¡Vamos España!
Moving to Spain has taught us the beauty of unexpectedness. With reliable unpredictability there seems to be a festival, or a fiesta, or a parade, or a concert, or a marathon or a horse race around every corner of every month. There’s always something weird going on – for any definition of weird – and it’s often literally on our doorstep, what with our own Calle Porvera being one of the city’s premier gathering points.
Living my first two-score-and-ten years in Australia, I haven’t developed much of an interest in the round-ball version of football; I even stopped following our own Australian Rules version of the game some time back in the mid ‘80s, as a rather meek protest against the fact that players began being paid more than a plumber. So it seems there are two schools of thought on the matter: all the other people on the planet say football is the bee’s knees, and I say it’s takeable or leaveable.
But watching the soccer … erm … football World Cup from inside a country whose heart, soul and all its other giblets hum to the tune of the beautiful game twenty-four-seven has been a real hoot.
I’m sure that in lots of Spanish towns there are venues hosting thousands in front of a huge video screen, jumping up and down and yelling a lot, but here in Jerez the folk prefer things a little more intimate. When Spain gets an afternoon or evening match-up a lot of the town’s little bars get involved. And the weather being what it is at this time of year (somewhere between warm and volcanic) that often means sitting outside watching a TV that they’ve rolled out just for the occasion.
These bars are dotted along our street, throughout the small plazas and on footpaths outside random neighbourhood joints – a TV on a rickety stand and a small group of locals watching intently as the owner keeps the drinks and nibbles coming, all while keeping one eye on the screen.
For the Spain vs Portugal match we grabbed a table at Manduca, across the road from our place, ordered a drink and a few tapas, and watched as a couple of dozen other locals rocked up 15 minutes after kickoff, such is the Spanish relationship with punctuality.
Digital streaming being what it is, it becomes evident that your live feed isn’t actually live but delayed by a few seconds – occasionally up to 20 – which means that when a goal is scored, the bar next door likely sees it before you do. Spain could be in the process of setting up for a shot at goal when you hear the almighty roar of neighbouring digital time travellers confirming the outcome and spoiling the surprise. On a city scale you get this kind of random wave of roars throughout the streets, goal by goal, the timing of which is determined by the quality of the local wifi.
Living in Jerez you’ll find people from Morocco, Mexico, Columbia, Argentina and just about every other part of the football world, so even when Spain isn’t playing there will be someone with an allegiance to somewhere else who’s got that game playing. We learned that Pim and Manuel, who run the bar outside our front door, are from Paraguay. They and we were delighted that the none-each tie (I think that’s what it’s called) between our two home countries during the first round matches sent neither one crashing out of the competition (that would come a week later for both of us). It was a coup for neighbourly harmony.
Not for nothing, but when the bar is small you don’t have to wait long for a top-up. The hydration breaks just keep on giving. In fact, when we got home after the grand Spanish victory I was red-carded for an inappropriate tackle in the box.
I’m writing this two days out from the upcoming semifinal against France and I’m guessing the excitement will begin ramping up soon. Kickoff is 9pm on a Tuesday evening – typically a quiet time of the week – but when it’s 30 degrees in the moonlight, a beer costs $3 AUD, and the Spanish are fighting for national pride, I reckon we’re in for a big night.
¡Vamos España!
