Three Viking claps for debutants Iceland!
On a World Cup family adventure, we rooted with old and new friends in Reykjavik for our new favourite team that played Argentina
Because my husband, Luke, and I are both former football players and we want our boys to love the game as we do, we packed our bags and our sons — Ellis, 2, and Dane, 5 — on a nine-hour flight to Reykjavik. Tiny Iceland, for the first time, made the World Cup. And the United States did not. Our plan: to traverse volcanoes and glaciers in the never-ending daylight; whisper in our sons’ ears of trolls, fairies and elves; and hoist them on our shoulders as thousands Viking-clap in unison on a cobblestone street. We hoped it would all get conflated in their little hearts and minds as one magical thing: football.
Thora Helgadottir, my college roommate, would be our Icelandic spirit guide. With white blond hair, ice blue eyes and a stronger punt than the keeper on our Duke men’s team, she fully embodied the “hammer-wielding deity” of Norse mythology. She was — and I will say this until I die — the best women’s keeper in the world, better than Hope Solo. For Iceland’s first ever World Cup game — against Argentina and the all-mighty Lionel Messi — Thora took us to a rooftop bar with a rain-filled view of the Reykjavik skyline. Wearing Icelandic “fotbolti” garb and waving foam fingers we’d bought at the grocery store, we piled onto a couch. Sigga, a strawberry-blond 40-somethingyear-old, sat next to us. “My name,” she told us, “means victory!” She worked in a fish factory for over 20 years, gutting and deworming fish, on the Westman Islands, a place known for puffins. With her platform heels up on the “No Smoking” sign, she lit a cigarette and showed us her “lucky puffin” pendant. She set a tiny Viking figurine in the middle of the table: “He will protect us.” Dane took possession of a red-white-and-blue face paint stick, which he smeared across every cheek in sight — and Sigga’s forearms and calves.
While Ellis could say “ball” and “goal” before he could say “mum” and “dad,” Dane hasn’t inherited the family passion — at least not yet. When I coached him last season, he stood in the middle of the field with his eyes closed, hands behind his back, humming The Nutcracker Suite. But he was happy tucked beneath Sigga’s arm. The game kicked off, and a loud cheer went up around the bar, the whole country pulling for “our boys.” Iceland’s coach, Heimir Hallgrimsson, is, like Sigga and her mother, Inga, from the Westman Islands.Thora has instructed us to use only first names: “If you refer to a player by his last name, we won’t know who you are talking about.”
“We have known Heimir since he was small,” Inga said. He was the family’s dentist. Really.
The first 10 minutes were all terror and jubilation — terror every time Messi touched the ball (“No, no, no!” everyone mutter-gasped in unison) and jubilation because the Viking boys had been strong, fortresslike, on defence. They had occasionally charged forward, Gylfi Sigurdsson carrying the ball with confidence, with downright Elan, and Birkir Saevarsson with a chance in front of the goal. Then, early — too early — the Argentines scored. 1-0. The atmosphere at the bar deflated.
But Iceland went on the attack. They are accustomed to battling (the elements, the odds), and quicker than a Viking clap, Alfred F inn bo gas on sent the ball home—goal, Iceland! The rooftop erupted, everyone jumping and hugging. The Icelandic announcer screamed. “Argentina, one, Iceland, one! Ha ha!”
The game settled into a gruelling test of survival for Iceland — something they’ve been doing for over a thousand years. And then, at the 64th minute, horror: a penalty kick for Argentina. Messi stepped up. This, surely, was the end. But no, he missed — keeper save! “The elves are protecting us!” Sigga screamed, hands on Dane’s cheeks. Thora collapsed against the couch. “I think I’m going to cry.” Iceland survived the pounding, and at last, the whistle was blown: tie game. A point earned against Argentina — the perennial powerhouse, a country with approximately 130 times as many people as Iceland. Even if the island nation doesn’t make it back to the World Cup for another century, people will talk of this — using only first names.
We spilled out of the bar and into the rain. A musician wearing a double-French-braid wig banged his drumsticks on his Viking helmet. A woman in an Icelandic superwoman costume led an understandably sloppy rendition of the chant Afram Island. Petra, who plays on Thora’s Monday night adult team, joined us at a bar. She’s also from the Westman Islands and knows Heimir. Twenty years ago he coached her team and removed her wisdom teeth. Petra and Thora practised the Viking clap with Dane and Ellis — “Huh!” shouted in unison, in shared celebration. Luke and I lasted as long as we could with the kids out in the rain, and then we left Thora celebrating with her friends. I don’t know whether Dane and Ellis will grow up loving the game after this, but I’m pretty sure Dane now believes in elves, and maybe that is enough. For now.