In the summer of 2002, the Mighty Green Army headed East to Japan and Korea for the World Cup. My husband, our three sons, aged 8, 4 and 2, and I decided to join them. Hubbie planned it all, from the booking of the hotels, flights, trains, a visit to Disneyland and the cultural stuff like temples and gardens.
Japan is an amazing country but it is hideously expensive. As one guidebook put it, it is a place where you will feel truly impoverished.
Booking the hotels was surprisingly difficult. All the other bookings had gone smoothly enough but our attempts to reserve a hotel kept getting refused and so in the end, my husband had to ring Fusae, a Japanese friend to help us out. Fusae did the necessary and booked us the hotel in Niigatta without any problems.
However, when this little regiment rocked up to the hotel at 9pm, the night before the Cameroon game, we were met with blank looks and panic. Before we even stepped over the threshold, the manager immediately waved us away and said, “No Room.” We smiled, pressed on and reassured him that we had a booking. He shook his head vigourously and repeated “No Room” Standing before the reception desk, we could see the hotel log book open and our surname written there but he remained resolute. Hubbie got on the phone to Fusae. Fusae talked to the manager and it all ended well as a few minutes later, we were handed our room key and shown the lift. At all times, in keeping with the Asian tradition of ‘Face’, the negotiations were kept low key, polite and unheated.
Once inside the hotel room, the kids honed in on the TV. My eight year-old picked up an A4 sized laminated card lying next to the TV which listed all the channels. We were a bit taken aback when we saw the selection. Beside 17 of the channels listed, there was a photograph featuring buxom, doe-eyed, nymphs which, even with our non-existent grasp of the Japanese language, did not prevent us from understanding what was on offer. We managed to sidetrack the porno and settled down to watch Germany annihilate Saudi Arabia 8-0.
The World Cup match tickets were allocated so that only four could be purchased per booking. I had no ticket for the Cameroon game but we were able to purchase a fifth ticket from a man from Clonmel whose friend hadn’t shown up. Great! It meant, however, that my husband and the three boys were in the West Stand while I was in the East Stand on my own. I needn’t have worried. Before the game started, Angela, from Ballymun, sitting on my right introduced herself and so did the rest of the crowd around us. There was Kevin from Dublin, Michael and Kathleen from Meath, and others from all parts of Ireland. When I was obliged to return in kind and proffer my county, I got the immediate retort, “And do you have Roy Keane in your pocket?”
Our two year-old slept through most of the Cameroon game. He was rudely wakened when Matt Holland scored the equaliser and he got drowned in spilt beer. His angry protestations went unheard as the wave of euphoria swept through the stadium. The relief was palpable; Ireland might survive in the World Cup without Roy Keane after all.
The Japanese people have a reputation for being a polite but it was taken to new heights when on leaving the stadium, the stewards and other staff lined the exits and bowing to us with joined hands, said “Arigato, thank you for coming.” It was humbling to witness and it made me feel as if I had just attended a ballet recital rather than a potential hooligan fest.
The train to the Germany game was a slow, lumbering affair. Instead of the infamous high speed bullet train, we had to take the bog standard commuter train which stopped at every hamlet and mouse hole on the way. The train was packed with Irish fans, along with a flute, a couple of badhrains, a banjo and two Japanese businessmen. Despite being made to stand the whole way home, the businessmen were good humoured and seemed amused by the spectacle. Initially the mood was high but after an hour and a half of being squashed in a stuffy train, even the most exuberant fans became sombre. We had managed to get two seats to share between the five of us which we gave over to the children. Near to the end of the journey, our two-year old lost the plot completely and proceeded to have a meltdown. I tried all my usual methods to soothe him but when I could no longer contain his flailing limbs or shut him up; I eased him down to the floor where he lay on his back and continued to thrash out his frustrations. Apart from the racket he was making, there was now a depressed silence in the carriage. Then one of the businessmen nudged his friend and pointing to our, by now, hysterical son, said, “Roy Keane?”
The Irish would make a song out of anything. To the tune of Ooh Ah Paul McGrath, we sang Ooh Ah Konnichiawa, the Japanese word for 'Hello', as we swarmed out of the station towards Ibaraki Stadium to watch Ireland v Germany.
The Germany game started at 8pm and even though it was June, it was chilly. We came unprepared for this and when my four year started to moan about how ‘freezing’ he was, I let him snuggle under my shirt where he fell asleep for the duration of the game. When the irrepressible Robbie Keane scored the equaliser past the mighty Oliver Kahn, I was rooted to the spot like an enormous, green frog. Around us, thousands of Irish fans went berserk. The atmosphere was that of pure, indescribable joy as we were hugged and kissed each other and the lads in the row in front of us took our photo. The mood was still ecstatic leaving the stadium. A Dublin man in his fifties rushed up to my eldest son, fell to his knees before him and pleaded, “Do you realise that you witnessed an historic moment – Ireland scored a goal against Germany in the dying seconds of the World Cup!” I don’t think my son understood what the man said but he quickly nodded in agreement.
Back to the train station. Despite the hordes, the fans entered the station in an orderly fashion. We lined up dutifully at the painted lines on the platform and as each train filled up and pulled out, we shuttled forward and patiently awaited our turn. However, when our train pulled in, the driver overshot the platform which resulted in the doors missing their allocated spot by six inches. There was a mad scramble to get on the train. We clung tightly to the children and feared that we would be knocked over when suddenly a sharp Dublin accent rang out “Lads, there are children here!” Everybody froze in mid action, the crowd shuffled apart and we were ushered onto the train with murmurs of “There you go, Love."
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment