You Wish You Were Here

Nine days in Germany show why the World Cup is the greatest party on the planet

Berlin, June 9

The German hosts are trying to enjoy themselves, making small talk in the conference room of Deutsche Bank's local office in the former communist sector. They're casually dressed, eating pretzels and currywurst, sipping beer and wine, waiting and hoping that their countrymen, on the field and in the stands and surrounding the TVs in thousands of open-air venues, don't ruin the party. This is a country that knows things can go wrong. Berlin might be the sorriest city on earth. Around every corner there seems to be a grim reminder of some tragic bit of history. Even Berlin's main venue, the Olympiastadion, completely renovated yet completely recognizable as Hitler's 1936 shrine to fascism, serves as a symbol. That is how Berliners want it. They choose to confront their past.

But they are trying to move forward, too, and that's what tonight—and this tournament—is about: a chance to show the world the new, united Germany; to wave flags in celebration and without shame; a time to make friends, as the World Cup slogan goes. And yes, a time to win a game or two.

This German side doesn't play German football. Coach Jürgen Klinsmann spends most of his time in America, and he's full of weird Californian ideas: Scoring goals is good, and the game should be fun to watch. Against Costa Rica, Klinsi's plan works like a charm, as the Germans explode for four goals. Yeah, his guys give up a couple, but for the 500,000 revelers near the Brandenburg Gate, some of them wearing German-flag bikini tops, an opening win is sheer relief, followed by joy. On the spot where, 17 years ago, Germans were pointing guns at each other, a man named MoMo is joining, or perhaps conducting, the celebration. The son of Turkish guest workers, he's decked out in shades and hip-hop gear and admits he has never truly been accepted in Germany because of his heritage. But here he is, partying with an entourage of German women he met an hour ago, and introducing them to a group of Aussie fans he met five minutes ago. Like everyone here, he breathes a sigh of relief tonight. The tourney is on, and nobody has screwed up. Klinsi tells the press his players can drink bier tonight. They'll have plenty of company.

Time to make friends, all right.

Hamburg, June 10

The U-Bahn (subway) is full of blue and white shirts and songs sung in Spanish. This is Hamburg, but with four hours to go until Argentina plays its first match, we might as well be in Buenos Aires. The Wagen rocks, as men, women and children chant and sing. When the match begins, against a very game Ivory Coast squad, the Argentines move the ball to the rhythm of their cheering fans—who've turned an entire quarter of the stadium into a light-blue heaven—and grab a 2-0 lead before halftime. The Elephants' star, Didier Drogba, cuts it in half with 10 minutes to play, but that's as close as they'll come tonight. "We are also here to show the world we are good sportsmen and a country that wants peace," says one Ivorian fan named Stephane. "Our football team and its fans will be ambassadors."

In a local restaurant later that night, a man in a Maradona shirt polishes off a steak and calls the waiter over in perfect German. Asked where he learned the language, he says, "I am German." Asked about the Argentina shirt, he replies, "Germans love perfect football, and Argentina plays the game close to perfect."

Nuremberg, June 11

Another town, another stadium, and you'd swear the whole thing is a practical joke staged by history. Here is a match, Iran vs. Mexico, rife with political intrigue (thanks to Iran's Holocaust-denying president), in a city rife with history. Just down the road from the ultramodern Franken-Stadion, Hitler staged his first Nuremberg rallies, and historical markers depict how the führer rallied 200,000 followers to accept genocide and global war. But now the fans show up, and keep showing up, and they overwhelm the ghosts. "We're just here to have a good time and forget about politics," says Kami Hoss, an Iranian expat who lives in San Diego. Adds Farhad Ehsani, an Iranian fan from Paris, "It's a way to show the world another side to Iran. We're not terrorists and bombers."

Where Hitler Youth once goose-stepped, now happy Iranians and Mexicans—who have discovered that their national colors (green, white and red) are identical, their flags uncannily similar—weave loopy, slightly tipsy paths toward the pitch, or the beer line, or each other. Instead of jackboots and brown shirts, they're wearing sombreros, or flags as capes, or masks familiar to fans of Mexican wrestling. On the field, the play is spirited, physical and sportsmanlike. Iranians and Mexicans knock each other down hard, then help each other up. Mexico comes away with a 3-1 win, and it all ends peacefully.

Tonight, the joke's on history.

