This was about as different from the US part of the competition as it was possible to get. While in the US the cup had been “pimped out” to a nation barely aware of it, in Mexico, it involved everything. Those of the population who were not wearing their green shirts were wearing the shirts of the white change strip. The signs, billboards and TV advert were everywhere about “el tri”, the popular name for their team, and moreover, this was their first chance to advance further in the competition since 1986. My own view: the World Cup should have been staged entirely in this football-mad country, with its historic stadia, and even if that was not possible, it should at least have had quarter and semi final matches. As it was, this Round of 16 match, involving the co-host, at their iconic Aztec Stadium, was to be the last match to be staged in the country. And no wonder, when we were the opposition, this was being billed locally as the most important match in their history.
I was bemused a bit by the slogans “La pelota viene a casa” (The ball’s coming home) thinking it was a translation of our song, but actually an exhibition at the Historical Museum taught me that the Aztecs had a ball game which was both a sport and part of their ancient rituals. Looking further, it was definitely not football, as in this game, touching with the hands and feet was prohibited. The ball had to be kept off the ground, and the objective was to propel it over a kind of goal, using the head, waist, upper arms and other parts of the body. So not football
No airport anxiety syndrome on this leg. Angela drove me in the twilight over San Francisco Bay to Oakland Airport, which is small, quiet and civilised, for the overnight flight to Mexico City. The only hiccup was being asked on three separate occasions for my Mexican visa, the second by a lady who was so adamant that I needed one that I started to get worried and asked Google AI if UK citizens needed a visa to visit Mexico. No, we did not, providing it was not for “reasons of lucre”, and gave a reference to a Mexican government site. I repeated the question in Spanish – the language of Oakland Airport – and got the same reply to the same site and showed it to her. Isn’t it wonderful having to teach people their job.
Volaris flies on time and I arrived at Mexico City airport at 4.30 am having had no sleep whatsoever, despite the darkened cabin. The passport control is entirely automated, and everything was very orderly. Waiting for a bus to take me from the terminal to the city, I asked an elderly lady who had come out for a smoke, where did one buy the bus cards. I understood that the City operates a card system similar to the London Oyster card but not how to acquire and top up the cards. “At the metro ticket offices” she said. But there wasn’t one at the airport. “Never mind, you can have mine” she said. She said it had 50 pesos on it, which would cover the journey, but wouldn’t accept any money for the card. She said she did not need it as she was an OAP. What age are OAPs in Mexico? 60.
So, my first impressions of Mexico City – an orderly airport, friendly people, including the police who directed me to the bus stop and the driver of number 4 which took me through deserted streets to a square called Pino Suarez Sur, a square to which I seemed to keep coming back. At this square, according to google maps, I had a bus number 175 to Tlalpan. There was a metro here with a ticket office and I put money on the card, mistakenly believed that the 30 peso fare for the number 4 was the regular fare and put 200 pesos on the card. Actually the 30 peso fare was a special one for the airport and the regular fare is 5 or 6. There are 23 pesos to the pound, so you can see how cheap everything is. Regarding number 175, in fact no one knew anything about buses. A man approached me asking for 10 pesos for the bus fare to his job interview. As he did not seem like a normal beggar I asked for help regarding number 175. Another man with an unpleasant face and a squint in each eye joined in the conversation. I didn’t like the look of this second man. The first one motioned me to follow him and we crossed the main road. “That man is going to rob you” he said. “I thought the same” I said looking back. The man with the squints was motioning to me “no, don’t go with him”. Maybe the first one would. The square was comparatively deserted but some women were making up sandwiches at a stall and I bought a coffee there and asked for the change in 10 peso coins. The man took me to a side street where a bus was waiting, with “Hoepedales” on the front. “You want hospedales” he said. The bus was about to leave so I gave him the coffee, which was revoltingly sweet, and a 10 peso coin, and got in.
Well, the bus system is exactly the same as the Ukrainian marshrutki. There are no numbers on the buses, just destinations. The fare is 9.50 pesos, and you have to throw (literally) a 10 peso coin into a box with a slot on the top. No change given, so I made a point of saving these 10 peso coins. I was very thankful to this man as I returned to this square for the bus back several times, finding it much quicker and more comfortable that the metro and light railway, which was the alternative, and also more direct. On this first journey, following google maps, it took me right past the Azteca and then to Tlalpan, where I got off.
