Portugal playing here. This afternoon. I had to go! I pitched it to Alex and he was as keen as I. We emptied our pockets save for a couple of hundred Rand, conscious of the scenes that transpired last Saturday on the other side of Johannesburg between Nigeria and North Korea: a stampede before the match had resulted in hundreds of people trampled on as fans had tried to get in... Though, we did grab Laura's camera on the way out.
The car radio advised the road around Wanderers was already closed. It was 2:30 and we feared we may have left our run too late. As we closed in on the stadium, waiting at a traffic light, we saw a man in a fluro safety vest jump into the back of a maroon jeep up ahead. Then, hanging out the window, he waved Alex and I and the cars behind to follow. We did, turning off into the backstreets. It was wild. Cars covered the footpaths, gardens, driveways, every piece of earth possible. Fans making their way to the ground, many donning the red and yellow of Portugal, weaved in and out of the steady stream of cars of which we were a part. While dozens more ‘parking officers’ beckoned the drivers to follow them. There was just enough space to squeeze through as we inched along in the dense chaos of it all.
We caught the attention of another parking guy and were directed off another way. He fashioned us a park in a garden bed off a side street. ‘Pay me, pay me,’ he shouted. As I went to tip him, the initial guy from the maroon jeep, appeared out of nowhere. This guy waived a small scrap bit of paper stating ‘parking R50’ along with some other text I couldn’t quite make out, ‘you followed me didn’t you, pay me!’ I nodded, though the other guy was still expecting payment, ‘I showed you the park, give me something!’ Figuring the last thing we wanted was a vendetta against our lovely new rental car, I satisfied the jeep man’s piece of paper and gave a fraction of that to the second guy. They both ran off content, in search for more cars to park. Satisfactorily ripped off, we make sure the car was locked and alarmed and followed the flow of football jerseys to the stadium.
The road out front was sectioned off at the top by a massive gate and a ton of security. We muscled our way through the sea of red and yellow up to the front. ‘Ticket’s please.’
‘We don’t have any, can we buy tickets?’
‘Sold out.’ The guard gestured for us to move aside. Alex and I looked to each other - what now? ‘Move,’ we were told.
We turned around, a police car with lights flashing headed our way leading a massive bus. I could hear the fans. They were bouncing. It was Portugal! Deco, Nani, right there through the windows! Waving! Oh! The bus drove past without pause down toward the stadium. We needed a ticket! Wandering through the Portuguese fans I saw up on the street corner, near a market stall selling rip off Portuguese merchandise, a Socceroos jersey.
There were four Aussies in all and they had only just got their hands on tickets. The guy in the jersey handed me his sign, it was poorly scribbled on a piece of note-book paper reading, “BUY TICKETS x2”. Another gave a similar sign to Alex. ‘We were only here for 20 minutes, good luck!’ They waved and were off. Galvanised we stood on the corner, waving our signs about and yelling out like spruikers: ‘Tickets, any one got any tickets?', 'Spare tickets?', ‘We’re looking for tickets!’ We had no takers, no interest, apart from laughs and smiles; we were apparently the pre-match entertainment. There was another one who came, a young guy attired head to toe in the Portuguese gear, keen on a ticket and he was simply waving around money. Concerned about our competition, we split up; Alex went back down to the front gate whilst I kept on at the corner. He returned a while later with nothing, still nothing.
We were determined not to concede defeat: we had seen the bus; heard the fans; we were totally swept up in the fever. I turned around to see Alex talking to a man in a Zimbabwe shirt. He was saying that a guy up the road had been trying to sell tickets to the cars. Hope! We thanked him and grabbed the money waving Portuguese guy. We were walking up the road when a voice in front of us shouted, ‘what do you want!’ It was one of those ‘parking’ guys.
‘Tickets, tickets,’ we shouted back in unison as we caught up with him.
‘Well, I have two,’ He ducked down, hiding behind his car, and took two, and then three tickets from his pocket ‘Wait, three.’
‘They’re good?’
‘Yeah, check them, check them.’
Good enough! We each handed over a hundred Rand a ticket, thanked him, and headed for the stadium.
