Day 3: Frankfurt (afternoon)
The stadium is built within a forest a couple of train stops outside Frankfurt, and I head into the city to kill a few hours before the game. We are again bathed in sunshine, and the mood is relaxed and friendly. In town, there are England shirts everywhere, and massive red and white flags of St George have been hung on buildings and posts around every central square area. Stalls have been erected selling beer and wurst, and it’s 10 am and already the fans are down to their shorts, emptying 1 litre beers, and heading for oblivion before midday.
I find a market area, which looks like a place where the Germans come for wine and food and sun, as there are hundreds of them enjoying the day. The favourite drink is a local specialty, apple wine, and vendors are also selling massive piles of strawberries and white asparagus. There are wurst stalls everywhere: it would be easy to turn into a sausage in this country. I finally find something which is cheaper in Frankfurt than Sydney – bananas. I pass a German couple with a copy of the Lonely Planet Guide to Tasmania on their table, and maps of Australia, as they plan a trip.
On the streets, the English are happy and boisterous. One guy with a red and white face, beer in one hand and wurst in the other, is amid a group of his mates, and he stands with feet apart and arms held high and yells, “Lads, I am loving this day.” They all cheer, and while he might not be everyone’s cup of apple wine, he certainly knows how to enjoy himself. There are musicians from Ecuador and Brazil and drums and dancers from an unidentified African nation. They are pulling in some serious busking cash from visitors.
I head towards the river, and in a cobblestoned square with a fountain in the middle, bordered by old German buildings and churches, is one of those unexpected sights that takes your breath away. Thousands of English fans are chanting and dancing, and footballs are flying everywhere. They are painted (yes, the war paint analogy crosses my mind) all over their bodies. The Germans seem more amused than threatened, as if witnessing some strange native ritual, which of course, they are.
There is an official FIFA Fan Park on the River Main, where a massive floating screen sits between two picturesque bridges (even the bridge has been adorned with a St George banner which says, “Until The World Stops”). The area accommodates 40,000 people, and as I wander towards it, at about 12.30, they are closing steel barriers, and a halting German announcement informs us that the area is now full. People start shouting and pushing in a last effort to enter. The river bank is already strewn with empty beer cans and bottles – what will it look like at the end of the day. One person falls into the river, and inflatable dinghies with security staff arrive in moments. Time to head to the stadium.
On the train, I sit next to a German who is there, he tells me, to feel the atmosphere. “Nobody sings like the Engleesh,” he says. As if on cue, the whole train erupts in a rendition of ‘Rule Britannia’, then ‘God Save the Queen’, and ‘English ‘Til I Die’. There’s a song with no other words except ‘Five-One’, a reference to a recent victory by England over Germany, and much laughter when someone shouts out, “I mentioned it, but I think I got away with it”, a not-too-subtle reference to John Cleese’s ‘Don’t Mention the War.” Next, a rendition of ‘Nine German Bombers’, with words I couldn’t follow.
An English guy standing near me takes a phone call, mumbles something and finishes it with “Love you”. He turns to his mates, “I know where my priorities lie: friendship and male bonding”. They all laugh, and I realise that if the great Australian tradition of mateship has a competitor, I’m witnessing a damn fine effort.
The Germans seem to take it in good spirits, outwardly at least. There is no coordinated response, despite the fact that Germany has won the World Cup three times. No doubt it would be different if Germany was playing, but I doubt it would be so good-natured.
Inside the stadium, it is a sea of white and red, flags festooned over every available surface. The arena is spectacular, with a curtain roof and video screens hanging over the middle. My first World Cup game. England scores in the first few minutes (an own goal), and that’s it. In typical Sven-Goran Eriksson style, England sits back and refuses to go in for the kill. It is frustrating when you look at the best midfield in England’s history, with Gerrard, Lampard, Beckham and Joe Cole across the middle. Up front, Crouch and Owen look lost for half the game, and fullbacks Ashley Cole and Neville both shockers. Beckham is accurate with passes but painfully slow. Fortunately, Terry and Ferdinand in central defense are strong, and England holds on to win 1-0. To show how negative Eriksson can be, the substitutes brought on in the second half are Downing and Hargreaves, hardly the most exciting possibilities. So the crowd is restless, and the chants of “It’s Coming Home,” (a reference to the trophy) look like blind optimism on this display.