Tlalpan is a small town or large village which has been subsumed into the sprawling metropolis that is Mexico City. It has a lot of colonial style buildings, a central square, all festooned for the World Cup, some nice cafes and narrow streets, and eventually the Quinta Soledad which is a converted monastery belonging at one time to an order called the Maristas. This now includes a small hotel, and, separately a high class and rather expensive restaurant, as well as some beautiful gardens and another café. It was now 8.30 am but they let me check in early for no extra charge, which was very kind of them, and so I went for breakfast in Tlalpan. The Azteca was a walk of about 40 minutes and Dave’s Airbnb was actually half way along the walk. I went to find it, stopping for Tacos at a street vendor on the way. Dave wasn’t in (which I already knew) so I continued onward to the metro and thence to the centre or Plaza Mayor at a station called Zocalo.
This central square, which includes the cathedral, is a kind of copy of the Plaza Mayor in Madrid, but with the cathedral and on a colossal scale. Everything is huge. The square itself, the cathedral, the surrounding buildings, and the crowds. The cathedral was closed, and despite returning to this square several times I never was able to get in, although Dave did. I know that this cathedral has historic Spanish style organs as I have a record of the Swiss organist, Guy Bovet playing them. I stayed a while to watch (I think) the South Africa v Canada borefest.
The crowds got bigger and I found it impossible to get back to the metro station. There was a FIFA fan zone mixed up in the square and everything was swairling in that direction. I don’t like FIFA and don’t want to patronise their parks. I tried to move away from the square against the flow of people. It was difficult. I could not get a connection on my phone, so had no idea where I was going. Then I saw a bus stop for number 4, but in the other direction, so, although being a bit reticent about Pino Suarez, with its squint eyed man, I returned there and took the same bus marked Hospedales to Tlalpan.
For the evening before the game, someone from the England supporters Club had organised a booze cruise along the Aztec Canal system at Xochimilco. Actually it was Monica, the Mexican wife of one of our members from Exeter. This is very difficult to describe, but I would say that in all of the years of following England, must have been one of the craziest events I have been on.
Xochimilco is at the end of the light railway. A walk of about 30 minutes through quite touristy strrets brings you to the embarkation points. the boats are flat bottomed oversize wooden punts, painted in bright colours, and are propelled by punting. We paid £10 for the event and this included unlimited beer and tequila which Monica would pour down our throats literally, intermittently throughout the trip. We were some time starting. The picture is at the start while we were still relatively sober.
With the flags and our songs we were obviously English so every other boat we passed serenaded us with “Mehico, Mehico”. We made moves to kidnap the girls from boats passing, through assorted insults, welcomes and songs at other boats depending on their occupants and eventually reached the far end, where we had a technical stop and were joined by Mariachis, one of whom played our songs on his trumpet, and much better than our own trumpeter. We had two boats joined together and it was necessary to cross the sections boat to get to land and guess who disgraced himself by falling into the water…..Actually it was just my left leg that was left soaking as I was pulled out, but a bit embarrassing. Still, my phone with the ticket on it was in my right pocket.
So we broke our rule of no drinks the night before matches in the most comprehensive way.
The game was the next day which was a Sunday. Tlalpan also has an Anglican Church, the Church of the Holy Ghost (Espiritu Sanctu). It does not advertise itself at all, and I found it using an AI search. It was right opposite where I had got off the bus on arrival and there was no notice board and the only entrance seemed to be one to go up the tower. I went up this and found the church on the next floor. I introduced myself to the vicar who was a lady, “Madre Belli” and to Rafa who was the churchwarden and who beckoned me to sit next to him. The service was our old Rite B in Spanish, so very easy to follow. They had an organ but no organist. I offered to play but there was no music edition and their hymns were different so we sang from a tape recorded accompaniment.
The sermon was quite lovely. Madre Belli brought the match into it “Today we are all waiting for something big to happen” and linked it to the reading from the prophet Zacharaiah: “Behold I come riding on an ass”, and the Israelites in Babylon waiting for their return. The last hymn though was “Dios de grace y Dios de Gloria (God of Grace and God of Glory) sung to Cwm Rhondda, which was nice. The congregation included one very craggy elderly lady, very made up, and about a dozen of what I would say were some of the poorest of the region, but wearing their Sunday best. I do find it quite touching the way so many in South and Central America have adopted Anglicanism, when they have no contact with England and are so unlikely ever to go there.