As we passed through that front-gate the feeling of satisfaction is hard to describe: We did it! We were on our way! Though, as the road sloped downward toward the stadium, we could see thousands of fans still waiting to enter the ground. The usual multiple entrances around the Wanderers had been closed in lieu of a sole entrance and we hit the human traffic a good few hundred metres before the next gate. It was 3:30 but our tickets told kick-off was still an hour away so we happily waited out the bottleneck. We had our tickets checked three more times before we were in.
Inside the stadium was alive. The vivid red of the Portuguese, curiously vastly outnumbering any Mozambique fans, coloured the entire ground. Our seats weren’t together so we entered the main stand in hope more than anything, just as a great roar and the drone of the Vuvuzelas erupted. The Portuguese team were coming out for their warm-up. We shoved our way through the overcrowded walkways looking for a decent seat. Unsuccessful. Then, next to the grandstand and behind the goal we spied the hill; grass-covered and not too full, it looked like the best spot. We quickly crossed to the end of the grandstand, jumped the fence in front of about six idle policemen, and made our way into the crowd on the grass.
Then an ultimate eruption, emerging from a swarm of photographers was Cristiano Ronaldo to join the team in the warm-up. The whole crowd cheered his every touch, engrossed with his every move. A group of Portuguese standing in front of us fully decked out in their nations’ shirts and scarfs and flags went wild.
When the players took to the field, after the formalities of the anthems were drowned out by the ever-present whine of the Vuvuzelas, the atmosphere was electric. The likes of Deco, Simao, Carvalho right in front of us. There was something special in the crowd. The idea that these fans had travelled so far for this team, just for these guys - it amplifies the emotion. Mozambique weren’t caught up in it, and took the game to the Europeans from the kick-off. They were desperately unlucky too, after hitting the post from a first time strike outside the box. Behind us a group of Mozambiques, who weren’t in colours, went absolutely ballistic. Then again, so did I. It was an awesome hit, inches wide. The Vuvuzelas roared on.
Half time called an end to a scoreless opening, but a fantastic match that was gaining pace as it went along. Alex and I mused over the first half action coffee in hand as the air began to chill and the sun began to set. We noticed a boy, perhaps 15 or 16 and draped in a Portuguese flag, running down to his family in front of us. He was openly weeping. His family launched into flurry of activity; some in shock, some shouting to people around, some holding and consoling him. The boy, tears streaming down his face, was shaking and, as if nothing else were as important, grasping ever-so-tightly to a Portuguese cap. We could just make out on the brim, in a thick black pen, the scribbling of what looked like a C.Ronaldo.
A massive roar went up someway into the second half as if a goal had been scored - it Ronaldo was warming up. A torrent of camera flashes crashed down on the Madrid man as he went through the usual motions. Next another roar and this time it was a goal, Portugal were one up after a nifty through ball, Danny evaded the off-side trap to round the keeper and finish off.
On the 65th minute it was finally his time, a standing ovation as 11 made way for 7, Simao for Cristiano Ronado, captain’s armband and all. His first touch came quickly and it was sharp, followed by a run down the right wing with his token step-over and cross. He was seemingly aware of the attention - and loving it.
Another goal came as Portugal’s class began to shine through. In the first half Deco had struggled to find time on the ball as the Mozambique midfield scrambled to shut him down. Now as the crowd stood totally transfixed beneath the floodlights, he was popping up everywhere stamping his authority on the attack. The entire midfield was enjoying themselves with flicks and dummies and back-heels littering the play.
The third goal came with 5 to go as Portugal countered through Ronaldo. He took the ball on half way, turned and set a direct path to goal. 30 yards out he hit it, early, low and hard at the keepers’ right. It dipped at the last second. It was a Ronaldo strike. The Mozambique number 1 got a hand on it but only enough to knock it into Almeida’s path for his second goal and tap in of the night. Mozambique was done.
So were we. We drifted back out onto the road and retraced our steps to the car. Some swift negotiations and our last 2 rand later, we escaped with our car and took off from the Wanderers’ in total awe at what we had just witnessed.
Viva Ronaldo!
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