow. Mercifully after about 45 minutes of waiting, the US Citizens having all cleared, their booths were opened for us as well. However, I had to go to an office for special clearance as I had reported a lost passport. The Guard asked me had I ever reported a lost passport and I said yes, I had lost one on a train in Hungary in 2022. After 4 years, that was the first time anyone in any country had asked about that. Horror stories about US passport control to date include the Iraqi captain who was questioned for 9 hours and the Somalian referee who was sent back, despite having a diplomatic passport. The biggest shame about that last one was FIFA’s lack of support for one of its own referees, with Infantino merely shrugging it off as the US can allow in who it likes. So I got off lightly.
Plague of Scots
If Moses had inflicted these on the Egyptians, he might have been allowed out of Egypt with much less fuss. New York JFK to Penn Station is a trip on an overhead monorail to Jamaica station and then the Long Island Railway to the station. There were Scots everywhere. A group of half a dozen, two in kilts got on at the next terminal monorail stop. To one of those who got on the monorail I asked how they were getting to the match in Boston. This stadium is about 25 miles from Boston and on matchdays, the local authority is closing all normal public transport and having special trains at $80 return – another example of blatant price gouging. One of our supporters had chartered 3 buses for us, priced at $30 but was told at the last minute that those vehicles have now been requisitioned by FIFA and were no longer available. He told me that they were not going to to any of the matches and were just there for the atmosphere. Go figure, as they say in Noo York.
Jamaica Station was sweltering. More Scots, and more again at Penn Station where I could see there was a train to Boston. Pasty white faces and pasty white legs poking out from under their kilts. I have since read numerous newspaper reports about how they have endeared themselves to the Bostonians not only by drinking their City dry but also paying top whack prices into the bargain. I suppose they have had 28 years to save up but it does belie both the reputation of the canny Scot and the cost of living crisis. One report read of a man who had downed 17 vodka seltzers in the stadium. At stadium prices I would not buy so much as a bottle of water but there you go. They drink, wave their flag, sing and are sweet and cuddly. We drink, wave our flag and sing and we get called names. However, not wishing to be uncharitable, and with Don Hyam of Wrexham in their side, I would like to wish them the best of luck on the off chance that they get out of their group and that we meet them later in the tournament.
Washington
Train 97 to Washington departed and ran on time as far as a station called BWI where the locomotive gave up the ghost. After 40 minutes or so, we managed to start up and got an announcement that we were now on our way to Washington and that nothing else would delay us. Except it did. As if on cue, the moment the Guard had said this, the train lost speed and we stopped again. “Famous last words” I announced to the rest of the carriage. The Guard then said they would try something else. They would switch off the power inside the train to conserve power for the locomotive. This was in fact something of a blessing as the carriage had a very aggressive air conditioning, such that, despite the weather, the carriage was freezing cold. So we limped into Washington over an hour late.
I stayed in Arlington Virginia at Days Inn. My Uber driver was called Abdul Kadir and came from Somalia. I said that was a good name – had he heard of the leg spinner Abdul Qadir? No he hadn’t. What did he think of the Somalian referee being locked out. “Trump is a Sikh man” , “Sikh? Oh, sick” as I imagined Donny in a turban with a fly whisk. Did he like America? Very much. He had been there 30 years and said the people were good people. It turned out he was particularly happy as my route was on his way home, so I was his last customer for the day.
It was a nice hotel and good value at $45 a night, including a free but basic breakfast where I had to make porridge in a microwave and it boiled over so I had to clean up the mess. Then a bus directly to the centre. $2.25 money in the slot and no change given. Except it terminated at Pentagon City so metro to Archives and then a walk to have a look at the White House. Well the White House was not just off limits but the whole area round the gardens was boarded off with hoardings. “Sarry surr you can’t come through here” said the policeman. The sign said: “Event ticket holders only” and a lot of people with lanyards round their necks were busying around. “What’s the event?” I asked him. It was a cage fight (UFA) in honour of Trump’s 80th birthday. I crossed the road again by where Rhodes’ Tavern once stood, recalling one of my favourite bits of American history, when we went to America in 1814 “to teach Jonathan a lesson” and amongst other things burnt the White House. We did not burn this Tavern down then as Admiral Cockburn’s order was only to burn public buildings and not damage private property. Then I followed the policeman’s directions down the hill to Constitution Avenue and turned right.
Walking down the hill the White House was still boarded up and out of view, then up the other side, with hoardings all round. At every entrance there were assorted police, homeland security and secret service – not very secret if you are wearing a badge saying so, I thought. This was not even the day of the fight which is tomorrow. I would hate to think what it must cost to have all these people hanging around doing nothing.
Coming to the north side of the White House, there was a space by fencing where it was possible to see the building and where there was a group of Chinese tourists taking pictures – so I asked one of them to take mine for the record.
Then back to Constitution Avenue and so to the Capitol – which we did burn in 1814. Apparently the British soldiers piled up all the chairs in the middle, while one of them sat in the Speaker’s Chair and asked his comrades “Shall we burn this den of Yankee democracy? All those in favour say ‘aye’”/ The vote was carried and the building was torched.
From here, I walked to Union Station, and thence for a pint in the City Tavern. A caravan of missionaries was on the route selling very nice pies as a fund raiser for $4. “Good food, good cause” said the billboard. So I had a pie for Jesus.
