Twanna A. Hines @ FUNKYBROWNCHICK.com | sex. dating. relationships.

The End of 2006 FIFA World Cup Germany

Yesterday. I wake up at 7:30AM. The game isn’t until 2:00PM, but a few friends and I have already decided to head down to Little Italy to scout out a place to watch the game. Why Little Italy? Well, my heart is with the French, but my head tells me that Italy will probably win. And, if Italy wins, I want to be among and party with the winners.

Now it’s 8:10AM, and I send Sid a text message. “Meeting @ 10:30 on corner of Mulberry and Spring. C U there? GO ITALY!! :)” Sid sends me a text message back. Good, she’s awake. I pick up the phone and call her back and we make plans to rendezvous. I call Bro, too. She’s already awake, and she’s leaving the house within the hour. I call Raj. He’s hung over and he can’t make it for the scouting, but he wants me to call him once we know where we’re going and he’ll meet us. Same for Tom. And, David. And, Eileen. Now, it’s 10:40AM and I’m standing underground waiting for the fucking D train as I have been for the past 25 minutes. I swear that line NEVER runs like it should. Anyway, when I get out of the subway at Broadway / Lafayette, I call Bro.

“It’s already pretty crazy in Little Italy,” she says. I think: that’s impossible. It’s 11:00AM and the game doesn’t start for 3 hours. But, when I arrive, I immediately know that she’s right. New York City has more people of Italian descent than Rome does. So, it’s crowded. Eyewitness News and Univision are filming the crowds. A pack of photographers are relentlessly snapping pictures. Red, White and Green flags are flying everywhere and people are chanting in Italian.

We eventually settle on a cute restaurant / bar with a large television. To make a long story short, here’s what happens at the game: France makes early goal, Italy matches it, Luca Toni is a hottie (had to throw that in there), and Zidane (another hottie) pulls a rookie move and gets himself sent out. After a full 90-minute game and the 30-minute overtime, the teams are equally strong and they’ve held each other to 1-1. Penalties ensue (i.e. each team gets 5 free kicks; whoever scores the most wins). Italy wins on the 5th kick.

The neighborhood erupts into a loud roar as every Italian in Little Italy, and indeed New York, chants “CAMPIONI, CAMPIONI, CAMPIONI!!!!” (I’m not sure, but I think it means, “We want more beer”—either that or “champions”. I never figured that one out.) The crowd, the cameras, the singing and chanting gets a little overwhelming. It’s worse than Mardi Gras on Bourbon Street. So, we leave Little Italy for a while and head over to one of my favorite French bars. It’s considerably more quite there, but the mood isn’t as sad as I expected. “Hey,” says the hot French bartender, “somebody’s gotta lose right?” Then, he looks over at a group of Italians standing outside of the bar. “Fuck Italy,” he says with a smile.

Eventually, I return home around 10:00PM, after 11 hours of eating, drinking, walking, and partying with friends, the Italians, and—albeit brief—the French. Now, it’s all over. No more World Cup. Back to everyday life. Temping. Searching for a full-time job. Registering for classes. Freaking out about surviving in New York. Etc. Etc. Etc. Hmmm … the World Cup was such a pleasant distraction. For a moment, I’d stopped getting upset that my sent resumes, calls placed, and leads chased were turning up nada. Now that the noise of the Cup has quieted, sadness settles in and I hear myself asking, “how much longer until I find another job?”