The saving grace is that tournament winners often start poorly, as if they are getting the bad game out of their system. More blind optimism? Please, bring back Rooney.
I find a market area, which looks like a place where the Germans come for wine and food and sun, as there are hundreds of them enjoying the day. The favourite drink is a local specialty, apple wine, and vendors are also selling massive piles of strawberries and white asparagus. There are wurst stalls everywhere: it would be easy to turn into a sausage in this country. I finally find something which is cheaper in Frankfurt than Sydney – bananas. I pass a German couple with a copy of the Lonely Planet Guide to Tasmania on their table, and maps of Australia, as they plan a trip.
On the streets, the English are happy and boisterous. One guy with a red and white face, beer in one hand and wurst in the other, is amid a group of his mates, and he stands with feet apart and arms held high and yells, “Lads, I am loving this day.” They all cheer, and while he might not be everyone’s cup of apple wine, he certainly knows how to enjoy himself. There are musicians from Ecuador and Brazil and drums and dancers from an unidentified African nation. They are pulling in some serious busking cash from visitors.
I head towards the river, and in a cobblestoned square with a fountain in the middle, bordered by old German buildings and churches, is one of those unexpected sights that takes your breath away. Thousands of English fans are chanting and dancing, and footballs are flying everywhere. They are painted (yes, the war paint analogy crosses my mind) all over their bodies. The Germans seem more amused than threatened, as if witnessing some strange native ritual, which of course, they are.
There is an official FIFA Fan Park on the River Main, where a massive floating screen sits between two picturesque bridges (even the bridge has been adorned with a St George banner which says, “Until The World Stops”). The area accommodates 40,000 people, and as I wander towards it, at about 12.30, they are closing steel barriers, and a halting German announcement informs us that the area is now full. People start shouting and pushing in a last effort to enter. The river bank is already strewn with empty beer cans and bottles – what will it look like at the end of the day. One person falls into the river, and inflatable dinghies with security staff arrive in moments. Time to head to the stadium.
On the train, I sit next to a German who is there, he tells me, to feel the atmosphere. “Nobody sings like the Engleesh,” he says. As if on cue, the whole train erupts in a rendition of ‘Rule Britannia’, then ‘God Save the Queen’, and ‘English ‘Til I Die’. There’s a song with no other words except ‘Five-One’, a reference to a recent victory by England over Germany, and much laughter when someone shouts out, “I mentioned it, but I think I got away with it”, a not-too-subtle reference to John Cleese’s ‘Don’t Mention the War.” Next, a rendition of ‘Nine German Bombers’, with words I couldn’t follow.
An English guy standing near me takes a phone call, mumbles something and finishes it with “Love you”. He turns to his mates, “I know where my priorities lie: friendship and male bonding”. They all laugh, and I realise that if the great Australian tradition of mateship has a competitor, I’m witnessing a damn fine effort.
The Germans seem to take it in good spirits, outwardly at least. There is no coordinated response, despite the fact that Germany has won the World Cup three times. No doubt it would be different if Germany was playing, but I doubt it would be so good-natured.
Inside the stadium, it is a sea of white and red, flags festooned over every available surface. The arena is spectacular, with a curtain roof and video screens hanging over the middle. My first World Cup game. England scores in the first few minutes (an own goal), and that’s it. In typical Sven-Goran Eriksson style, England sits back and refuses to go in for the kill. It is frustrating when you look at the best midfield in England’s history, with Gerrard, Lampard, Beckham and Joe Cole across the middle. Up front, Crouch and Owen look lost for half the game, and fullbacks Ashley Cole and Neville both shockers. Beckham is accurate with passes but painfully slow. Fortunately, Terry and Ferdinand in central defense are strong, and England holds on to win 1-0. To show how negative Eriksson can be, the substitutes brought on in the second half are Downing and Hargreaves, hardly the most exciting possibilities. So the crowd is restless, and the chants of “It’s Coming Home,” (a reference to the trophy) look like blind optimism on this display.
The saving grace is that tournament winners often start poorly, as if they are getting the bad game out of their system. More blind optimism? Please, bring back Rooney.
posted by Graham Hand | 10:45 PM
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