Gotta root for someone

Garth said he would root for Uruguay against South Korea because Uruguay was also from the Southern Hemisphere. Then we watched on television England play Germany. “I'd like to see the Pommies lose,” he said. “Just because they take their football so seriously. I can imagine their faces in the pubs.”

We can't just watch World Cup matches. We've got to root for one team or another. And we come to root for one team for so many different – and often very personal – reasons. I met a Canadian woman named Heather who told me she was riding a bus to the stadium for a match involving Algeria and she didn't know who she was going to pull for in the game. But then a group of Algerians on the bus had decorated themselves beautifully and began singing and they taught some words to others on the bus and got the whole pack of passengers singing with them. Heather was so struck by the passion and joy of the Algerians that she committed to cheering them on for the rest of the World Cup.

Another woman named Christina, who was born and raised in Peru, found herself supporting Denmark in their game against Holland. She did so for her mother's sake, for her mother is from Denmark.

Sometimes it's easier to decide to root against one team instead of for another. “Anyone but Brazil” is now Becky's motto. It's not because they've won so many times before. It's because they flop more than Vlade Divac – more than pink pajamas Uruguay maybe. Becky is a former Peace Corps volunteer, and it seems Americans like her are more turned off by the acting of soccer players than fans from other nations. (US coach Bob Bradley proposes banning the fakers.)  If the US had to lose to anyone, I didn't mind it being Ghana because way back on the second day of the World Cup I had gone to a Fan Fest park in Johannesburg to watch the US game against England, and a Ghanaian guy named Peter accompanied me. He rooted for the US as loudly as I did. I came away with sympathies for Ghana, and I wasn't so irritated when they beat us the other day.

Also in that first week of World Cup matches, I bought a late ticket for an Argentina game exclusively so I could attend with a guy named Leonardo. He was staying at the same hostel as me in Johannesburg, and I'd come to really appreciate his level of interest in the event. He was a 43-year old school teacher from Buenos Aires who was always half-shaven and wore the same jacket everyday, with only his fingertips poking out from the cuffs, and in one hand was always the World Cup fixture sheet he had picked up at McDonalds, where it had lined his lunch tray. Throughout the day, he unfolded the fixture sheet and updated the scores when each match finished. But each day he also dressed in a different Argentina jersey – some baby blue for the national team, some dark blue for his favorite soccer club team back home. We arrived hours early at the match at Soccer City stadium that day so he could string up a 9-meter long banner he had made showing the name of his favorite club team, Burzaco. How could I not also feel it for Leonardo's Argentina that day? Leonardo and I hold up the Burzaco banner.