"I have nightmares about France 98. It was humiliating.
It will always be with me."
David Beckham
It will always be with me."
David Beckham
Saturday, 30 June 2018
Wednesday, 27 June 2018
France 98 - Dispatch report from Bogota, Colombia
It is never a good sign when your team's goalkeeper is crowned the star of the tournament, and when Colombia's weepy No 1 Farid Mondragon was elevated to hero status after the team's first game - their 1-0 defeat against Romania - it seemed Colombians were already preparing themselves psychologically for the inevitability of a first-round exit. Something at least had been learned from USA 94. Their certainty that they would win the 1994 World Cup was a quaint reminder of Latin American patria, the unswerving conviction that nothing could be better, no team could be stronger than Colombia, that no result was more certain or more fitting than glorious victory for the Republic. It was also a horrific reminder of the danger of living a cycle of impossible hopes. As Colombia reeled from its undignified defeat, Ricardo Munoz confronted Andres Escobar in a car park outside a disco in the city of Medellin. He congratulated the 27-year-old defender on his own goal against the US, which had sealed Colombia's sorry fate, and then fired six bullets into his chest. Helped by a ban on the sale of alcohol in the 24 hours either side of Colombia's matches, fans in 1998 learnt to be humble and soberly realistic about their team's prospects.
But as kick-off time approached, no amount of level-headedness could prevent fans at home from whipping themselves into a feverish excitement. For a couple of hours before the game, Bogota was brought to a standstill by massive horn-blowing, flag-waving traffic jams, before a deserted hush fell over the city, and the excitement moved indoors. In fashionable north Bogota, offices and shopping centres erected video screens for their employees and customers, which attracted the largest crowds. In the city centre, small-time emerald dealers and shopkeepers shut up their businesses and jostled for space outside TV shops with street urchins and heavily armed policemen. The prospect of 90 minutes with a semi-automatic pressed in the ribs did nothing to dampen expectations and excitement on the street.
In the end, the country's radio and TV commentators could not resist a last minute burst of over-optimism. Five minutes before kick-off, they were well into their usual pre-match ritual. This consists largely of picking the other team apart until they are ready to be devoured by Colombia. The opposing team is made up of ageing veterans long past it, whippersnappers with no experience, and mediocre tacticians. Imagine the shock, then, when bang on 45 minutes this motley bunch of Romanian amateurs took the lead. The commentators managed only their weakest rendition of their traditional long-drawn out goool and then fell silent with the rest of the country. Even their relished half time massacre of the referee was downbeat. By the end of the game, Mondragon's saves were getting louder cheers than the team's stumbling efforts towards Romania's penalty area. A certain acceptance was already settling in.
The final whistle was greeted, as is often the case, by a remarkable switch in the opinions of the commentators. Colombia had put up a sterling fight, faced as they had been by a team of ruthlessly trained European football machines who were well on their way to the final. Back in Bogota, subdued and tearful crowds made their way home. Among those with their cheeks streaked in mascara was the reigning Miss Bogota, Karen Guaqueta. "I just adore Tino," she told reporters through her tears. "It was very wrong of Dario Gomez to take him off with only five minutes to go."
The next day, Miss Bogota proved she either had a hotline to Faustino Asprilla or could read his mind. "I was victimized when I was substituted and there is favoritism within the squad," Tino the Octopus (as he is known, for his flailing gait) told a Colombian radio reporter on a shopping trip to Paris. Asprilla and his coach have had their fair share of fall-outs, and in the interests of team unity, Gomez sent the former Newcaslte United striker packing. Back home, the press launched an offensive, and Gomez came out fighting. "I'm leaving at the end of the tournament, and if you've got a replacement lined up, send him right now," he blustered.
With arguably their biggest star out of the team and divided loyalties within the squad, it was no surprise that Colombia were not exactly at their best against Tunisia. By now other old-timers were under attack at home. Even the saint-like figure of Carlos Valderrama came in for some gentle rebuffs. The team's insipid 1-0 victory over Tunisia was good enough reason for a brief burst of wild celebration among Colombia's goal-starved followers at home. Some face had been saved, and there was always the possibility that they might just beat England.
If the team was respectfully wary of the encounter, Colombian fans were by all accounts terrified by "los ooliganes." My efforts to point out that not every English fan in the stadium was a mindless thug were greeted with great amusement. "Aha, now the boot's on the other foot," they laughed. "It's not nice to be branded a nation of violent brutes. And, of course, we are all drug traffickers too." They have a point.