After the service, to the Azteca slowly. The clouds gathered in the early afternoon and a most tremendous storm, developed. Lightning with crashes of thunder almost immediately afterwards. It was a walk of 40 minutes and after 30 the heavens opened and I took refuge under a canopy with a group of Mexican dancers in traditional costumes.
The Azteca is one of the great stadia of the world. It was actually built for the Mexico Olympics of 1968 but hadrdly used. It came into its own during the World Cup of Mexico 1970.
Mexico 70 has a special place for me as it is the earliest World Cup which I remember. I was 8 years’ old. It was all everyone talked about. Of course we were going to win it. Anything else was inconceivable. We were World Champions. We had the same team and Sir Alf from 1966. We had the World Cup Rally, World Cup coins at ESSO stations. Mars even issued an Aztec chocolate bar – a kind of Mars sized Milky Way with raisins. Sir Alf took the team to Quito and Bogota to acclimiatise playing friendlies against Ecuador and Colombia. We had the infamous stolen bracelet scandal involving the arrest of Bobby Moore. We had “Back Home” and Sir Alf shipping out Findus Fish Fingers, Malvern Water, an English bus and driver to create an English bubble – from which Gordon Banks apparently escaped to get his upset stomach. We had the England v Brazil match with the best attacking side ever – Brazil with Pele, Jairzinho, Rivelino and Tostao – facing the best ever defensive side – us, with the Bobby Moore tackle and the Banks save, and this game was played at the Azteca. We also, of course, had the defeat to West Germany in Guadalajara, and many argue that our football has never really recovered since.
The last time England played at this stadium was the match involving Maradonna and the “Hand of God” in 1986. So some ghosts to rest.
The atmosphere inside the stadium was tremendous. About 5,000 of us against about 75,000 of them. Every time an English song came on they booed. Every time a Mexican song came on, they joined in. The match was delayed for an hour because of the storm so we had quite a lot of this.
Then the National Anthems. I have recorded the Mexican one, with 75,000 Mexicans bellowing theirs out at the tops of their voices. It is quite something.
Then the match, which you probably all know. Tuchel’s game plan was excellent. We slowed everything down for the first half hour – painful to watch but frustrated the Mexicans – then scored two goals. They went quiet and we got in a few lines of “You’re not singing any more” before they got one back and the beer started flying. Apparently it is a Mexican tradition but we were not well segregated, and there were several rows of Mexicans beneath us who threw full paper cups of beer at us after their goal. There was one Mexican beneath me getting very agitated an clearly looking for a fight, while the stewards did nothing. A notice went up in Spanish that anyone throwing beer cups would be identified and ejected: fat chance.
So the second half. Our penalty, their penalty and then the VAR check, which we thought was for a foul on Anthony Gordon and was actually for a supposed foul by Jarell Quansah which resulted in him being sent off – and given a two match ban. Compare that with Balogun who got Trump to intervene for a far worse foul.
So Tuchel brought on Burn, and we had agonising backs to the wall stuff, with Mexico getting corner after corner, but getting nowhere due to excellent defence from Burn and others. Then 11 minutes of added time, which was acrtually 13 and finally over, and we were through. Burn did so well to keep the Mexicans out that the joke now is that Trump will offer him a job.
Despite the animosity during the game, afterwards everyone was wonderful and we have to note what excellent losers they were. We were held back for a very long time, but on the lengthy procession down the ramps to get out, on the streets outside and even in the bars, people kept coming up to us, shaking our hands and wishing us the best of luck: many hoped we would win the cup. After all, there is no disgrace in going out to the winners. Even the chap who wanted a fight calmed down and shook hands with whoever he has been shouting insults at.
I lost Dave in the crush. Actually, we were bobbing up and down on the ramp, and, being old enough to remember Ibrox and Heysel, I moved against a supporting wall. So a slow return to Tlalpan via a bar called “Taco Sea” and a few beers with others.
