I LOVE THE UNIVERSAL LANGUAGE OF SPORT
There’s nothing quite like the camaraderie of seeing a match on foreign soil…
When the boys in green run out on to the pitch in the Stade de France tomorrow evening I will be glued to the television in Yanni’s bar in Paleochora in Crete. I could well be the only Irish fan there. But I know already that the atmosphere will be terrific, what with the Greeks themselves plus myriad other holidaying nationalities all entering into the spirit of things.
I’ve watched football before in Yanni’s. It was there that I saw Ray Houghton score against Italy in Ireland’s opening match in the World Cup in June 1994. There were a few Irish fans there that day but we were outnumbered by the Italians. And the camaraderie was terrific – even after the final whistle and our amazing Irish victory.
That’s the thing about watching sport when you are abroad – it’s such a unifying experience and one that transcends language.
I have had a few memorable soccer encounters on foreign soil. I have watched Euro and World Cup matches in the likes of Dubrovnik in Croatia, in the tiny mountain village of Montejaque in Spain, in a bar near Sorrento on the Bay of Naples and in a hotel room in Lisbon.
One of the best experiences, however, was in the small Italian town of Peccioli. It was June 2006 and the World Cup was under way, albeit still in the early stages of the competition. We were staying in a villa in Tuscany, our television was on the blink, and in Montelopio – just a tiny, blink-and-you’ll-missit village but the place that offered the nearest form of civilisation – not a television was to be found in the only bar which also doubled as the grocery shop.
So we took ourselves off to Peccioli, a few kilometres beyond Montelopio, planning to have dinner there and see if there was any action going on on the football front.
The first thing was that the restaurant was empty, apart from our- selves. And although the food was excellent, the waiter practically threw each dish on to the table in front of us before legging it back out of the room. The penny dropped. He was watching the football on the television in the kitchen. And nobody was eating out because they were all at home watching the match. I can’t recall now who Italy were playing against that night but I do remember the atmosphere in the town square when we made it along there. Under the portico outside a small café-bar chairs had been arranged and a television had been dragged outside and was perched on top of a pile of crates. There were 50 or 60 people sitting on the chairs – mostly men, and mostly young. And not one of them was drinking alcohol. At nine o’clock at night. It was ice-creams and soft drinks that were the order of the day.
Two of the young men stood up to give us their seats and we joined the throng to watch the rest of the match, the only foreigners present.
I can’t remember the score, but I do remember that Italy won and such was the euphoria from the locals that you would have thought they had just lifted the World Cup. (Which they did some weeks later.)
It was a great night – full of joie de vivre and passion and good humour. Exactly what watching sport, in its purest form, is supposed to be about.
So I’m hoping for a bit more of that in Yanni’s bar when we take on the Swedes tomorrow night.