When Mondragon shouldered away Paul Scholes' shot in only the second minute, my adversaries in front of the telly crossed themselves frantically. There was an anguished howl when Anderton hammered home England's first after 20 minutes, and another which seemed to echo round Bogota, nine minutes later, when the Colombian wall flinched, allowing Beckham's curling free kick to fly past Mondragon's outstretched hand. From then on, the scene was set - Valderrama and his flaccid crew were on their way home. But Colombian fans still found one last reason to celebrate the acrobatics of their keeper. Farid Mondragon did indeed prevent an English romp, and when the final whistle blew he collapsed in the goalmouth and wept. Back home, millions shed tears with him and warmed to the sight of first Michael Owen and then David Seaman trying to comfort their new hero.
The papers the next day paid homage to the valiant Mondragon and bade a series of farewells, not only to France 98, but to a ten-year era in Colombian football, and to the team built by the ebullient Francisco Maturana. Invited to give an international lecture, Maturana once promised to show his audience a video which contained all the secrets of great football. After playing 20 minutes of a classical concert, the former national coach got up and walked off, pausing only briefly to declare: "Gentlemen, football is a feeling, and those who don't live with the same intensity of passion as you see in those musicians will never make it."
The World Cup was always obliged to share centre-stage with politics in Colombia, where presidential elections fall at the end of June. Comparison between the fate of the football team and the state of the nation were inevitable, and this time around they are particularly apt. Colombia is in a mess, with an escalating civil war and crumbling economy. The country's new president Andres Pastrana was elected on his "back to the drawing board" reform proposals to put the country on the rails, and the press is convinced their football team needs the same treatment. Pastrana promises to end political corruption, and here too football commentators see a parallel. Gone are the days when drug barons picked Colombian teams in return for their sizable patronage, but many still complain that the national team's legitimate sponsors, not the coaching staff, run the show. Fans and critics alike echo Tino and Miss Bogota's observations that old allegiances have led to favoritism in the squad, and all seem to agree that new blood on the pitch and a foreign coach is the only way to clean up and revitalize the Colombian game in preparation for 2002.
(Extracts from Changing of the Guard by Jeremy Lennard, in the book Back Home: How the world watched France 98)
But as kick-off time approached, no amount of level-headedness could prevent fans at home from whipping themselves into a feverish excitement. For a couple of hours before the game, Bogota was brought to a standstill by massive horn-blowing, flag-waving traffic jams, before a deserted hush fell over the city, and the excitement moved indoors. In fashionable north Bogota, offices and shopping centres erected video screens for their employees and customers, which attracted the largest crowds. In the city centre, small-time emerald dealers and shopkeepers shut up their businesses and jostled for space outside TV shops with street urchins and heavily armed policemen. The prospect of 90 minutes with a semi-automatic pressed in the ribs did nothing to dampen expectations and excitement on the street.
In the end, the country's radio and TV commentators could not resist a last minute burst of over-optimism. Five minutes before kick-off, they were well into their usual pre-match ritual. This consists largely of picking the other team apart until they are ready to be devoured by Colombia. The opposing team is made up of ageing veterans long past it, whippersnappers with no experience, and mediocre tacticians. Imagine the shock, then, when bang on 45 minutes this motley bunch of Romanian amateurs took the lead. The commentators managed only their weakest rendition of their traditional long-drawn out goool and then fell silent with the rest of the country. Even their relished half time massacre of the referee was downbeat. By the end of the game, Mondragon's saves were getting louder cheers than the team's stumbling efforts towards Romania's penalty area. A certain acceptance was already settling in.
The final whistle was greeted, as is often the case, by a remarkable switch in the opinions of the commentators. Colombia had put up a sterling fight, faced as they had been by a team of ruthlessly trained European football machines who were well on their way to the final. Back in Bogota, subdued and tearful crowds made their way home. Among those with their cheeks streaked in mascara was the reigning Miss Bogota, Karen Guaqueta. "I just adore Tino," she told reporters through her tears. "It was very wrong of Dario Gomez to take him off with only five minutes to go."
 |
| Romania celebrate near Colombia's Freddy Rincon |
The next day, Miss Bogota proved she either had a hotline to Faustino Asprilla or could read his mind. "I was victimized when I was substituted and there is favoritism within the squad," Tino the Octopus (as he is known, for his flailing gait) told a Colombian radio reporter on a shopping trip to Paris. Asprilla and his coach have had their fair share of fall-outs, and in the interests of team unity, Gomez sent the former Newcaslte United striker packing. Back home, the press launched an offensive, and Gomez came out fighting. "I'm leaving at the end of the tournament, and if you've got a replacement lined up, send him right now," he blustered.