I came back to the north side of the White House where I had taken the picture. Two men with placards stood in the place where I had taken my picture and one of them was bellowing through a megaphone at the White House in general and probably Donny in particular. “Riches will not save you in the day of death” he hollered A tall thin black man pushed some religious tracts into my hands and put an “I love Jesus” cap on my head. “I agree with 3 of the 4 statements”, I told him, “but you are being a bit hard on the Catholics”. I think the false prophet of the Revelation might be omeone else”. He asked me for a donation for the cap, so I gave him something.
Leaving them behind me – but not for long as the two hollerers followed at a distance, left and down to Constitution Avenue I then walked the length of it to the Lincoln Memorial, then over the Memorial Bridge in sweltering heat to Arlington on the other side, metro and bus back to the hotel.
There was not a glimpse of the World Cup in Washington, and no interest in it from anyone I met. As a journalist in the Times wrote “FIFA has pimped out the World Cup to a country which is not interested in it”. Trump missed the opening for his wretched cage fight. At least Mexico put on a worthy opening match – which I missed as I was travelling – but then watched South Korea against Czech Republic with its rows of empty seats. Even the USA’s match against Paraguay – a very good 4-1 win for them – did not attract much interest.
On the next day, Saturday, with even more security plaguing the centre of Washington, bus and metro to Union Station to dump my bag ($20 for bag storage!) then off to the Smithsonian Museum of American History. This is a nice museum, though of course I had mixed feelings about the star spangled banner section. The more so about America in the World Wars, with a TV display of how proud they were of their neutrality in 1940 and then of lend-lease, both of which have striking parallels in the russo-Ukrainian War. The US has a long history of making its allies pay for everything while making money themselves out of the wars. Disgraceful.
Still, there was a nice section on the Anglo-American War of 1814 which is barely known about in the UK. Again, the US behaved disgracefully, taking advantage of our being engaged with Napoleon to invade Canada and set fire to York (now Toronto). The English expedition of that year was sent with no other plans than “to teach Jonathan a lesson” (“Jonathan” being at that time our name for the Americans), so not well planned, but includes the hilarious story of President Madison scuttling out of Washington at the last minute, leaving dinner on the table, which the British officers sat down and ate before torching the White House, Capitol, and much of the City. I recommend Peter Snow’s book “When Britain burned the White House” as a very entertaining read of this war and how it ended with our failure to take Baltimore and their blasted star-spangled banner.
There are also good sections on the Korean and Vietnamese Wars. Nothing yet on Afghanistan.
Washington to Nashville.
Back to Union Station and train 19 from New York to New Orleans via Washington and Atlanta, was 3 and a half hours late leaving Washington. Apparently, this time it was some kind of accident on the line at New York which had delayed everything, but I suspect locomotive failure as well as we spent a very long time at Charlotte. My $500 Amtrak USA pass gives me 10 segments in 30 days, and a segment can be as long or as short as you want. If you have to change trains, then the second train is a second segment. Unreserved seats only and no upgrades allowed. Having been on Amtrak before on my round the world trip in 2007 and on a quick trip for two England friendlies in 2006, this was a side of US trains I had not seen. On the previous occasions, I had sleeper tickets (which Amtrak calls “roomettes”). They include meals in the dining car as well, all very civilised but now horrendously expensive. As a comparison, while my ticket from Emeryville to Chicago in 2007 cost around $250, the price now is over $1,000. Hence the USA pass.
Coach seats do not give you access to the Diner, just to a café car which gave us a bottle of water and some snack packs because of the delay. Otherwise, all my fellow passengers were some of America’s poorest and I would note that the only other white ones apart from myself were two Spanish supporters on their way to New Orleans. Amtrak has some practices which are quite different from European trains. First, boarding. You are not allowed to go down onto the platform and wait for your train. Instead, rather like at an airport, you are held behind a boarding gate almost to the last minute. However, the actual gate is only announced at the last minute minus a few seconds. So, for New York to Washington this resulted in one mad charge to form a “line” – with all the usual attendant things and shouting on such occasions, such as second queue developing and going off at angles, and people shouting, and then down the escalators and a second mad charge for seats. A railway official said better at the front of the train, so I went off to the front and got a seat.
For Washington to Atlanta, I expected the same thing so for the second charge went ahead to a coach without a queue, but the attendant said his coach was for New Orleans passengers: Atlanta passengers should go on the previous one and we should have been told that (we weren’t). The attendant for the Atlanta coach gave me a card with “11 / ATL” written on it and I got seat 11 A and B – and luckily both seats for the whole journey as the train filled up at intermediate stops. You have to keep this card visible for the whole journey and there is a notch under the overhead luggage rack for it. The seats are large and I got some sleep. When I woke up, I saw we were in Charlotte, North Carolina. I went back to sleep, but when I woke up again, we were still in Charlotte, North Carolina. Eventually though, we did leave, and it was now light:
Nothing can be finer
Than to be in Carolina
In the maw-aw-aw-aw-aw-nin’
Very nice countryside, neat farms and nice weather-boarded houses:
Strolling with ma girly
When the dew is pearly early
In the maw-aw-aw-aw-aw-nin’
The station at Atlanta is hidden alongside a freeway. It is a single platform and receives one train a day – this one – in each direction. The station building is reminiscent of that at Salford Crescent, being on a corner with very limited parking. However, Salford Crescent has more platforms, more trains and more passengers. I suspect most people living in Atlanta are unaware that they have a rail service.