I had two further days in Mexico City for sightseeing. The first was rather abortive – a trip on a metrobus, a kind of guided bus system into the centre, to see the Belles Artes museum (closed, although you could walk into the entrance hall) and cathedral (closed). The second, much more successful, to go to Chapultepec, the castle fashioned by the unfortunate Maximilain Habsburg, and site of the Mexican Museum of History.
The joys of being old. I queued up to pay a rather stiff entrance fee of 310 pesos to be told that entry was free for over 60s.
The Museum of History, is really the Museum of history from 1492. There is very little about the Aztecs or their culture, and a lot about the Spanish, founding “New Spain” and almost excusing their brutality, as it had been imbued in them by their long fight against Islam. Once we get to 1810, though, the exhibitions start to warm up. 1810 was the first insurrection against the Spanish, and I was able to learn about the people whose names adorned various streets. The 1810 insurrection was led by Miguel Hidalgo, whose name is the street going into Tlalpan from the bus stop. Insurrectiones is a principal metro and bus interchange. Benito Juarez (airport and various streets) was the President of the second republic and opponent of Maximilain Habsburg.
After independence, the exhibitions tell us, Mexico tried various form of government. Mexico though was beset by bankruptcy and internal division. We got the Mexican-American War from the Mexican point of view, and it is hard not to sympathise with it. The US was guided by its “Manifest Destinty” – the parallels with Nicholas I and putin’s “Holy Russia” are striking, and President Polk started the war on a pretext. At the end, Mexico was forced to cede over half of its territory, including California, New Mexico and Arizona to the USA in feturn for $15 million.
The involvement of the unfortunate Maximilian came later, and lasted from 1864 till 1867. Maximilian was invited to be head of state by Mexican conservatives supported by French intervention who wished to make Mexico a monarchy. He was the younger brother of Franz Josef, and his candidacy was based on his descent from Chales V, Holy Roman Emperor and King of Spain, who had conquered Mexico for Spain. He lasted only three years. His liberalism upset the conservatives, while the Liberals viewed him as an outsider. Additionally, the US regarded Napoleon III of France’s involvement as a breach of the Monroe Doctrine, and continued to support Benito Juarez. So Maximilian’s hold was not firm even from the start. He lived at Chapultepec, which explains the European influences on its architecture, and also the thoroughfare from the castle to the city. But he only lasted three years before being executed by firing squad, far from his home at Miramare near Trieste.
Returning through the woods from the castle I stopped to buy Chapulines from a stall. I have had these before, and they tend to revolt most people. They are a kind of grasshopper which the Mexicans fry with some chilli. You eat them with lemon sauce, which I asked the seller to add. Here they are.
As for the other matches in the Round of 16. We don’t like Ronaldo, due to various machinations by him in the past, such as at the 2006 World Cup when he got Rooney sent off in our quarter final against Portugal and then winked at the cameras. So, it was nice to see him blubbing after their loss to Spain. In fact, it was Martinez who lost the match to Spain by playing him and never substituting him. He had 13 touches of the ball and even his own teammates seemed to be ignoring him. So, Portugal were playing with 10 men and a “muscular scarecrow”. Brazil’s defeat to Norway was a surprise, despite the press going on about Brazil being “not what they were”. This meant that we would face them rather than Brazil in the next round. Egypt’s defeat 3-2 to Argentina, after being 2—0 up was controversial. I watched this one at the ayuntamiento in Tlalpan. Egypt, after playing so well, basically fell apart after Argentina’s first goal and Argentina attacked with a ferocity lacking in the early part of the game. Messi showed a lot of creativity and they won, but the conspiracy theorists – that FIFA want another France-Argentina final – had plenty of material. Finally, USA v Belgium. Belgium is a hard country to like, what with its rainy weather, associations with Brussels bureaucracy, the EU, and odd people who can’t even decide what language they want to speak. But after Trump’s intervention to rescind the red Card of the USA’s star player, Balogun, just about all of the rest of the world were supporting them and they trounced the USA 4-1 and we even had the delight of Lukaku’s goal celebrations mimicking Trump’s jerky style of dancing. I watched this in a nice bar in the Tlalpan Square where I celebrated with “the best Tequila you’ve got”. It was called 1800, matured for years and not cheap but very smooth.
