July 3rd and July 4th in Boston

Following hot on the heels of the cruelest losses that I have seen in football, I was hopeful that Saturday would be better. Ghana’s heartache reminded me of how cruel football can be.

Unlike most American sports, the better team does not always win. Like life, football can be the best of times and the worst of times. Bet you never thought I’d hit you with a Dickens quote. Booyah.

Determined not to let this kill my buzz, I woke up early, ready for the morning of July 3^rd. On this day, a few hundred years ago, this beautiful land still belonged to the grey clouds of England. A feat that should be celebrated every July 3^rd.

I was eager to see Germany get kicked out of the World Cup by an exciting and vibrant Argentina. This did not happen. I think I might be the only person in the world that believes that Germany can be beaten. Don’t get me wrong, they are ruthless in front of goal and highly efficient in defense but I don’t think they are impenetrable.

A fully clothed Diego Maradona

I was three beers deep (one of which was Guinness, gotta get that iron in for breakfast) by the time Diego Maradonna, the Argentine nut-bag of a coach, had to come to terms with the fact that, since Argentina didn’t win the World Cup, he won’t be running naked through the streets of Buenos Aires. Every cloud…

My next move was to sober up before the Spain game, or as I like to call it: Round two. I had filled up on Tandoori Chicken and Aloo Gobi (Boston’s finest), and was ready. I headed to a bar named the “Phoenix Landing”. It had big screens, plenty of beer on tap and many a happy German.

By beer six, things were heating up.  The referee dominated the game’s talking points once again. He made Spain retake a penalty that they scored, because the Paraguay goalkeeper had moved off his line too early. What a great piece of pointless refereeing. Use your head, ass-clown! This call benefitted the team that committed the foul. Let it go.

Spain seemed quite terrified of having to play the Germans in the next round. This worried me. I kept drinking.

On July 4^th I was very hung-over, so I stopped drinking, and started eating, everything American: hamburgers, hot dogs, fried dough, burritos etc. I watched the fireworks from the Charles River in awe of the patriotism on what I feel is an arbitrary date.

What I mean is, English people don’t do this every year. We would do it if England won the World Cup, or if the queen reigned for sixty-five years, but otherwise, we are not so patriotic.

For every American whose legacy is two family members that said, “Lets take the risk and move to America” there’s an English person who said, “I don’t think we should risk it.” For an Englishman in Boston it was welcoming to watch from the sidelines.