From here it was a walk of 2 miles to the bus station. Part of the way along, at the Art centre the heavens opened, I went to a café and found I could take a metro from a station outside directly to the bus station so did. The bus station is not a nice area, with various unpleasant looking types loitering around and a whiff of marijuana in the air. I had a few hours to wait, then a bus, on which I was able to get audio commentary of Netherlands v Japan, and a call and messages from one of my Japanese pupils: are you watching us? No but I am listening to you – their supporters sung “Nippon, Nippon” over and over again for the whole match. Then we had a stop, amusingly at Manchester, Tennessee – for the record a small, utterly non-descript town of about 15,000 people – and so to Nashville, and an Uber (Egyptian this time) to Knight’s Inn where I was very happy to have a bed for the next two nights.
Other matches
I have not watched every game, often due to travelling but also with the bloated tournament, they come on thick and fast, there are so many and there is a limit to the amount of this stuff one can watch. Following the first day’s matches, I saw Canada’s draw with Bosnia. Canada, I’m afraid were truly awful, especially in the first half. Their World Cup record prior to this match was played 3, lost 3 and scored 2 goals. The Bosnians only have themselves to blame for letting Canada get its historic first ever point at a World cup. I’m all the more sorry for the Welsh who are not here as they lost their playoff to Bosnia. They would have been in a soft group, where there is all to play for following Qatar’s surprising 1-1 draw with Switzerland, which I did not see.
In keeping with the US’s lack of interest in the World Cup, it is not easy to find matches on TV. Scrolling through the channels you get all the usual stuff – American Football, Ice Hockey, Baseball, so for football I am relying on a Latin American channel which is all in Spanish but easy to understand. I am generally watching 1or 2 games per day so in group C it was Morocco’s draw with Brazil and that superb goal. Morocco are the team of the moment in my opinion. Then I was only able to listen to Scotland grind out its 1-0 win against Haiti. I think Scotland need a point from its other two Games to go through and are more likely to get it against Brazil than Morocco.
For Spain v Cabo Verde, a confession – I just followed it on a minute-by-minute report, but all credit to Cabo Verde for showing them that you can get points without even having the ball. A lesson in how to park the bus, and especially from their goalkeeper.
For Group F it was Sweden’s golazo against Tunisia, (that resulted in the sacking of the Tunisian trainer), and I seem to have missed the other golazo, by Germany against Curacao.
Then the games came on and on. I seemed to miss Australia’s surprising win against Turkey – fair dinkum – but also Saudi – Uruguay, Belgium – Egypt, Ivory Coast – Ecuador and Iraq-Norway.
But then on came the Frogs, and uncharacteristically they have not had their traditional bust-up and came out of the blocks running. Superb play and goals from Mbappé but also confident play – and good defending against a considerably improved Senegal side. So we had no repeat of 2002 when France memorably lost their World Cup opener to Senegal.
Nashville
I didn’t realise that the “Music Valley” and Gran’ Ole Opry were about 5 miles out of town. This was a half hour walk and then a bus ride. Buses here are just $1 flat fare, which is very reasonable. I went to the Music Legends museum, and Madame Tussauds, which claimed to be “The best wax museum in the world”. “What about Madam Tussauds in London” I asked. Nope. Theirs is better. The models are very good, and I even learnt who some of the names are that I keep hearing, such as Beyonce, Rihanna and Justin Timberlake.
Then back to the hotel to watch Iran v New Zealand on the Latin channel with its delectable presenter Linsay Cassinelli.
This game has been noted for various historical reasons, first game of a country at war with a host and so on. For me, slightly more interesting, Wrexham’s Libero Carace (“Liberace” to us) was in the NZ starting line-up. The “All Whites” played in All Black for a change, and the match, while frenetic, was about the standard of a National League playoff.
Nashville to Dallas
So an early start with a bus at 7.05 to arrive in Dallas at 21.45. A huge all-American Uber driver called Floyd this time, who made jokes about what was on the radio, and talked about pies. A nice change.
At Memphis, we had to get out for an hour and a change of driver. On came a wizened Texan with a huge grey beard and an accent to match. He read out the list of stops then said “If you’re not going to any of those then “ged arff mah bass”. Then he read out the rules: “No drugs. No pot, no nose-candy, no alcohol, no smoking no vaping”, and if you want to listen to music only through ear phones.
There were quite a few stops. One comment then – it is hard to find any decent food at these stops. Rows and rows of the kind of snacks that I just don’t want to eat – crisps (potato chips) more crisps, pretzels, biscuits, over-sweetened chocolate, drinks all brightly coloured, fizzy and again over-sweetened. Then we had a stop where they had some ribs and deep fried potato wedges. Eating these, a black came up to me – “you eatin’ ribs, can I have some?” so I gave him a chunk. To go with it, “no added sugar” apple juice. However still unbearably sweet so that must be the apples here.
I listened to Argentina v Algeria on Radio 5 Live and got more and more irritated by the commentator and pundit gushing over Messi. Richard and Dave felt the same when I met them. “Is he the best of all time?” asked the commentator. No, he is not. Pele was and is, and just because you aren’t old enough to remember him does not make any difference.
At least Messi is an ageing star who can still play. This is not the case with Ronaldo at 41 (described by the Independent’s journalist as a “muscular scarecrow”, nor Modri, whose only contribution against us was to give away a penalty.
Dallas
I arrived at Dallas bus station at 10 pm. Uber to our AirBnb, a town house in Arlington, just under 2 miles from the Stadium. I noticed that the driver, Patrice was French. He was from Ivory Coast. Ha ha, you beat Ecuador. Would he go to any matches. No, too expensive, but if you go, I’ll drive you there. He had been in the US for 2 years. Why Dallas? Because his sister was already here. I wished him the best of luck against Germany later this week.
