**Update**
John told me tonight the “bar” we were at was a building site that’s only open during the World Cup. Which is the kind of thing that happens all around Berlin. Empty spaces become garden bars. For, you know, however long.
**
I’m quite the typical America soccer fan. I played growing up (although I played keeper so my actual soccer skills are limited to catch, blocking, punting and drop kicking). I watched the English Premiere League on Sundays on PBS (which maybe makes me more atypical). I’ve followed, from a distance, Major League Soccer. I always watch the U.S. Men’s National Team play. And I know the North Carolina women’s soccer team produced a slew of national team players over the years and several NCAA championships.
Oh, and I was really good at FIFA World Cup for the Nintendo from 1996-1998 when Andy and I would play to see who had to drive to What-a-Burger to pick up breakfast.
Which is to say I know enough about the game to enjoy it, see what’s happening on the field, but not understand any of the tactical and psychological games.
Yet I’ve found myself in a strange place: in Berlin during the World Cup as the Germans marched towards what looked like an inevitable championship.
The last few nights, the three of us have parked ourselves at this – to call it a bar would be a misnomer – place. It sits on the north edge of Mauerpark, just across the footbridge from John and Aimee’s apartment. You wind through a little dirt trail and emerge into this series of very small buildings and archways, an interconnected walk-way separating large open spaces. There are TVs everywhere. And seats.
A ping pong table (which is very big in parks in Berlin).
A foosball table. Several grills. And large vendor carts with alcohol and soda.
I find it hard to describe this place because, like so many things in Europe, there is simply no American analogy.
Let me just say this: in America, we knock things down and replace them with pristine-ness; in Europe, they take existing structures and transform them. I’m not saying one is better, but Europe is definitely better.
On Tuesday, the Netherlands played Uraguay. The crowd was sparse. Dozens maybe. (The dog was hilarious, by the way. He wandered all over the place, including my lap for a little while. All unbeknownst to his mom.)
On Wednesday, Germany played Spain, one of the premiere matches in the tournament. We arrived an hour early and still that was too late.
The Spanish contingent arrived early enough to decamp in the front section of our little corner. But people streamed in and out all night long, straining to see the little televisions (in America, there would have been giant flat screens everywhere).
We sat here. (The television is under the green awning in the middle of the picture. You could see the action is you stood on a bench. Which we did.)
I was worried about attending because of the alcohol. I didn’t want to be trapped in a rollicking area with lots of drinking and insanity. I’d prepped John and Aimee that I may just leave. Yet the Germans – as they did in 2006 at the one million person gathering – displayed an amazing restraint and civility throughout the entire game. There were cheers and boos, a few dropped bottles. But no insane loudness or near fights or, you know, the general insanity that Americans bring to almost every public gathering involving sports.
Of course, I hear the Tiergarten scene might be a bit different, but we weren’t there so I don’t know.
The downside is that the Netherlands won the most boring game ever played and the hated Spanish scored a late goal to decimate the Germans after a long, slow squeeze throughout the game. In both cases, the better team won.
Still. I wanted to see a World Cup final in Berlin.
