Brits vs. Yanks

Even though this time the World Cup isn’t being played on the same continent as Thailand, and even though the games begin pretty late for people who work a regular day, everyone still seems to be fully informed on the morning after. I haven’t been hard core enough to stay up for the games that finish here shortly before the sun comes up.

With one exception. An invitation to join the lads from the old mans’ soccer league was too good to pass up. The match was of course the U.S. vs. England. The place was the Londoner Pub. At our table were four Yanks, two Thais, and a Turk who had gone to college in Louisiana. We were surrounded by about fifteen big screens and five hundred Englishmen. The owner’s son stopped by our table to offer his condolences. He also guaranteed us a protective escort in case the unthinkable happened, and the English side lost. At least that’s what I think he said. His voice got lost amidst the drinking songs, which became progressively louder as kickoff approached.

Technically Bangkok pubs aren’t supposed to serve alcohol after 2am. For this occasion the rules were skirted by requiring that everyone buy drink coupons before 12:30, followed by an announcement at 1am that the pub was officially closed. Nobody left the premises, of course. The event had simply become a “private party” at that point, no longer admitting new “guests.” I gather that at various watering holes around the city, beer after 2am is poured from tea kettles into teacups as another way around the regulations.

Probably you already know about the English captain’s nifty goal in the first five minutes of the match (pandemonium at the Londoner Pub) and the English goalkeeper’s “Hand of Clod” howler that evened the score (shocked silence, followed by a teenybopper-style scream from an excited American fan who was taking a big risk). From that point on, all of us at our table pulled our heads a little lower between our shoulder blades and sent up prayers (answered, thank god) that Wayne Rooney wouldn’t upset the delicate sense of cease-fire that had descended upon the room.

“Dying for a tie” described both nationalities, though each group meant something different by the phrase. The Brits appeared to have collectively lost years off the end of their lives. Meanwhile Yanks were thinking that the final whistle couldn’t come soon enough.

In the end we all made it out of the pub alive.