Richard and Dave were already asleep on the top floor and I had the sofa bed on the middle floor. The whole of the next day was preparation for the match. A brunch and beers at the Black Sheep Sports Bar on the way to the ground and at last some decent food – excellent brisket, that had been slow cooked for a long time. Then off to the stadium where we all supported Congo and gloated over the scarecrow’s efforts or lack of them. Under the “no *rseholes” rule, Ronaldo should be dropped. He is blocking younger players from coming through and also inhibiting his team mates. Still the Portuguese did what they always do when they disagree with the referee, crowd round him and intimidate him.
And so to our game. First to note that this was a magnificent stadium, with a roof and air conditioning inside, and a tremendous atmosphere in the hour before the game. Next, the opposition. A big banana skin. We keep getting Croatia, and we don’t play well against them. It was an error on their part to play Modric. As with Ronaldo, he is on the way down and blocking a younger player. We were jittery at the start and awful in the first half. The penalty was a surprise: I thought that French referee, Clément Turpin, hated us. The penalty was weak and the Croatian goalkeeper saved it. Then VAR check. The VAR always fonds against us but not this time, and a retake was ordered as the goalkeeper was not on his line. Harry Kane actually took the same penalty but this time, the goalkeeper went the wrong way. Next, Croatia equalised – awful defending by us, and Pickford should have got to it. Then Kane got one from a corner where, bizarrely, he was unmarked. But the Croatians equalised again right on half time.
We were supposed to be seated in a Group but super FIFA had put me in a separate block from Richard and Dave and I was next to a very large supporter from Portsmouth. Our general feeling from the body language of the players, and the look on Harry Kane’s face as they came back on was that Tuchel had given them a rollicking. If he had, it had the desired effect. We were so much better. Bellingham took the ball down the right and shot: it had goal written all over it. Then a period when we peppered the Croatian goal with shots and we saw a remarkable series of saves from their goalkeeper. Then on came Rashford who scored our fourth.
This was one of those occasions where we all stayed on singing for at least 20 minutes after the game was over. Fantastic atmosphere. Post match celebrations with various others we have met at other games at Division Craft Brewery near the Black Sheep. What a relief. Banana skin avoided. The other match in our group was on Ghana beat Panama 1-0 scoring in the last minute/ “I’m appalled at the lack of diversity in the Ghana side” said someone – not me this time. We got roped in to a trivia quiz night and came 10th out of about 16 teams. Too many questions requiring US knowledgeThe next day, Richard and Dave went off and I moved to another hotel, some way from the centre. The driver this time, Jhonny, was from Guayaquil, which I know very well. He had been in the US for 40 years, and was now retired but had not been back due to fear of flying. Oh, Guayaquil de mis amores….
Large parts of Dallas, such as Arlington, seem to be without public transport. However there is the DART (Dallas Area Rapid Transport) which I would describe as a tram system, similar to that in Manchester. A day pass costs $6 which is very reasonable, and there was a station half an hour’s walk from the hotel, so a walk there in 35 degree heat to go to the centre to see the Grassy Knoll from where President Kennedy was supposedly shot.
Then back to the hotel for South Korea v Mexico, a match which may decide our opponents in the Round of 16 should we win the group (which I think is now more likely than not. Here for the record is a picture taken on the half hour walk back from the station (C=Urban Centre, Las Colinas) to the hotel.
The next day opened with a storm and rain of biblical proportions. My train was supposed to be at 3.43 pm so I was not unduly worried, but at 10.30 we received a warning text from the local authorities not to go outside, not to drive through water and that there were flash floods and risk of drowning. The sky outside was black and the rain continuous and ferocious. This had been going on already for two hours, and continued for another two when it finished and, although the sun did not come out, the rain at least stopped, and the temperature was down from the 35 of the previous day to about 25.Leaving the hotel, I walked back to the station, and here is the same picture taken after the storm.
Into the centre and so to the sixth floor museum, which is a display and exhibition of the shooting of President Kennedy from the sixth floor of the building – then the book depository – which overlooks the Grassy Knoll. Although it is expensive ($29 is a lot for a single subject museum) it has a very good display of that day, blow by blow, and also less well known, President Kennedy’s election campaign and speeches while president including the famous “Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country”, and “Ich bin ein Berliner”. Compare this with what America has had for the last few presidencies at least, down now to the stupid cage fight at the White House: “How have the mighty fallen”.
This is the view of the Grassy Knoll from the window from which the shots were fired. The knoll itself is the grassy area on both sides of the road, and the monument on the right side actually predates the assassination. An X in the middle of the road marks where Kennedy was actually shot. There was a lot of discussion about whether it really was Lee Harvey Oswald, as there was believed to have been a person by the monument on the right side of the road, and current research suggests that it may have been both.
Out of the museum and it was again raining very heavily. I received messages from Amtrak. Your train is an hour late. Your train is two hours late. Your train is three hours late. To avoid the rain I went by tram to Union Station, where the wait continued. The train was arriving from San Antonio and apparently a freight train had hit a truck ahead of our train and had blocked the line. The wait continued. I took the opportunity to log on and watch Scotland lose to Morocco. Here is an interesting thing at Dallas Union Station: the sockets are on the edges of the waiting room while the benches are in the middle, so to watch with your computer plugged in, you have to sit on the floor, or in my case on my bag. “No sitting on the floor” a security man told me. I said I wasn’t as I was on the bag not the floor. “We don’t want homeless people here” he said. I said I was not homeless but waiting for a train and showed him my ticket. “OK but if anyone else moves you on you will have to get up”. This is another station with one train a day – this one – in each direction. At 7 pm they announced that they had to lock the station, but we could stay inside. However, if we wanted to go outside, we could not come back in. the match was still on, so I stayed inside. Poor old Scotland, just not good enough, until the last 15 minutes, while Morocco were good for the first 5 minutes, when they scored their goal, then just sat back. At 8 pm the same lady came back with some pizzas and handed us out slices. Then at 8.30 the train arrived.