With arguably their biggest star out of the team and divided loyalties within the squad, it was no surprise that Colombia were not exactly at their best against Tunisia. By now other old-timers were under attack at home. Even the saint-like figure of Carlos Valderrama came in for some gentle rebuffs. The team's insipid 1-0 victory over Tunisia was good enough reason for a brief burst of wild celebration among Colombia's goal-starved followers at home. Some face had been saved, and there was always the possibility that they might just beat England.
If the team was respectfully wary of the encounter, Colombian fans were by all accounts terrified by "los ooliganes." My efforts to point out that not every English fan in the stadium was a mindless thug were greeted with great amusement. "Aha, now the boot's on the other foot," they laughed. "It's not nice to be branded a nation of violent brutes. And, of course, we are all drug traffickers too." They have a point.
When Mondragon shouldered away Paul Scholes' shot in only the second minute, my adversaries in front of the telly crossed themselves frantically. There was an anguished howl when Anderton hammered home England's first after 20 minutes, and another which seemed to echo round Bogota, nine minutes later, when the Colombian wall flinched, allowing Beckham's curling free kick to fly past Mondragon's outstretched hand. From then on, the scene was set - Valderrama and his flaccid crew were on their way home. But Colombian fans still found one last reason to celebrate the acrobatics of their keeper. Farid Mondragon did indeed prevent an English romp, and when the final whistle blew he collapsed in the goalmouth and wept. Back home, millions shed tears with him and warmed to the sight of first Michael Owen and then David Seaman trying to comfort their new hero.
 |
| David Beckham's free kick seals victory for England |
The papers the next day paid homage to the valiant Mondragon and bade a series of farewells, not only to France 98, but to a ten-year era in Colombian football, and to the team built by the ebullient Francisco Maturana. Invited to give an international lecture, Maturana once promised to show his audience a video which contained all the secrets of great football. After playing 20 minutes of a classical concert, the former national coach got up and walked off, pausing only briefly to declare: "Gentlemen, football is a feeling, and those who don't live with the same intensity of passion as you see in those musicians will never make it."
 |
| Francisco Maturana |
The World Cup was always obliged to share centre-stage with politics in Colombia, where presidential elections fall at the end of June. Comparison between the fate of the football team and the state of the nation were inevitable, and this time around they are particularly apt. Colombia is in a mess, with an escalating civil war and crumbling economy. The country's new president Andres Pastrana was elected on his "back to the drawing board" reform proposals to put the country on the rails, and the press is convinced their football team needs the same treatment. Pastrana promises to end political corruption, and here too football commentators see a parallel. Gone are the days when drug barons picked Colombian teams in return for their sizable patronage, but many still complain that the national team's legitimate sponsors, not the coaching staff, run the show. Fans and critics alike echo Tino and Miss Bogota's observations that old allegiances have led to favoritism in the squad, and all seem to agree that new blood on the pitch and a foreign coach is the only way to clean up and revitalize the Colombian game in preparation for 2002.
(Extracts from Changing of the Guard by Jeremy Lennard, in the book Back Home: How the world watched France 98)
Sunday, 24 June 2018
France 98 - In Vision: Brazil v Norway
"I know that Kjetil Rekdal scored the winning penalty two minutes from time, he said he'd dreamt about it the night before. It was a good penalty and an important penalty. It was a great night to beat Brazil."
Henning Berg
Saturday, 23 June 2018
France 98 - Group B: Italy v Austria
Tuesday 23 June 1998
Stade de France, ParisAnd so we reach the third round of group matches, where both matches in each group are played simultaneously. Over in Nantes, Chile play Cameroon, whilst on the outskirts of Paris, heavyweights Italy meet Austria. Everything is up for grabs in this group - Italy lead on four points, Chile and Austria sit below on two, with Cameroon propping up the group on one point. Anybody can still qualify - and anyone can still go home.
