Drinking My Way Through the World Cup: Evil Serbs, Plucky Kiwis and Norks

Last Sunday I found myself inexplicably sitting at the bar of The Crown, feeling poisoned and seeing the world through cotton ball eyes. Big Kiwi Sean sat next to me grumbling about the universe, as he's apt to do, being the grumpiest 32-year-old going on 70 that I've ever met. The world is like sandpaper to his nutsack - everything save rugby, lager, and reggae music, that is. The Serbia-Ghana game blurred on the TV. It was a boring match that I paid only lackluster attention too. More interesting than the match were the Serbian fans, who all looked misshapen and evil. Some of them donned militaristic hats and probably had names like Drago and Lezi. Thousands of years of hard mountain living and constant hand-to-hand warfare has an effect on a people. That the so-black-they're-almost-purple Ghana team beat them 1-0 surely tortured the Serbs, who aren't necessarily known for their progressive views on race... All through the match, Wolfgang - a red-faced German ship engineer - chatted with one of his Teutonic brethren, taking time out from the conversation to comment on the game in English. Germany's first match of the World Cup was scheduled for 3:30 that night, or morning, depending on your sleep orientation. At one point he got up, paid the bill and said:

"I must go back to zee hotel and try to sleep before zee game. Tomorrow I vill come back eizer happy or not happy."

You gotta love the Germans. They know how to lay out their thoughts most logically. And destroy twinky soccer teams such as Australia, who they raped and plundered, 4-0. So, just as he predicted, Wolfgang came back the next day "happy."

Tuesday found me back down at The Crown with Sir David Scraggs and Sammy to watch the New Zealand-Slovakia match. Kiwi Sean was nowhere to be found, which was a shame, since the main reason I had dragged myself through the door was to give the "All Whites" a bit of Yankee support. Sean was exhausted, or so he claimed when I reached him on the phone, so my support for his side had to be limited to text messages sent throughout the game. Slovakia was obviously the much stronger team, as any team who qualifies from Europe cannot be made up of chumps. New Zealand is really only in the World Cup because Australia - their previous rivals - now must qualify as part of the Asia group rather than Oceana. So instead of facing off the Aussies every four years to qualify for big dance, the Kiwis must face down such powerhouses such as Tonga and The Solomon Islands. That said, they played a respectable game for a team with little ball-handling ability and marginal confidence. They even managed to stave off a loss with a last-minute equalizer that somehow made the whole thing worth it. Good on ya, lads.

Rather than sensibly call it a night, the three of us packed into a cab and headed to good 'ol Texas Street, Busan's old red-light district, that is mainly composed of shitty Russian and Filipino girly bars these days. We grabbed a beer at Amby's, which is just a good quiet place to drink unmolested, and then headed up to Kamchakta, a depressing little Russian restaurant lit by bad flourescent lights. Two existentially-bored Korean-Russians (hailing from the island of Sakhalin) sat staring at the television, which spat out a rerun of a Korean drama. But upon request they turned the channel to the pressing matter at hand: The Brazil vs. North Korea game.

There we were, in a Russian restaurant watching the giants of soccer, Brazil, meet the dogged North Koreans, who hadn't qualified for the World Cup since 1966. We dined on Russian potato dumplings while taking in the World Cup's best team against its worst, and guess what, the drubbing that the universe predicted never materialized. Sure, Brazil did win, but the Norks were scrappy and tough. They basically surrounded their goal with red shirts and didn't really bother with the whole "offense" thing. It became quite clear that North Korea was mostly interested in NOT GETTING DESTROYED by Brazil, and they managed to do just that, despite the fact that the Brazilians did sneak two balls in. The score was 2-0 when we left, which was late in the game.

Sam and I jumped into a cab which sped down the empty Busan street. The sun was cracking into the sky as the last minutes of the game blared from the taxi's TV. And then the unexpected happened, the unthinkable: NORTH KOREA SCORED ON BRAZIL. North Korea shot a beautiful, lovely goal right into the back of the mothafuckin' net. Our cabbie, a South Korean, went crazy. He pumped his fist and gave a huge thumbs-up sign. "Buk Han! Buk Han!" he said, which means "North Korea! North Korea!" Even in this time of hostilities and tension, race trumps politics, especially when it comes to soccer. As far as our driver was concerned, KOREAN underdogs were showing the world their mettle. These were fellow Koreans - the uniform be damned - and until some folks in the West understand this basic fact, we'll always be looking at The Peninsula with one eye closed.