An unkempt man in a blue shirt with an underfug underneath despite the heat, and a round head with a combover, asked me what my business was. I told him about short term contracts and that I had found it relatively easy to find work in Manchester and why. He had a mixed Australian-American accent and had an irritating habit of replying “Indeed” to everything I said. He seemed to be in office supplies and was going to Long View, the second intermediate stop. He seemed to think I could find him a job in the UK. He wrote later and I sent him a list of contacts, but his salary expectations were way over what he would get in the UK, and I did say he should smarten up if he ever had an interview but was not as uncharitable as to tell him to ditch the underfug.
The train came in. Cue for more chaos. It was not clear which carriage to enter: “hey have they scanned your ticket?” “No”, “Two cars back”. I joined an informal queue to have my ticket scanned, was directed to a carriage for passengers to Chicago and took the seat at the far end, next to the Café Car.
This was a journey of 22 hours, on top of the waiting. Again I had a double seat and surprisingly got about 5 hours’ sleep. There is an official quiet period on these trains from 10 pm to 7 am. No announcements, no music and lights out. People were good at observing this. Breakfast in the Café car. Knowing that the porridge pots (maple syrup and brown sugar flavour) were unbearably sweet I had brought my own milk and topped up with fresh milk they were not bad at all. You can also get breakfast rolls (fine apart from chewy bread – that kind of bread should not go in a microwave) and omelette pots. The café car was hosted by a chatty lady called Rachel. She had started in Chicago, then gone to San Antonio and was on her way back. Four days on (“though it feels more like five”) then four days off. She had met quite a few World Cup travellers and kept up a good sense of humour with some funny announcements all the way. I also met an Englishman who worked at the UN in Geneva and who had had a similar experience to mine regarding marrying a Russian speaking woman (Ukrainian in my case, Kazakh in his), with one son who had left his mother to live with him.
A sight on many trains are the Amish, and here was a group of them getting on at one of the rural stops where we waited for 15 minutes and were allowed out to stretch our legs and get some fresh air. We had another stop like this in St Louis while they hitched up another coach. Here, with my Russian speaking companion we accosted a chap on the platform who turned out to be a refugee from Kherson in Ukraine,: the poor fellow had to deal with Russian in two different English accents. I wonder what he made of us. Then we passed along the Mississippi, through the Mark Twain National Forest and finally to Chicago where we limped in at 7.30 pm, 6 hours late.
Chicago
I had chosen to spend a night in Chicago (1) to get a night’s sleep in a bed (2) as it is not a match venue, hotels are normal prices. However it was late and raining, there was no time for any sightseeing so an Uber to my hotel in the North Shore region, my driver being an Indian post graduate student, actually born in Chicago and working part time as a driver to help with expenses. The hotel was fine, but insisted on a $100 deposit for breakages etc. I looked and saw this was on my confirmation and I had missed it. Other hotels have done this since, and I should put on record that this is a disagreeable practice, insulting to the customer. I have never broken anything and would always pay if I did.
I thus had one day till the evening in drizzly Chicago. It was a Sunday, so I first took two buses to St Pauls by the Lake Episcopalian Church (confusingly there is a second church, St Paul’s on the Lake Catholic church). The Church was built in 1882, and has a gallery with a cantor. It also has an electric action organ. The organist was passable but nothing special.
It was Fathers’ Day (which I had forgotten). The church was not badly attended and we had a reading from Jeremiah where he blamed God for all his troubles – this was developed in the sermon into an alternative translation “God, you duped me”. We also sang Bunyan’s “To be a pilgrim” to a totally unfamiliar tune. The service was taken – and the sermon given – by the Bishop in Residence, and we had a setting which I did not know, by Healey Willan, an English born organist who emigrated to Toronto in the early 20th century and is often thought of as Canadian. It is he – a keen whisky drinker – who when asked about his nationality replied “English by birth, Canadian by adoption and Scotch by absorption.
There was a lunch for Fathers’ Day but I was not invited so left. Quite a long walk through the drizzle, through a park, then through an Indian Muslim area, then, I think an Indian Hindu area and finally back to the hotel.
Owing to the severeness of the penalty I resisted the temptation on the way to feed the pigeons – $500 is rather a lot. Back to the hotel and a taxi for some sleep and then a taxi to Union Station. So I had seen very little of Chicago beyond the church and the walk. However, |I had been here in 2006 when England played a friendly match against the USA and had gone up the Sears Building, seen the lakeside and had visited the Board of Trade (CBOT being a big market in the oilseed world) so felt there was nothing more to look at.
Chicago to Boston.
The Lakeshore Limited does it from Chicago to Boston in 22 hours. This train is quite different from the others I had been on. The train was full and the majority of the passengers were going to intermediate stations. My first companion was a lady going to Bryan, Ohio. It was the first time she had ever taken a train and she had been to a family reunion in Chicago. There was a lady opposite with two young children who made a bed on the floor, with their heads sticking out at front and their legs under the seat. Their mother arranged a curtain to block off the corridor and, as with the other trains, they switched off the lights at 10 pm. However I was at the end, and they did not switch off the last light as it was necessary for the passage to the next coach. The lady with the children offered me their seats as they were not using them, and so I got some sleep – though the Amtrak guard did not like people moving around:” where’s the man who was sitting there?”.” Here – and don’t worry I moved my card” (with BOS on it) as well.