48 mins
After a cagey first half, Gli Azzurri draw first-blood after Peter Schottel puts in a clumsy tackle on Alessandro Del Piero on the left. Del Piero delivers a perfect free kick into the Austrian six-yard box, and with the Austrian defence is disarray, and goalkeeper Michael Konsel seemingly caught in no-man's-land, Christian Vieri meets the ball with a firm downwards header, his fourth goal of the group stages. Over in Nantes, Jose Luis Sierra's smashing free kick edges Chile closer to the second qualification slot, before Cameroon's Rigobert Song is dismissed for a senseless claw at the face of Marcelo Salas. unperturbed, Cameroon level through Patrick M'Bomna a few moments later- it's all to play for there.90 mins
It looks like Italy have shut the Austrians out for another classic 1-0, when Filippo Inzaghi breaks down the right to a lovely ball from Roberto Baggio. Inzaghi brings the ball into the box, draws the goalkeeper, before a simple square ball back to Baggio, who seals the win with a tap-in. Lovely stuff!
90+2 mins
Hannes Reinmayr powers into the box, and in the tangle of legs that follows, is brought crashing to the ground by Alessandro Costacurta. Referee Paul Durkin has doesn't hesitate in pointing to the spot, and Andreas Herzog has no problem in slotting home the spot-kick. It's Austria's third goal of the tournament, although strangely, all three of their goals have come in added time following 90 minutes.
Italy are through as group winners, and are rewarded with a tie against Norway. But with Austria out of the picture, it would be winner takes all in the group's other match. Drawing 1-1 and into the last two minutes, Cameroon's hopes of victory all-but disappear when Lauren loses his head, and flies in on the stationery Salas, catching him with all elbow on the way, sending Cameroon down to nine men, and putting them on the plane home. It's Chile through to the second round, where they already know their fate - an unenviable tie against the holders, Brazil.
Friday, 22 June 2018
France 98 - Dispatch report from Johannesburg, South Africa
It's the morning after a 3-0 whipping by France in South Africa's first-ever World Cup game, and everywhere you go there are murmurings and mutterings of treachery. What was Philippe Troussier, South Africa's charmless French coach, trying to achieve with such a defensive approach? And how could Pierre Issa, born in the former mining town of Germiston, east of Johannesburg, but raised in France, stick the ball in his own net not once, but twice? Eventually lame jokes will raise a smile, like: "Knock knock. Who's there? Issa. Issa who? Issa goal." But not today. Of course, nobody knows now that South Africa have just lost to the team that will win the World Cup, by the same score that will sink the mighty Brazil. But then in South Africa nobody shows much interest in any other team in the world except the all-singing, all-dribbling, all-conquering (but oh-so-seldom straight-shooting) Bafana Bafana. "The Boys." Our boys.
South African journalists sent to France don't exactly help to broaden the perspective. The country's biggest newspaper group, Independent Newspapers, for instance, has four writers at the World Cup, but not one goes to the French camp to check out the opposition ahead of the match in Marseille. They don't bother visiting the Danes or the Saudis either. Instead, they faithfully relay and amplify all the pre-match promises of the country's heroes. "I believe we have a realistic chance of reaching the quarter-finals and after that don't write us off going all the way," says striker Benni McCarthy, who was tipped by former coach Jomo Sono to challenge for the Golden Boot alongside Ronaldo, Batistuta and Del Piero. "We could cause a huge upset and reach the final," says midfielder Helmann Mkhalele. "My belief is that France are in for a big wake-up call," says Issa. Anything anyone says about the South African team is reshaped into cheer-leading headlines. An "umm, er, perhaps" sort of comment from Iceland's coach Gudjor Thordasson - who drew with Bafana Bafana 1-1 in a dismal pre-France friendly - appears as "Bafana can do it, says Iceland coach." So too with Pele's pre-tournament Mastercard press release, which includes the line "I don't think South Africa, who played very well last year, will be easy to beat." This bit of non-committal politeness earns the headline "Pele: Get ready for some surprises and the biggest could be Bafana Bafana."
Kick-off against France is at 9pm local time, but the city starts emptying and businesses wind down from mid-afternoon. A broadcast of the match on a massive screen at a drive-in perched on a mine dump above Johannesburg draws 15,000 people, who start packing the place long before the sun sets, and warm up by dancing to a string of top bands playing kwaito (the latest hard-edged township sounds.) There is no Mandela magic this time around - the President is otherwise engaged - but the players, according to the front page of The Star, have received a "huge boost" with the arrival of deputy President Thabo Mbeki and sports minister Steve Tshwete. The French, no doubt, are really worried now.
It was always expected that South Africa would look to weather an early storm from Les Bleus, so the cagey, somewhat jittery play of Bafana Bafana gets some measure of sympathy at first. But the second half is dismal - not just Issa's two own goals, but the complete absence of a team pattern and the glaring inadequacy of far too many players' technique. Back at base camp in Vichy, reserve striker Jerry Sikhosana says: "I appreciate what Philippe Troussier is doing for us, but at the end of the day we are not European players. It's time to do our own thing and show the world what we are capable of."