Gelsenkirchen, June 12

The smoking car on the train from Cologne to Gelsenkirchen is full of Americans, which means it's now a nonsmoking car. Dressed in full USA regalia, some in Elvis suits, they pile off and gather in the middle of Gelsenkirchen's Neue City with a few thousand other Yanks, chanting and singing and drinking beer like people who actually follow the game. And you wonder if a U.S. soccer culture has been born.

Meanwhile, at the stadium, fans of the Czech Republic are subdued, smoking and acting like they've been here before, even though their side hasn't made the Cup since 1990 (as Czechoslovakia). The game starts, and the Czechs chant things that sound like "CheSHEE, CheSHEEE!" and "Ziggy-Zaggy, Ziggy-Zaggy, O! O! O!" And then the goals come, and the U.S. fans are quiet, drained from the heat and the disappointment. Turns out, these other countries can really play.

But fear not. Captain America isn't giving up.

Zak Zivkovich traveled from Chicago with a homemade blue suit, complete with fake muscles, and wore it in the stifling 90° heat. He had his shield confiscated by security, then had to sit through an incompetent performance by his team, then heard jeers and taunts from laughing Czech fans as he left the stadium. No matter. He's not calling for Bruce Arena's head or cursing his countrymen.

"Now we just need to come back," he says.

And he seems to believe that they will.

Berlin, June 13

Math problem: Take the most popular team in the world, playing in the biggest city in this soccer-mad country, plus another team with a superpatriotic fan base just a 10-hour drive away, and what do you get? Not enough tickets.

Which explains the sorry scene outside the grounds after the opening kickoff. Andrew Tomlinson and Steve Jacques came from North Wales to watch the Brazilians against the Croatians (you don't need to be from São Paulo to love fat Ronaldo), and they seem to have been swindled by a website that took their money and guaranteed them tickets.

But the Croats are the saddest lot. Many drove through the night to get here, proudly wearing the red-and-white-checked-Italian-restaurant-tablecloth jerseys of their side, only to be shut out by scalpers more interested in selling to hot chicks in green and yellow bikini tops. As the crowd roars in Olympiastadion just a few hundred yards behind him, Sacha Sablak looks wan while waiting at the gate, holding a sign that reads, "I NEED TICKET," a ticket that never comes. "I thought the big TV would be here, but nichts, " he says. Asked what he'll do tonight, he puts his thumb to his mouth, then tips up his hand, the universal sign for drowning one's sorrows.

Nuremberg, June 15

Time and again, the world-famous players—Beckham, Owen, Lampard—kick and head the ball at Shaka Hislop. And time and again, they fail to get it by him. Hislop, the keeper for Trinidad and Tobago, has become an unlikely World Cup hero, the symbol of a Soca Warriors team that is all heart. The 37-year-old vet wasn't supposed to play at all, but when starter Kelvin Jack got injured just before their Cup opener, Hislop came on to shut down Sweden for a 0-0 draw, the tourney's most surprising result to date.

Of course, few thought Hislop could do the same against mighty England. And yet for 83 minutes, he does. As the seconds tick away, England's legions of loud, loyal louts are struck dumb. Finally, talent wins out, as Beckham puts a lethal cross on the head of Peter Crouch, who directs it into the net just out of Hislop's reach.

The Soca Warriors are down, but not out. As Hislop says later, "When the dust settles, we will be proud of our performance."

They will not be alone. An hour later, as a group of T&T fans head down the street, a dozen or so England supporters waiting for a bus point at them—and clap their hands.

Kaiserslautern, June 17

Maybe it's the altitude. As hordes of fans make their way up the steep slope to Kaiserslautern's Fritz-Walter-Stadion to watch the U.S.-Italy match, a lone man staggers against the tide, beer in hand. He shouts at the top of his lungs, "ECUADOOOOOOR!"

Then he falls down. The understanding Yanks and Italians promptly help him up and send him on his wobbly way, because they know that his national team has ascended to giddy heights.

Ecuador, a team of mostly unknown players making a living in places like Quito and Qatar, was
discounted before the tournament because its home field is more than 9,000 feet above sea level. When the Tricolores come down from the mountain, history has shown, their play usually falls, too.

But this is the World Cup, and the ball is round, and strange and unexpected things can happen. After Ecuador's opening-night 2-0 shocker over Poland, the attack from on high continued, with the Tricolores smothering Costa Rica 3-0 on June 15 to earn a trip to the Round of 16.

And now, at least for another week, their fans are on top of the world.

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