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210 In the Theater of the World Cup lAuReNT duboIS The WoRld CuP is the largest theater that has ever existed in human history. It produces a powerful monthlong narrative in which all those who watch and participate largely follow one plotline. The features of football itself guarantee a gripping drama that invariably includes heroism, tragedy, unfairness, massive blunders by referees, and an exhausting yo-yoing between utterly tedious and totally exhilarating and even redemptive play. In the midst of the tournament, it seems all-encompassing, irreducible, and indeed—during a particular riveting game or a particularly boring one—like it might never end. But almost immediately after the final whistle, the contest comes to seem strangely fleeting, ethereal, a little unbelievable. Did I really spend several weeks in South Africa—having planned to do so for literally several years— going to games? What for? And what remains? The answer to that question lies partly in the crowds generated by the World Cup, both at the tournament and among viewers throughout the globe, which are unlike those generated by any other event I can think of.At games I met a bewildering array of people—South Africans, of course, plus Irish, Japanese, Haitian, Argentinean—all participating in a very specific set of expectations, worries, and pleasures. The flags and banners and face paint were never limited to the teams that were playing or even to teams in the tournament: People come decked out in their national colors, with club jerseys, regional flags, and curious get-ups of all sorts. Wandering about before and after the games is part of the terrific pleasure of the whole thing. As I wandered around at the final, for example, I kept seeing an odd expression on people’s faces, In the Theater of the World Cup • 211 and then I realized it was the same one I had on mine: a slightly-crazed, elated grin that simply said, “I can’t believe I’m here.” And—absurdly, perhaps—I have incredibly fond memories of waiting in line to go to the bathroom at the World Cup, standing with people draped in all colors, sometimes elated, sometimes despairing, but always extremely chatty, with sudden communities formed for the time of the line, then disappearing back into the vastness of the stadium. That rare and fleeting reality remains a kind of reservoir, almost painful but also sustaining to recall, especially since outside of the time of the World Cup, it seems so surreal and evanescent. So here are a few snapshots, drawn from dispatches from the World Cup originally posted on my Soccer Politics blog and offered as traces of the event.1 AFTeR The SIxTeeN-houR nonstop flight from the United States to South Africa, I arrived just in time to catch the United States–Ghana roundof -sixteen game at a restaurant in Melville, a bohemian neighborhood in Johannesburg. Everything was incredibly efficient at the airport, so much so that I’d like to propose that South Africa send a commission to explain to the French how to run an airport. I was coming from Durham, North Carolina, where watching the United States–Algeria match in a packed bar had been the most exciting football-viewing experience I’d ever had at home: muttering, stomping, shouting, and finally, as Landon Donovan scored the winner with time running out, complete elation, hugs from random strangers. That night we were, for the briefest of moments, in precisely the right place, glowing in an experience that we’ll carry that with us for a long, long time. Before that instant of ecstasy, there had been the bemusing buzz around our referee-induced victimization during the United States–Slovenia game (when the referee wrongly disallowed a goal that would have given us a victory), which had in its own way confirmed a certain type of belonging for fans in the United States: We have our own flare-ups and debates about things that no one else is even paying that much attention to, which also means we were participating fully in the swirling global theater of the World Cup. Now, though, I was in South Africa. And while I found a lot of affection for the U.S. team—“You guys have done well,” I heard several times, with a slightly condescending but sincere pat on the back—there was little ambiguity about who needed to win the game. I was torn [3.14.70.203] Project MUSE (2024...

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