My curious route to embracing World Cup soccer

I’m not a soccer guy but I’ve come to love the World Cup — thanks to O.J. Simpson, a limousine and a match played more than 20 years ago involving two teams I knew nothing about.

Let me back up a minute. The date was June 18, 1994 and Italy was playing Ireland in the first match for both countries in that year’s edition of the tournament. The game was played in Giants Stadium in Secaucus, N.J., a short hop from New York City, and I was there.

My university roommate worked for one of the event’s sponsors and snagged the tickets. We drove down the day before the game to drink cheap U.S. beer and check out NYC. Instead, we spent most of the pre-game night in The Big Apple watching CNN as O.J. Simpson led the police on the now famous slow-speed chase in his white Bronco. And drinking cheap U.S. beer.

On game day, we headed out to catch a cab to the game. Secaucus is a weird little town made up of strip malls and hotels, and surrounded by a Byzantine maze of highways that connect New York to the suburbs of New Jersey. Sitting in the hotel driveway was a limousine, the driver leaning against the hood.

He asked whether we were looking for a ride to the game.

“Yeah,” I said cautiously, convinced everybody I met in New York/New Jersey was trying to scam me.

He said he would take us for $20 each. He even consented to our request to bring and consume beer in the back of his car. Even in 1994 dollars, this seemed reasonable and so we rode to the World Cup in style, swilling Budweiser.

The scene outside the stadium was festive, with all kinds of tents, concession stands and music. Everything was stupidly expensive.

After getting a $20 limo ride, I paid almost as much for a couple of bottles of water. There was beer for sale, but only outside the stadium — there was a real concern about hooliganism and the ramped up potential for violence that comes with the volatile mix of soccer and nationalism.

Given it was New York, we expected Irish and Italian supporters in equal measure. Instead, it was probably 75 per cent pro-Ireland.

As the game began, so did the singing and the chanting.

The Irish fans desperately tried to encourage their underdog side against the powerful Italians, a team featuring one the world’s best players at the time, Roberto Baggio. Italy clearly had superior skill and it controlled the play with pinpoint passes, but its players seemed indifferent. The Irish played with passion that bordered on recklessness, forcing the action.

It paid off 12 minutes into the match when a guy named Ray Houghton scored and the Irish had a precious lead. After that the team sat back and defended, which is of course the big knock against soccer: its lack of scoring. But, in person, this game was thrilling.

Despite the loss, Italy would get its revenge — sort of. Ireland would make the second round but lose to the Netherlands. Italy made it all the way to the final before losing to Brazil on penalty kicks when Baggio missed.

I watched that game on TV and I’ll be watching this Sunday when France takes on Croatia. I don’t really care who wins but my own experiences drove home just how important a cultural event this is around the world. I won’t be taking a limo or drinking awful beer and the O.J. thing turned out pretty weird.

But the World Cup is something special.