Our match was the last match to be hosted by Mexico. As I have said, in my opinion it was a great shame that this football-mad country should have to surrender all of the later stage games to a country that was not even interested in it. In fact, I would rather that the whole tournament was in Mexico. I suppose having staged it twice, it was thought preferable to give other countries a chance, and multi-country bids are the fashion now, but there we are
Part three – Florida and the Quarter Finals.
Airport anxiety syndrome returned in a large way for the trip back to the USA. First, I never received a flight confirmation from Trip.com and when I went on their customer service sections, I was asked for an email address and it didn’t recognise mine. I checked my bank statement. Yes, I had paid for it. I then went through various other options, found my locator code and asked for a confirmation. The confirmation replied “Dear Angela” before confirming the details. All I can think of was that their software had picked up Angela’s address from the router. I had used Trip.com rather than the airline directly as, although it was a Volaris flight, when I searched for this one on their site it denied all knowledge of it. Trip.com was not the cheapest for the flight on its own with no extras, but was the cheapest for flight with a checked bag. Interesting.
Next, checking in on line. I could not find any way to check in via Trip.com so on the offchance input my locator and surname on the Volaris app which I still had, and lo and behold it came up. The check in procedure on this one includes various gems like having to scan your passport on your phone, which it resolutely refuses to do, either because there is too much light or because there is not enough light, and finally at the end of all this nonsense, and inputting Angela’s address for the umpteenth time as contact and finding the name of my first hotel, it refused to check me in as it said I needed a visa – which of course is not true as I have an ESTA. ESTAs have been around for over 10 years, so it is about time they thought about this.
So an early start. First the bus to Pino Suarez, and we were caught in the Mexican rush hour. Having been in a near deserted square at 6 am on a Saturday I was not prepared for the gridlock at 7 am on a weekday. From Pino Suarez, a metro to San Lorenzo to catch the number 4 which I remembered. San Lorenzo is a big interchange and everything is signposted except for the thing you want, so a policemen directed me. I had just enough time at the stop for my last tacos – pork this time including various odd bits so I had pig’s snout mixed up in mine. for the record the tase was similar to the trotters.
Next, the airport was not as orderly as on arrival. Again everything is signposted apart from what you want. The bus arrives at arrivals. International departures are upstairs at the end of the building, I was told, so went there, to see all the traditional airlines but not Volaris. Someone said they were at Gate 4 downstairs. “But isn’t that National Departures?” So I went back downstairs, along the building almost to where I had got off the bus, where there was a helpful sign saying “Volaris, National and International Departures”. Next the inevitable huge queue, woman checking that we did not step over the line, orders to queue on the left, moving by one person every 10 minutes and so on. Finally I got to the front, showed why I couldn’t check in, and the girl entered my ESTA to the system manually. “I loathe these apps” I told her. I suppose she gets this a lot from people our age. Anyway, I didn’t have to pay an airport check in fee this time.
Airport anxiety syndrome over, to the departure gates where I saw Paul Probyn, father of Annoushka, in a red shirt, sitting on the floor. Annoushka and Adam had stomach issues. They were on the plane in front of me and we flew to Orlando where they were for two days, renting a car for Miami.
I lost them at passport control in Orlando. Here the problem was not a previously cancelled passport but that I was put in a queue where the official disappeared when I was at the front, and his replacement spent maybe 5 minutes looking at my passport. “Why are you so nervous?” he asked me. Am I not allowed to be nervous then? I told him I had had a long day. He looked at me with some distaste “Hey, have you got a job? What do you do?”. I told him. What was my reason for coming to the USA. “The World Cup”. “Oh FIFA”, as he called it. No stamp this time.
Orlando is an odd place. It does not appear to have a centre to it. It was baking hot. The bus costs $2 but if you need to take another,you tell the driver you want a transfer and he gives you a card that you use for the next bus. There is a validity time stamped on the back. So one bus to somewhere, then cross the road and wait in the blistering heat by the traffic lights as huge car after huge car passes you. “Hey are you from England?” someone asked me through the window. “I know someone from Manchester”. He reminded me of the Jasper Carrott sketch “Are you from England? Do you know Mr Smith?”.
From the second bus, I had a walk of about a mile, parallel with a freeway, through the heat to my hotel, Baymont by Wyndham, checked in, and went out to buy food. There were places about a mile away. The sun was setting but it was still very hot. I had not realised that my hotel was next to a prison, or more correctly a “correctional facility”. I hope the prisoners have air conditioning. The whole area is flat and with a lot of lakes, with frogs croaking from one on the way back.