The players, according to one newspaper headline, are planning to toss overboard the fancy ideas Troussier has tried to impose on them, and play it South-African style against Denmark. No two people, of course, can quite agree on what South African style actually is, although the verve of the Nigerians continues to be invoked as an example. The Danes score early and come close to adding a second before the break. When Mkhalele misses an open goal it looks like bye-bye Bafana Bafana. But in the second half, South Africa come back. McCarthy, at last, turns hype into reality with a sweetly taken goal from close range. The Danes flag in the heat, South Africa press forwards. Two Danes are sent off, Alfred Phiri joins them for using an elbow, and then with virtually no time left, Quinton Fortune drives forwards and shoots. The ball flies, swerves, dips, sets the crossbar shaking. It finishes 1-1.
On the Sunday before the decider against the Saudis, one of the newspapers broke the cosy conspiracy around the camp and reported that ten of the players had gone and got plastered after the France match. A couple of days later, another daily reported that some of the squad had hired a couple of rooms which they used to screw around with the long queue of ever-willing Vichy groupies. Then it got worse. Striker Phil Masinga, initially ruled out of the Denmark match with an ankle injury, said Troussier forced him to play for the last few minutes of the match, despite the fact that he could hardly move. Striker Brendan Augustine and aptly-named midfielder Naughty Mokoena were sent home for breaking curfew and disco-crawling until dawn. "In this squad there are only five players who don't need a father, a teacher or a policeman," said Troussier. "The team is not mature. I have received a message back from South Africa that they don't want a foreigner as coach. Perhaps it is time for me to go now."
"Yes Boys You Can" says the front page headline of The Star on matchday. But soon after Shaun Bartlett puts South Africa into the lead, Issa give Saudi Arabia a penalty. Then Issa gives Saudi Arabia another penalty. The Bafana Bafana performance is spiritless, directionless, dispirited and lifts only briefly when Delron Buckley, a youngster based in the Bundesliga, comes on for his first World Cup appearance and tears repeatedly through the right side of the Saudi defence. What on earth has he been doing on the bench all tournament?
The silence over Parc Lescure in Bordeux is pretty much matched by the gloom in the Bass Line Bar in Johannesburg. With the Saudis 2-1 up, and not much left of the 90 minutes, the punters have long since stopped imploring and beseeching, and all but given up grumbling. All that can be heard - via the tinny sound of two TVs the owners have managed to borrow from some regulars - is the sound of a man in the stands, singing a wailing Arabic dirge through a loudhailer. "Can't one of our fans go over and smack that singer?" says a morose-looking man. A late penalty gets South Africa a second World Cup point, but Troussier's post-match words are blunt: "I was not only disappointed by the attitude of the team during the match, but also after the game. Instead of their heads being down after just being knocked out the World Cup, everybody was fine. They were probably wondering where they were going to go out tonight."
It is three years to the day since a South Africa united in exhilaration and some disbelief watched the Springboks win the rugby World Cup, watched Mandela dressed in a green and gold jersey hand the trophy over to the captain Francois Pienaar, both national icons wearing No.6. Mandela magic we all called it, a nation of miracle junkies always looking skywards for our next consignment of manna, as the ground at our feet grows more cluttered with tasks undone. As Bafana Bafana troop off the field, one punter in the Bass Line Bar looks down into his beer and mutters: "Mbeki magic. We've got it."
(Extracts from The Lost Boys by John Perlman, in the book Back Home: How the world watched France 98)
South African journalists sent to France don't exactly help to broaden the perspective. The country's biggest newspaper group, Independent Newspapers, for instance, has four writers at the World Cup, but not one goes to the French camp to check out the opposition ahead of the match in Marseille. They don't bother visiting the Danes or the Saudis either. Instead, they faithfully relay and amplify all the pre-match promises of the country's heroes. "I believe we have a realistic chance of reaching the quarter-finals and after that don't write us off going all the way," says striker Benni McCarthy, who was tipped by former coach Jomo Sono to challenge for the Golden Boot alongside Ronaldo, Batistuta and Del Piero. "We could cause a huge upset and reach the final," says midfielder Helmann Mkhalele. "My belief is that France are in for a big wake-up call," says Issa. Anything anyone says about the South African team is reshaped into cheer-leading headlines. An "umm, er, perhaps" sort of comment from Iceland's coach Gudjor Thordasson - who drew with Bafana Bafana 1-1 in a dismal pre-France friendly - appears as "Bafana can do it, says Iceland coach." So too with Pele's pre-tournament Mastercard press release, which includes the line "I don't think South Africa, who played very well last year, will be easy to beat." This bit of non-committal politeness earns the headline "Pele: Get ready for some surprises and the biggest could be Bafana Bafana."
