After looking
around for a parking spot (something
that’s dang near impossible to find in Milwaukee), I arrive at the Nomad World
Pub. There are still over 75 minutes to
kickoff time, and the bar already has a crowd of 40-50 people in their outdoor
party area (which is somewhat controversially decorated as a favela, or Brazilian
slum), a good 20-25 of whom are sporting Brazilian yellow. An elementary school-aged kid is kicking a
ball around with some of the patrons, and the air is heating up with
excitement.
Wanting to make use of my time before the opening match begins, I walk around and ask the fans
what the World Cup means to them. I get a wide variety of answers: it is an
integral part of their culture back home in Brazil (about 1/4 of the
patrons are Brazilian), it’s a global celebration of something that
most of the world loves, it is the only time the USA really gets into soccer (debatable),
it is the biggest tournament in the sport they love. Easily the most common
answer given was, "everything."
As kickoff draws
agonizingly close, well over 100 people, many supporting Brazil, pack into the
party deck, and the samba music that the bar had been playing fades out as the
teams walk out onto the pitch. The sun
is glaring off of half of the six TVs, so despite the large crowd, most bunch up in one half of the space so as to get a better view. The Croatian national anthem comes
first. People listen politely or talk
amongst themselves. Next, the Brazilian
national anthem is played, and the bar swells with the singing of over 30
Brazilians.
Then, the
whistle sounds, the 2014 FIFA World Cup commences, and four years of
anticipation is released in a loud roar from the crowd.
As I was
expecting, the Brazilians are easily the loudest throughout the entire
match. Cheers and curses in Portuguese fly
thick and heavy. Even the smallest
events seem to set off mood swings: screams of encouragement for Brazil advancing towards the
Croatian goal, easy-to-translate swearing for giving the ball away.
The first big
moment of the match comes when Brazilian defender Marcelo accidentally puts the
ball in his own net. A cry of anguish
goes up from the Brazilian half of the crowd, while the few Croatians and many
neutrals watching the game yell in celebration of the World Cup’s first goal
(the first time ever the World Cup’s opening goal has been an own goal).
However, the
Brazilian despair is short-lived. Just
18 minutes later, Brazil’s young phenom Neymar scores a wonderful goal, and the
Nomad is consumed by an ear-splitting roar.
Beer flies everywhere, and within seconds a deafening chant of
“Brasil! Brasil!” is taken up.
Another swell of
noise comes when Brazil is awarded a penalty, only for the cheers to turn into groans
as replays show that Fred, the Brazilian who was “fouled,” clearly
took a dive. The Croatians and neutrals
are livid, and even the Brazilians look around sheepishly, knowing that they
don’t deserve the gift they have received.
But that knowledge doesn’t stop another cheer followed by a Portuguese
chant as Neymar buries the penalty, giving the hosts a 2-1 lead.
Less than ten
minutes later, Croatia scores a would-be equalizer only to have their
celebrations cut short for a foul on the Brazilian goalkeeper. The five Croatians at the bar gather in a corner to
discuss their ill fortune, while the neutrals mutter about how it might have
been justice for Croatia if the goal had stood. The Brazilian contingent had, shockingly,
fallen silent by this point, although whether that was out of embarrassment for
the goal they never should have had or anxiety as Brazil faces waves of
Croatian attacks, I cannot say.
A funny thing
occurs two minutes from time when a couple of people mistake a replay of a
Brazilian goal for live footage, and start cheering Brazil’s (non-existent) fourth. Luckily for them, they're able to laugh off
their mistake and turn it into yet another chant of “Brasil!”
The final
whistle sounds, and most of the crowd breaks out dancing, drinking, and happy
chatter while the Croatians look on in defeat.
The Nomad pumps samba music out of its speakers again, and
several people file out and gather on the street, talking about
the match and waiting for their
friends. A good crowd is still there
when I finally leave the Nomad half an hour later. Walking away, I reflected that while the
loudest people may have been the immigrants, the entire crowd was just as
immersed in the game as they would have been for any NFL or NBA contest. Admittedly, it was obvious that several of
the patrons are just using the game as an excuse to get drunk at 3pm on a
weekday. But to most, the game was all
that mattered for those precious two hours (the drinks were just the icing on the cake).
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