When I woke up, the lady for Bryan had gone, and it was time for breakfast. I met the chap from the Geneva UN again in the café car and we talked for a long time. On returning, my new companion was a postgraduate at University in Boston. She was Irish American. I mentioned about the Scots who seemed to have been popular as they spent huge sums on alcohol. She advised me (1) alcohol is much more expensive in Boston than elsewhere in the US (2) The people in Boston are a bit two-faced, so look out (3) I must have a lobster roll. They come hot or cold. The cold ones suck so I should go for a warm one. She was going to an earlier station (Boston Bay) while I continued to the end (Boston South), then a metro and a walk of about half an hour to Dave’s AirBnB in a neat and tidy residential district called Dorchester.
Boston
Boston had annoyed many of us before we even arrived there. I have already mentioned that about three months before the World Cup, they announced that on match days all public transport to the stadium, which is not in Boston, but at Foxborough, some 25 miles away, would be suspended, and the only transport to the stadium would be by special train, cost $80. This was just one of the many examples of price gouging which we have had in the tournament. If it was not enough to have ridiculously priced tickets, some 2-3 times more expensive than in the previous world cup, we were now being gouged for transport costs. The Boston authorities claimed that this was the cost of the trains and that they had not received any subsidies from FIFA to cope with this extra traffic, which they implied was a nuisance. In response to this, one of our members had organised three buses to take us to the ground, cost $30 – this would be at no profit to himself other than a free seat in return for organising the buses, and is the normal practice of our Supporters’ Club members. Then, the week before, the bus company had informed him that they were unable to supply the buses as they were “required by an authority”, and our money was returned. To add to this, Uber were saying they could not transport people to the ground. $80 in Boston, $100 in New York, but in Dallas the buses were free (as they had been at all other previous tournaments). So three cheers for Dallas and banana skins to the Irish wanabees of Boston and New York.
Determined not to let this miserable city have our cash, Dave booked an Uber to the Eagle Brook Saloon, a “wild west” type saloon, which brewed its own beer and was a mile and a half from the stadium. A few glasses of cider there and something to eat at normal prices and so off to the ground. Car parking at this stadium is over $100 and interestingly a lot of locals in the area were advertising their driveways and other spaces as “parking lots” for prices around $50. Apparently the stadium has tried to stop this but in my opinion they can’t do this. They would at least require a court order. In any event, it is a good example of how the market economy works and what happens when you are too greedy, which is what the Red Sox and FIFA both are.
Continuing the same theme beer in the ground is $16. This is a characterless freezing cold can of fizzy water called Michelob. Dave and Richard drank this stuff. I didn’t. I even joked with the seller who was shouting “Ice Cold Beer” that we were from England and he should sell more shouting “warm beer”.
The match was in keeping with the City. Frustrating, cold and dull. Ghana played a variety of what I call “anti-football” and others call “parking the bus” – in other words playing the entire team in defence as though you have parked a bus across the goalmouth. Added to this, our own football was dull and uncreative for at least the first 75 minutes, as we passed the ball from side to side to side to side and back again, just as we did under Southgate. Only in the last 15 minutes or so did we wake up, and by then it was too late as time wasting came into play. The hydration breaks – utterly ridiculous in 19 degrees and spitting rain – were roundly booed, and we had nice chants aimed at Thomas Party, the Ghanaian number 5 who is up on 7 different rape charges but was allowed to play as not yet convicted. We agreed – this match had a lot in common with the 0-0 draw against Algeria in Cape Town in 2010 when we booed the team off and Wayne Rooney said “nice to be booed by your own fans”.
A long walk round the ground after the match and a walk through the woods to the Eagle Brook saloon to watch Portugal destroy Uzbekistan and to drink a porter which I could only describe as alcoholic Christmas Pudding. Nice pub.
The next day Richard and Dave went off to Philadelphia. I had a nice walk through Dorchester to the metro. This is an area of compact weatherboarded houses, populated it would seem, from the shops and take-aways, almost entirely by Jamaicans, and I had a brief walk around the historic area of Boston. I missed the Tea party museum but had the lobster roll – very nice and a lot of lobster but $39 for the record including taxes, – which I ate in a small square outside Paul Revere’s house. I get a little weary of this “no taxation without representation” stuff and about how wonderful the Boston Tea Party was, and how heroic the Americans were. This is something of a distortion of events. It is true that the tea supplied by the East India Company was taxed. For that reason, the North American colonists tended to drink smuggled Dutch Tea. It was not taxation that brought about the tea party but, ironically, reduction of taxation. To clear excess stock at the East India company warehouses and to combat the smuggling, the British government reduced the tariffs on East India Company Tea to almost zero, thus rendering smuggling unprofitable. The rebels and smugglers of course did not like this and so revolted, using the fact that the taxes had been reduced as an implication that the British government had the right to tax the colonists. So the revolt was over a tax reduction – in fact it was instigated by the smugglers, but you won’t see that mentioned at any of the exhibitions.