I had better luck the next day. The hotel did an excellent free breakfast, and there was in fact another bus which did the mile’s walk followed by the continuation of the route of my bus the previous night to the Amtrak Station. On the bus I was grilled by an old man on how the tickets worked and how much they cost. It was his first time on a bus. He looked at my bag: “Hey are you are a homeless person?” “Do I look like a homeless person?” I asked him. Maybe I did by now. Wonderful.
As I only had two days left on my USA pass but still had some spare segments, and as I had been advised that Tampa was much nicer than Orlando, I had decided to break the journey to Miami there. But the train was two hours late. It is an odd service as Tampa is on a dog’s leg, so the train stops at Lakeview on the way to Tampa, then goes back to Lakeview and stops again there before going south to Miami. The mechanics are interesting on the way in. Approaching Tampa it goes into a loop and then reverses into the station.
To keep John happy, I went to the bar he recommended in Tampa , and from which he had asked me to call him as it was only a walk of 15 minutes. A surprise: it was a non alcoholic bar, serving drinks made of “Kava” infusions. This was not Spanish sparkling wine but some kind of South Sea Island herb. Mine was mxed with orange, lemon and lime so very refreshing in this heat. The girl he had wanted to speak to, Lauren, was not there, but another called Sarah, a girl with blonde hair but some locks died blue, very friendly and very laid back in character. Yes, she remembered him: he had been very loud. “But no alcohol?” I asked: “He kept going out for alcohol then going back”.
A walk up various blocks to the bus station then another bus to close to my hotel in Ybor City. The driver’s cash capture system was not working so we all got a free ride. The next day I had to visit a T Mobile store to top up my phone as their system would not accept any of my credit cards. This became a diversion that nearly caused me to miss the train as the first T Mobile store I found was “Metro by T Mobile” and they could not make top ups. So one bus to this place, then another further out to a neighbourhood called Hillsborough first to what turned out to be another Metro by T Mobile and then finally to a T Mobile. Really if they make it so difficult for customers to pay then they don’t deserve any customers.
I had a long wait for a bus back that never came, and to make it worse, just by the bus stop was a ragged black lady, maybe under the influence of something, shouting various imprecations either at me or the car park behind me. The advertised bus never came, and I called an Uber, driven by a helpful chap called Johann, to take me back to the station. As it turned out, I needn’t have rushed as the train ti Miami was two hours late.
The train passed south through Florida, through fields of orange trees, made numerous stops, especially along the coast at West Palm Beach and Fort Lauderdale, eventually crawling into Miami two hours late. The station was a single platform terminus situated some way from the centre. As Dave had pulled out of this one, I had reserved two nights at a hostel advertising itself as “Peace and Quiet” in Little Havana. The house was without visible number (127) and difficult to find. First impressions were not good as most of the residents were long term and their things were everywhere, but after a while, the owner / warden became more friendly. They offered free dinner and breakfast, but made a daily charge for the lockers. As I had arraged to meet Paul and Annoushka about a mile away – Adam had returned to the UK – I left and went to their restaurant, “Craft”. As it happened, I still got a free dinner as they had been served massive portions, which I helped to finish off.
Despite the poor first impressions, I actually slept better at this hostel than anywhere else in the US. I was in a middle bunk of a room of three bunk beds, but the mattress was very comfortable. Most of the others were long term guests all working night shifts, so no one else in the room when I left, and everyone else fast asleep in the morning when I woke up. The free breakfast was water melon, hard boiled eggs, Brazilian sausage and tea.I met a Brazilian called Fanini and a Turkish chap and we talked about the World Cup. In fact the Turk clocked me first: “That’s Kevin Keegan’s shirt” he said. I was wearing the England shirt from the 1982 World Cup. “Yes, 1982” I said. “That’s the first World Cup I remember” he said. “Mine was Mexico 70”.
Uber to Brickell, in central Miami giving Fanini a lift too. If Little Havana is all small individual bungalows, Brickell is surreal, all tall thin high rise buidings with monorails, a system called Metro Mover, which Fanini said was free. Brunch with Paul and Annoushka at which point I discovered that, having not trusted anyone in the hostel during the night, I had emptied my trouser pockets of cash and cards, put them in the locker and had forgotten to bring them. So Paul lent me $20. Very embarrassing.
