Taking Myself Out to the Ball Game

Today is another in a string of gorgeous days. It’s sunny, there’s a light breeze, the trees are still green, and it’ll top off around 70 degrees. Luckily, this procession of ambiance (shout-out to Uriel) began at the most opportune time: on game day.

I’ve always wanted to go to a European fotbal game, so when I realized that our school was right next to the stadium (which happened on the first day; rest assured that the CR has not changed my eyesight or affinity to notice the obvious), it was like fate sent me a big fat reminder to “go for the goal” (shout-out to LA—haha). I found another girl who was interested in going, and our recruitment produced one more brave soul, and after practically selling our souls for the tickets, we were in.

The day of the game was terribly exciting, fostered by the fact that every adult near us reminded us about twice an hour to be careful. Our location by the stadium also enabled us to see the police and port-a-potties gathering by noon and the hotdog/beer stands opening by 2. When we got done with school for the day and went for dinner, there was a small crowd by the food/drinks. When we left the restaurant, the sidewalks were packed with shouting people in green and red. The walk to the stadium was one of the most fun things for me. The energy was high and I felt like I was going to a Quidditch match. Everyone was covered in paraphenelia from head to toe. I was already wearing red, but the girls with me quickly bought a hat and t-shirt so that we would fit in.

The inside of the stadium—apologies to serious fans—was adorable. There were only two levels of seating, so it felt really personal. It was refreshingly simple, as well; only two small scoreboards and one large one, which only told the score or people’s names. Clearly, there was a competition to get railing space, because every inch of it was covered with a flag. The crowd was mixed, though there were some sections of heavy red or green. The Irish were singing some fairly complicated fight songs, but the Czechs stuck to a simple clap with intermittant chantings of “Chesky,” which I appreciated because I could easily join in.

Our spots were right next to the field, which were actually pretty awful seats for a soccer game because you don’t have a very good perspective. They did, however, afford us the opportunity to keep a close watch on the Czech mascot, which was a man dressed in a soccer uniform who occasionally put on a head that might have been modelled after a bear and a tail which made him look completely ridiculous. He was so unenthused, it was great to watch. We also cheered on the subs who were warming up next to the field near us.

My hands-down favorite part of the game was when they introduced the starting lineup. For the Czech team, the announcer would only read the first name, and then the whole crowd would yell the last name. They projected the names on the scoreboard, so we got to practice our pronunciation and yell along. Speaking of names, there was one row of flags with all K-names of Czech players: Klatovy, Kostelec, Kyjoy, Konesin, and it seemed like “Kostechka” would fit in pretty well.

The crowd was energized, enthusiastic, and loud, but never really aggressive or intimidating. The massive amount of police around was intimidating. Apparently the Irish are a pleasant crowd, and I agree. It’s amazing to see how many people flew in from Ireland for the game. There was a pair of teenage Irish punks right in front of us who were going to great lengths to prove how cool they were, but it was tough for them because they both had mullets. Actually, I felt sorry for all of the Irish, because “Ireland” in Czech is “Irsko,” and that doesn’t look very intimidating on the scoreboard.

It’s also very hard to sound genuinely angry with an Irish accent, as illustrated by the delightful man behind us. He was VERY Irish, and is credited with saying the following phrases (excuse his...French?): “toothless! yer’ all toothless!” “give him a yeller than cheatin bastard!” “get yer head on the field yah wankers” and “good call ya fackin refs.” It was immensely entertaining. I accidentally let out a huge chuckle at one point when he screamed “FIGHT!” like a battle cry.

Czech Republic won, by the way, 1-0. It was great. But it was also such an interesting study of two cultures. None of the Irish people spoke Czech, and many of the people working at the game only spoke Czech. I also observed a hilarious incident wherein an Irish man had ordered a hotdog and received a huge sausage and a piece of bread, and he had no idea what to do with it (That’s common here, by the way—there arent’ really hotdog buns, only accompanying slices of bread. I saw one person with a foot-long hotdog who got three slices of bread. haha). I’d almost rather go to a fotbal game than visit a country (almost), because you get a great slice of their culture with a really entertaining presentation.