The smugglers used the British reservation of the right to tax as an excuse to rouse fervour among the people, but it was the attack on smuggling more than anything else that was the main factor behind the revolt, not increases to tax. Paul Revere, whose house is pictured here, is credited with riding from Boston to warn the colonial militias before the Battles of Lexington and Concord, and he was also one of the characters who dressed up as Red Indians to dump the tea into Boston harbour. Longfellow then wrote a poem about this, adding to the story. I had asked Dave to suggest somewhere nice to go in between this and the Panama match and he suggested Cape Cod. This is a ferry ride of an hour and a half from Boston. The ferry to Providencetown on Cape Cod is not well signposted and I spent an hour and a half walking up and down the harbour asking at various offices where it went from and no one seemed to know. There were ferries to all kinds of places around the harbour but not to Providencetown. I decided to go to the address on the confirmation email and found it was somewhere I had walked past an hour before, went there and then passed a counter with “Boston Harbour cruises” on it. These operate the ferry. On fact to confuse things, there are two rival companies operating the ferry, and mine was leaving in an hour from Gate 4. The ferry was comfortable giving good views of the City and with an amusing Irish-American commentator. “Hold on to your hat” he said as I went upstairs to take pictures. As you can see, you get a fantastic view of the city from the ferry.
Providencetown is a hoot. Very arty-farty with a lot of paintings for sale on the pier along which you walk from the ferry. It would also appear to be one of the gay capitals of the US, with some characters straight out of Village people and rainbow flags everywhere. Of historical interest it has the monument to the Pilgrim Fathers who crossed the Atlantic on the Mayflower in 1620 and a lot of nice old buildings. It is however unbelievably expensive, and as I could not afford these prices, I was staying in a village called Eastham, at the Midway Motel, a bus ride of 45 minutes from Providencetown. At least the buses are free. The downside of this is that you can’t complain when they are late, which all of them were. My motel was appropriately midway between two stops, with a mile to one in each direction. A lovely cabin in the woods, where I spent two nights, and the only accommodation I could find for less than $100 a night. The owner was welcoming and helpful and even gave me a lift to the bus stop on the way back.
Down to a local bar in Eastham to watch Brazil beat Scotland 3-0. Poor old Scotland, they were simply not good enough. You should not pass the ball to a player such as Vinicius Junior 6 yards out and expect him not to score. And here was a defect of the expansion of the competition from 32 to 48 sides. The best 8 out of 12 third placed sides also qualify for the knock out phase. At this point Scotland were still in the best 8. They then slid slowly down the table to end on 20th and the plane home. But from a point of view of the supporters trying to work out where to go and what to do, and even for the team, it was a nightmare. So the poor sweaties had to sweat it out for a few more days till they knew they were off home.. The next day I made a trip to P-Town as they all call it. 6 shrimps from a kiosk cost me $21. The same cider that was $6 in Eastham was $8 in the 1620 bar, where I watched Switzerland beat Canada. Otherwise there are a lot of small streets, a nice historic town hall and a lot of paintings and arty clothes shops. It is a pleasant place to walk around,. And there is wonderful seafood but beyond my budget. Then back to the Motel to watch Ecuador beat Germany. Ho, ho Schadenfreude über alles.
Back to P-town, ferry to Boston, then a walk through Boston to a small park outside the South station to watch Bafana Bafana (that is South Africa) beat South Korea. The elimination of South Korea was one of the surprises of the tournament. One of my Korean pupils says there has been controversy over their manager: they wanted a Korean manager not a foreigner and so chose one who had been a good player but was not so good as a manager. But to South Africa, who were one of the poorer sides, is a great disappointment for them. Some great individual players but not a team.
From Boston South I took the train to Wilmington, Delaware. This was about 6 hours, and I had around my seat an irritating Indian family with far too much luggage and three noisy children. No conversation and, appropriately, I read over half of my book for theis journey, Salman Rushdie’s “The Moor’s last sigh”. We were absolutely dead on time at Wilmington where I was met by Dave who took me to his house in Langenberg, Pennsylvania. This is a point where four states – Delaware, New Jersey, Marland and Pennsylvania converge. They deliberately chose Pennsylvania as it has better schools. That was all I saw of him on this visit as early the next morning he left for New York and the Panama match without me.
Here I had made the mistake of taking my brother’s advice. “Don’t buy a ticket for the Panama match, the prices will come down”. Our third match against Panama was to be played at the MetLife Stadium in New Jersey, capacity 88,000, “The group will already be decided, it’s lousy opposition and a big stadium”. This did not happen. The face value of the tickets was $220 and instead of coming down, the prices had gone up to a minimum of $700. So Dave went to New York alone, driving there, taking the Staten Island Ferry, then taking a bus organised by one of our members to avoid the $100 train tickets by the gougers in New York, and I was left with his wife, Donna and three daughters, Poppy (17) Ruby (14) and Ivy (8).
I have to say what a lovely house he has. Loads of space, a huge “man cave” downstairs (big screen, bar, fridge and pool table) nice rooms and a garden cut out of a forest with deer in it, lots of greenery, and all for the price of a semi in London. I made a bucket of Sangria for Donna (this relates to an old joke dating back to the 2006 World Cup when she came with us to one of the matches) and we watched the Panama match on Fox TV with one of her neighbours and drank the Sangria. Well, the first half was the same again as against Ghana. Defending, bus parking and unimaginative football from England. Then the second half and the two players we are relying on the most did it for us: Jude poked the ball in the net and five minutes later, Harry Kane did it. Phew. We have won the group and will most likely go to Mexico.
The third bottle on the flag is an even older standing joke, referring to the Euros in Portugal in 2004 when after the Switzerland match in Coimbra I drank 3 bottles of wine. The Wrexham crest is for me, Huddersfield and LA are for Dave, Reading for Donna and Richard’s (hidden deliberately) is Chester.