We took an Uber to the shuttle bus pick up point, which was by the Martin Luther King (“MLK”) metro stop. So, unlike the price gougers of Boston and New York, we were offered free transport. Rows and rows of American yello school buses awaited us, and took us to the Miai Gardens Stadium,. some 15 miles further north. Sweltering heat and some walk from Parking Lot 16 yellow to the stadium.
Miami Gardens is another huge and impressive stadium, but unlike Dallas and Atlanta, not air conditioned, so our players, having played in air conditioning, rain, and at altitude, now had heat of about 34 degrees to cope with. Still, it would be wirse for the Norwegians. As usual we were high up.
In the first half we controlled the game well I thought, more or less neutralising their star player ,Haarland. Then Norway scored against the run of play. Our defence at fault again. Shortly before half time we equalised – Jude who else. Then Harry Kane got another two minutes later but it was disallowed for offside. From our view we couldn’t see if that was the case or not. In the second half we were awful and kept giving the ball away. Norway scored again, from a corner – how exposed we are at set pieces – but after a lengthy VAR review the goal was disallowed as |Haarland had thrown one of our players to the ground “Corner retaken” was the verdict, which was a first. Then we were awarded a penalty but the VAR review disallowed that. And so to Extra Time. In the first period of extra time, Jude scored a second, and we managed to hold on. In fact my feeling that Norway gave up in the last 10 minutes. The Norwegian manager substituted Haarland, who had been frustrated for the whole match, and we had won 2-1, despite not playing well.
I heard afterwards that Thomas Tuchel had not been happy with our performance. Actually it is good that we have a manager who can say that. Not the mentality (which he praised) but technical errors.
The trip back was painful. A long walk behind slow walkers to the bus area, then squeezing between buses all with their engines running, then having to wait there breathng in the fumes, then crawling at a snail’s pace back to the MLK metro station where I was shouted at twice, once for trying to cross a road, when I should go round, (“but I don’t want the metro, I am going for a bus”) and then once when I had gone round for trying to cut a corner. An immense black man bellowed at me – apparently I had strayed two yards from the designated route.
Out of the bus station, then a mile’s walk to a bus stop where I had to wait 45 minutes for a bus. There were a lot of obviously poor people walking around. One woman asked me for a cigarette and when I said I didn’t have any asked if I knew anywhere that sold single cigarettes. “You could try the smoke shop over there” I said. She asked me for a dollar to buy one, and my name, then for another dollar. “Howdy Alan” said a man who appeared from nowhere as I gave her two dollars, and they went off together, ignoring the smoke shop. I had told her I had left my cash behind, and said she couldn’t have any more as I needed them for the bus. Actually I didn’t as his cash capture machine was broken as well, and I was the only passenger on the bus apart from another bus company official.
This was quite amusing. It was bus number 22 and it plies the 22nd avenue from top to bottom. The hostel was in the 19th avenue, so not far from a stop, and so I returned, in time to watch the last 10 minutes of normal time of Argentina v Switzerland with the Turkish chap in the kitchen.
I had however eaten nothing since the salad at brunch so went out and found a 24 hour takeaway selling Nicaraguan food. for the record, braised beef and vegetables, plantain and zucchini in a cheese sauce, which I took back for the rest of extra time. Yes, Messi does look dangerous and creative. The general impression was that Argentina had not played well and that we would have a chance. The Swiss had a player sent off and were parking the bus but I saw the absolutely superb goal scored by Alvarez.
I did not see the other quarter finals but one prediction – that win or lose, there would be riots in Paris after the France-Morocco match – came true. Then Belgium were unlucky to lose their goalkeeper Courtois, and let Spain score through an error by their reserve goalkeeper.
A general comment: We have an expanded competition to let in more countries from Africa and Asis, but at the end of all the Group and first two knock out rounds, we had quarter finals involving six countries from Europe plus Morocco and Argentina. Now we have semis involving Argentina and three European countries. It should be easy for Morocco to improve, but otherwise, for the moment, we have the dominance of the European countries. My prediction for winner is still France.
View from the Dnipro 