I used to live in central London. When I say that, I don’t mean it in the American “I was a study abroad student for four months, so now I tell people I lived in London” sense. I mean I got a blue passport, paid for a valid work visa and loaded up a big black backpack before boarding a one-way flight from Chicago O’Hare to London Heathrow. I was an expatriate. Why did I do it? I wasn’t sure what else to do with my life. I’d applied to grad school at UCLA, but they rejected me. Life Lesson #186: Always Have a Back Up Plan.
I didn’t know anyone in Britain’s capital city, so my immediate goals were to find housing and a job. I worked as a bartender in a traditional English pub called The Mitre because it was a “two-fer.” Random trivia fact: the word pub is short for public house. The folks who work downstairs in the public bar live in the upstairs house for free.
A pale-skinned British guy named Martin managed the place with his sexy, thin, pretty, brown Indian girlfriend named Zen and an English guy named Darren. I’d have to check my written journals to be sure, but if I remember correctly, my roommates / coworkers included exactly: 2 Aussie boy bartenders, 2 Aussie girl bartenders, 1 Irish cook, an Italian girl & African guy who served as barbacks who went home at the end of the night instead of living with us upstairs. (I don’t know why.)
It was a World Cup year, so the pub was always crowded with drunken Brits singing “Three Lions” and other cheer songs for their beloved national team. England and South Africa had teams running across the green pitch on our pub’s “telly.” It was the year Beckham kicked a player and was sent off with a red card. Pushing my way through the crowds, serving pints as I spilled lager, ale and cider down my hand and arms, I came across a burly Englishman with St. George’s Cross on the front of his white shirt. He got in my face and yelled, “Your team lost!” I spit back, “I’m not South African. I’m American.” He looked completely baffled, as if I’d told him, “I come from the future.” Life Lesson # 674: Europeans Are Often Surprised By the Large Number of Brown-skinned People in America.
I remember the swell of the crowd’s cheer, the intense concentration with which the men watched the game, and the fans’ sheer dedication and commitment to their World Cup teams. It was as if World War II was reenacted, and civilians sat spectator as they watched the battles play out before their eyes. Supporters rooted for their home countries, and nearly everyone hated Germany. The fervor was equally intense as it was intoxicating. What’s more? All the all players had fit, streamlined bodies that were propped up by powerful legs and rock-hard asses. The excitment. The skill. The enthusiasm. The boys. A woman who’d shunned sports for 89.5765% of her life, I knew I’d found a new love.
Life Lesson #892: Soccer is called football, and it is a truly beautiful game.
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NOTE: Why this post today? Heads up, the next Manly Monday post is about my newest favorite soccer player. Anyone wanna guess who it is?
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