The next day was Sunday and I dragged my host out of bed to take me to a service at 7.45 a.m. at the Church of the Advent, at Kennet Square, about 4 or 5 miles away. Actually they recommended this church to me. The early service was said only and was what they call Rite 1 which appears to be a kind of mish mash of 1666 and some more recent revisions. On the way in I was accosted and welcomed by a chatty lady called Carrie. I mention this as the sermon was almost entirely about welcoming strangers – although the lesson was the almost sacrifice of Isaac, not Abraham welcoming the strangers – and I kept getting the feeling he was looking at me all the time. The vicar had a New Zealand accent and was actually standing in. “Well you passed the test”, I told Carrie at the end of the service, which was quite well attended despite the hour. In fact, I was then accosted by another lady who was not a regular but had come over from another town nearby, and we walked together afterwards almost back to Kennet Square where her husband picked her up in a truck.
Group stage
So that completes the Group stage and the first half of the World Cup. We have spent three weeks deciding which countries would not have qualified under the old rules. Surprises – elimination of South Korea and Uruguay, also advancement of Cabo Verde, one of the delights of the tournament, also Canada, South Africa and Saudi Arabia. It is possible to see what FIFA is doing with this expansion of the cup even if you do not approve of it. They are charging as high a price as they can for tickets, and largely they are getting away with it. We have a tournament of two halves – the countries likely to be eliminated, and the income streams associated with them are in the cup for longer. Everyone is here for at least three weeks, so more payers, more countries, higher income, and everyone pays up willingly. FIFA are aware that everyone despises them, but they just don’t care. They say that the profits get “reinvested in grass roots football” but these are profits after deducting huge salaries and bonuses to themselves.
The second half is the knock out phase, but far more countries which would never usually get through have done so, so the income streams from them continue. More importantly for the competition, the three host nations have all got through, which is quite something in the case of Canada. The most unsatisfactory part is the grading of the third placed sides. Not only does it leave them in limbo, as Scotland were for three days, but also the supporters cannot plan where to go and the clubs playing them do not know who their opponents will be till the last minute. For example, at various stages England were going to play Senegal, Uzbekistan, Algeria, Colombia, even Portugal, before finally getting the country the commentators keep calling “Deeyar Congo”. In my case, a break, as I always planned to miss the first knock out match to make a side trip to California to see my sister.
Californian interlude and Round of 32
No “airport effect this time. Philadelphia is a large but well organised airport. Flight to St Louis and a wait of 4 hours, and then another 4 hours to San Francisco. My only gripe with South West Airlines is that they have closed windows on the plane as a default and few people open them so I saw very little from my middle seats and spent 6 hours inside two enclosed tubes.
I had 5 days with Angela in Emerald Hills near Redwood City. We went on two walks through the Redwood Forests in Edgewood Park and one along the cliffs near Half Moon Bay, while I went for two other walks in Edgewood Park. We also visited Stanford Universiry. The Memorial Chuch with its Fisk organ was closed for repairs, so all pictures were from the outside.
The high spot of the trip was a concert given by the San Francisco Symphony Orchestra at the Davies Hall in San Fransisco, where we heard Max Bruch’s violin concerto – one of our stepfather’s favourite pieces – and the Mendelssohn “Reformation” Symphony. The concerto was played by a superb virtuoso Taiwanese violinist called Paul Huang.
So those games of the Round of 32 which I saw were on TV. Our match against “Deeyar” Congo was an enormous banana skin. For a start, our defence was terrible and let in their goal, – which was fully deserved. Then we seemed to be lacking in creativity and Congo seemed to have found the black Tomaszewszki as their goalkeeper made save after save, until Harry Kane rescued us again, as he has done so many times. Phew. Banana skin avoided.
It is depressing to read UK newspaper reports of our games. I am sure no other country in the competition has journalists who regularly dump on their own side. “England scrape through” was the gist of most headlines. Yet when Belgium scraped through against Senegal it was a “remarkable comeback”.
The Round of 32 had more examples of what I call “anti-football” where a weaker side plays for penalties. The first was South Africa v Canada, where two of the worst teams in the tournament were playing each other, and South Africa were playing for 0-0 and penalties. This didn’t work as Canada’s goal in the 92nd minute provided the only spark of the match, and so Canada progress to the last 16 and Rob Macilhenny at least was happy. Next Paraguay did the same thing against Germany, actually defending very well, and then defeating the Germans on penalties – something which has never happened before. The Paraguay penalties were well taken and had obviously been well rehearsed. The Dutch on the other hand deserved to go out with three appalling misses during the shoot out with Morocco.
Other moments of the round: the gallant Cape Verde Islands team gave the Argies an almighty fright as they “scraped through” into the next round. Australia played well but, like the Dutch, deserved to go out for dreadful penalty misses: in modern football you have to practice and practice these, which the Egyptians had done, but the Aussies hadn’t. Next, the USA’s win and the controversial sending off of Balogun. My view was that he was unlucky: it was not intentional but was still a nasty foul. Oh, and a marvellous moment when Martinez took Ronaldo off. Kudos to Martinez for doing that and stressing that the team is more important than any individual. Ronaldo thinks it is all about him with 10 players attached. Well, he apparently had 4 touches of the ball all match, one of which was his penalty. His substitute Ramos was on the park for a few minutes and scored the winner.
And so off to Mexico for our Round of 16 match.
View from the Dnipro 