Kick-off against France is at 9pm local time, but the city starts emptying and businesses wind down from mid-afternoon. A broadcast of the match on a massive screen at a drive-in perched on a mine dump above Johannesburg draws 15,000 people, who start packing the place long before the sun sets, and warm up by dancing to a string of top bands playing kwaito (the latest hard-edged township sounds.) There is no Mandela magic this time around - the President is otherwise engaged - but the players, according to the front page of The Star, have received a "huge boost" with the arrival of deputy President Thabo Mbeki and sports minister Steve Tshwete. The French, no doubt, are really worried now.
 |
| Pierre Issa |
It was always expected that South Africa would look to weather an early storm from Les Bleus, so the cagey, somewhat jittery play of Bafana Bafana gets some measure of sympathy at first. But the second half is dismal - not just Issa's two own goals, but the complete absence of a team pattern and the glaring inadequacy of far too many players' technique. Back at base camp in Vichy, reserve striker Jerry Sikhosana says: "I appreciate what Philippe Troussier is doing for us, but at the end of the day we are not European players. It's time to do our own thing and show the world what we are capable of."
The players, according to one newspaper headline, are planning to toss overboard the fancy ideas Troussier has tried to impose on them, and play it South-African style against Denmark. No two people, of course, can quite agree on what South African style actually is, although the verve of the Nigerians continues to be invoked as an example. The Danes score early and come close to adding a second before the break. When Mkhalele misses an open goal it looks like bye-bye Bafana Bafana. But in the second half, South Africa come back. McCarthy, at last, turns hype into reality with a sweetly taken goal from close range. The Danes flag in the heat, South Africa press forwards. Two Danes are sent off, Alfred Phiri joins them for using an elbow, and then with virtually no time left, Quinton Fortune drives forwards and shoots. The ball flies, swerves, dips, sets the crossbar shaking. It finishes 1-1.
On the Sunday before the decider against the Saudis, one of the newspapers broke the cosy conspiracy around the camp and reported that ten of the players had gone and got plastered after the France match. A couple of days later, another daily reported that some of the squad had hired a couple of rooms which they used to screw around with the long queue of ever-willing Vichy groupies. Then it got worse. Striker Phil Masinga, initially ruled out of the Denmark match with an ankle injury, said Troussier forced him to play for the last few minutes of the match, despite the fact that he could hardly move. Striker Brendan Augustine and aptly-named midfielder Naughty Mokoena were sent home for breaking curfew and disco-crawling until dawn. "In this squad there are only five players who don't need a father, a teacher or a policeman," said Troussier. "The team is not mature. I have received a message back from South Africa that they don't want a foreigner as coach. Perhaps it is time for me to go now."
 |
| Philippe Troussier |
The silence over Parc Lescure in Bordeux is pretty much matched by the gloom in the Bass Line Bar in Johannesburg. With the Saudis 2-1 up, and not much left of the 90 minutes, the punters have long since stopped imploring and beseeching, and all but given up grumbling. All that can be heard - via the tinny sound of two TVs the owners have managed to borrow from some regulars - is the sound of a man in the stands, singing a wailing Arabic dirge through a loudhailer. "Can't one of our fans go over and smack that singer?" says a morose-looking man. A late penalty gets South Africa a second World Cup point, but Troussier's post-match words are blunt: "I was not only disappointed by the attitude of the team during the match, but also after the game. Instead of their heads being down after just being knocked out the World Cup, everybody was fine. They were probably wondering where they were going to go out tonight."
It is three years to the day since a South Africa united in exhilaration and some disbelief watched the Springboks win the rugby World Cup, watched Mandela dressed in a green and gold jersey hand the trophy over to the captain Francois Pienaar, both national icons wearing No.6. Mandela magic we all called it, a nation of miracle junkies always looking skywards for our next consignment of manna, as the ground at our feet grows more cluttered with tasks undone. As Bafana Bafana troop off the field, one punter in the Bass Line Bar looks down into his beer and mutters: "Mbeki magic. We've got it."
(Extracts from The Lost Boys by John Perlman, in the book Back Home: How the world watched France 98)
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