The Kelefors

We just got back from the Arena Fonte Nove where the Dutch showed up with a chip on their shoulder and the Spanish looked hungover from lifting the Cup four years ago. As our van crawled through traffic, I asked everyone to make a prediction. There were more votes for Spain than for Netherlands and only a couple of votes for a draw. Most were quite thoughtful picks – 2-1 Spain, 3-2 Netherlands, etc. Much to my surprise, the game ended up closer to the 13-10 prediction from my brother’s 6-year-old. Well, at least Holland looked likely to put 13 past Spain’s shoddy defense and shoddier goalkeeping.

That said, it was a match for the ages and one of the best I’ve had the pleasure of seeing in person. Our crew was decked out in a panoply of Holland Oranje, Spanish Roja, a touch of Brazilian amarelo, and, of course, plenty of red, white and blue for the Yanks. We survived the sweltering walk to the stadium by alternating water (hyrdration) and Brahma beer (dehydration), feeling that incredible sense of anticipation as we closed in on the arena. By game time, the stadium was gorgeous and filled to the rafters. The Spanish fans unfurled a giant flag to make their presence known and then promptly got quiet and remained that way for the rest of the evening. Diego Costa, Spain’s dual-citizen striker who famously chose La Roja over the Selecao this year, was jeered mercilessly by the Brazilians in the crowd from the opening whistle up through his departure mid-way through the second half.

And if the quality of the game wasn’t enough, the Dutch fans showed their usual vervefrom the  get-go and grew in enthusiasm and volume as the game went on. By the time the match was in hand for Holland, their fans stuck it to Spain with a rousing series of “Ole’s” as Holland passed around the tiring Spanish defense with ease.

The game really did feel like a changing of the guard. Spain fielded a team almost identical to the eleven who suited up or the Final four years ago, while the Dutch re-built their squad with young talent. You have to wonder if Spain’s coach, Vicente del Bosque, is ruing not starting younger stars like Koke and Isco who perhaps could have kept up better with the Dutch on this night. As it stands, Spain, the team that went from perennial under-performer on the big stage to the dominant team in world football, is staring into the abyss of a group stage exit from the Cup. And all along, I thought the USA was in the Group of Death.

On the plane ride to Rio, I asked everyone in the family what they were most looking forward to. Jeannette said she was eager to see travel through the eyes of our kids. Dylan selected the USA v Germany game, with the particular expectation that Jozy Altidore would score the winner and come to our section to celebrate. Adela opted for the turtles of Ihla Fernando de Noronha. For me, the answer was simple: watch Brazil play with a group of Brazilians. After all, I’ve been in stadiums in South Africa and the States with Brazil playing and they’ve been among the best fans: high energy, positive, knowledgeable. And I’ve seen how host countries revel in the success of their teams. In Italy in 1990, a victory by the Azzurri was followed by cars honking and speeding down the street with flags waving out the window. In France, I saw fans in the cafes go from indifferent to exultant as Les Blues outperformed expectations. And in South Africa, the hopes and dreams of a nation seemed truly to rest on the performance of Bafana Bafana each time they played. So, I expected the most from Brazilians watching the Selecao.

After Game One, I have to say I’m disappointed. Our group of 16 Americans is staying in a beach house up the coast from Salvador do Bahia. On the recommendation of our driver, we sat down at an open air restaurant with two giant screens and tables full of yell0w-clad fans. All looked right. But then the game started and the fans seems downright passive. No singing, no cheering for the good plays (except for the goals, of course). Some even left at halftime! Our table, mostly rooting for Brazil out of a mix of genuine support for the Selecao and a desire to stay on everyone’s good side, showed the most passion in the place by a country mile. Indeed, the only thing that reminded me that we were among Brazilian partisans was their firm belief that Fred’s dive in the box was a penalty.

Luckily, we have two more chances to watch with the Brazilians. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find ourselves among the die-hards. Not this time, though.

On the streets of Copacabana, fans from all nations are sporting their jerseys. Lots of Colombians in bright yellow, Chileans sporting their red jerseys, the sky blue stripes of Argentina, Mexican green, the German tricolor, a trickling of Aussie yellow, and, of course, the ever present gold and green of Brasil. You get the feeling that many of these folks brought along just one shirt in their suitcase, to be worn from now until their team is eliminated.

So, today, I got in the spirit and pulled out our US kits. I had been saving them for the game, but it’s hard to start up chants of USA when you’re donning a plain brown t-shirt. So, I went down to breakfast in the B&B where we’re staying, proudly wearing my vintage 1994 US jersey (for those in the know, it’s red and white wavy stripes shirt, which is slightly less hideous than the blue and white faux denim stars jersey from the same year). In the kitchen, I found Milton, the 5-year-old son of the cook, quiely enjoying a morning bun. I greeted him, only to be told that Milton is “moite timido,” very shy. Undeterred, I asked him if he liked football. A nod of the head. The Selecao, I asked. A more vigorous nod. And how about this one, I asked, pointing to my shirt.

Now, there are a few reactions I expected as possibilities, ranging from an encouraging nod to an uncomprehending shrug. But I never expected what followed. Milton took in my words and rolled his eyes. That’s right, my suggestion of victory for the US of A earned an eye-roll from a Brazilian pre-schooler.

It seems the US has an uphill climb, but I will be cheering and waving the flag nonetheless. Viva la Copa.