25 June 1998, 7:35 a.m.
Gare de Lyon, Paris
As the doors of the sleek, sexy Train à Grande Vitesse (TGV) glide effortlessly open, we breathe a sigh of relief and heave our weary early-morning bodies into our seats. Around us, the subtle elegance and luxurious comfort that have made French train travel famous spread out in both directions.
But something is different today. That much is obvious from the harsh sea of red pouring over the usual soft grays and violets of the TGV interior, drenching the car from front to back.
Uncle Sam is here.
"Sam's Army," to be exact. The hundreds of TGV passengers decked out in red from head to toe are members of the "Army," the unofficial fan club of U.S. Soccer.
With a sublime stroke of dumb luck we have somehow managed-and I swear it was inadvertent-to book two seats on the same train as a whole brigade of "Sammers" bound for Lyon, the self-proclaimed "gastronomic capital" of the world's most food-obsessed country.
This isn't about food, though. These Sammers, and hundreds more like them, are hungry for something much more thrilling than a five-course meal and a nice bottle of Beaujolais. They're heading for La Coupe du Monde, el Mondial, the World Cup-by any name, the world's greatest football feast.
Like the rest of these red-clad Yanks, my faithful photographer and I are among the lucky ones who stumbled upon a Golden Ticket to the Willy Wonka Soccer Factory. Somewhere among the backpacks, fanny packs and blue-jean pockets hide the tickets to tonight's politically-charged match between the United States and the Republic of Iran.
For the Americans, it's a must-win game for our slim dreams of advancement to the second round. For the Iranians, the game is a matter of national pride, a day of lofty dreams for a nation that has never scored a World Cup goal much less won a match. And as the media has portrayed this match, it's a chance to spit in the eye of The Great Satan, the reviled wearers of the red, white and blue.
Despite the Iranians' superior motivation, we Americans have plenty of reason to be optimistic. With superior skill and more World Cup experience, the Yanks are the favorites tonight. And as far as omens go, accidentally stumbling onto a train full of Americans here in Paris seems like a pretty good one.
So it is with obvious glee that the two of us board the TGV, finding our seats next to a couple of sweet ladies from Connecticut. As we find out over the two-hour ride, they are more than happy to volunteer the details of their vacation here in France. Everyone is in good spirits as we arrive in Lyon, ready for a full day of sight-seeing and a night of soccer revelry.
1:34 p.m.
La Place de Terraux, Lyon
After a morning spent touring the winding streets and steep hills of the area known as Vieux Lyon ("Old Lyon"), we pause for a breath on this town square of sorts, located right in front of City Hall.
I have just finished my lunch, a sandwich with volaille du dinde, French for one part turkey, three parts mayonnaise, and five parts bread. But I'm not going to complain, because it's the first turkey sandwich I've found after nearly two weeks in Europe. In fact, the sandwich turned out to be like most foods here in France: damn tasty if you don't worry too much about what its name means in English.
But I digress.
So here we are on the Place des Terraux, a beautiful square in the heart of Lyon.
Directly in the center of the square there is a fountain with a tremendous sculpture by the artist Bartholdi. Even more beautiful are the nearly 70 individual jets of water arranged geometrically about the square, which shoot water several feet into the air, at programmed intervals.
As the patrons at the six or seven cafes on the square look on, a pick-up soccer game ambles its way past, splashing water here and there as the ball passes through the smaller jets. It's kids versus adults, and the youngsters seem to be holding their own. They call out the names of their favorite players as they mimic the moves they saw on television the night before.
"Je suis Ronaldo," yells one as he tries to juggle the ball with one foot. One of the grown-up kids approaches and Ronaldo quickly passes the ball off to a young Zinedine Zidane, the French playmaker who is the current hero of every child in this nation. Two other French stars, Didier Deschamps and Marcel Desailly, as well as the Brazilian Roberto Carlos, darted about the square calling for the ball.
Zidane makes an errant pass, and the grown-ups steal the ball. With mock nonchalance, they move the ball back and forth, frustrating the kids. One of the more enthusiastic adults taunts the youngsters, dribbling away to the far end of the square and back with a smirk.
The boy who called himself Ronaldo tries to win the ball back with all the force his young frame can muster, but the man with the ball gets a little too physical, and Ronaldo ends up on the ground.
"Take it easy," another adult calls out in French, "They're just kids."
True to the spirit of fair play, the older one helps Ronaldo up off the ground, and the ball is returned, for the time being, to the youngsters. Then suddenly, the cruelest thing happens. A sloppy pass from Roberto Carlos rolls over the touch line (out of bounds, as we say in America) and into the street. Seconds later, a tremendous explosion rocks the entire Place de Terraux. My heart racing, I turn to see what has happened.
There, in the middle of the street, like fresh roadkill, lie the remnants of a soccer ball. A few yards away, a city bus lumbers painfully away, completely oblivious to its act of slow-motion hit-and-run that has broken the hearts of the youngsters on the square. A dark-haired boy, no longer Didier Deschamps, dumbfoundedly retrieves the ball.
The kids hand it back and forth in disbelief, scratching their heads and quietly cursing the bus. The former Ronaldo shoves his hand into the giant puncture created by the bus and wears the ball like an oversized mitten.
I think about the poetry of the moment and wonder if I've seen this whole spectacle played out in a movie or a television commercial somewhere. But before I can come up with any answers, the kids have found a new ball. The tragedy forgotten, the game resumes. Water again splashes here and there as Ronaldo and his buddies take the field for the second half.
4:07 p.m.
McDonald's, Place de la Bellecour, Lyon
Here, in the most American of places, the Iranian supporters have staked out their territory. Directly under the Golden Arches and the watchful gaze of Ronald McDonald-not to mention a few French gendarmes-the Iranians have been dancing and singing for hours.
The green, white and red of the nation's flag is proudly displayed everywhere. Some wear flags as capes, while others wave smaller versions over their heads. A flag painted on the face is standard fare, while four bolder individuals have painted their upper bodies green and sit in their parked convertible in front of the restaurant.
Chaos, beautiful chaos.
Here and there, smaller bands of Americans try to out-sing the Iranians, but it's a losing battle. This McDonald's, and the city block around it, belongs to the Republic of Iran. The subtle irony of the moment is not lost on the handful of photographers and the television crews who prowl the area, looking for just the right juxtaposition of American and Middle-Eastern pride.
But there's a refreshing element to all this conflict. Everyone here is smiling. The atmosphere bears the mark of friendly competition, not bitter confrontation. It is, after all, only a soccer game. The fans here know that, and they aren't about to confuse politics with sport.
8:37 p.m.
Stade Gerland, Lyon
The shuttle bus lets us off a few blocks from the stadium, and we see the familiar and welcome sea of red once again. The American supporters, having conceded McDonald's to the Iranians, congregate here, outside a giant sports bar. They prefer beer to Big Macs, and they don't seem to be facing much competition for this spot.
The Stars and Stripes are everywhere we turn. From the lines at the kegs which go 20-deep to the hordes surrounding the big screen TV, to the crowd draped in red, white and blue, it's bedlam, American style. A 10-minute wait in the beer line yields nothing, and I finally give up and head for the stadium.
As we pass the numerous security points, our anticipation mounts. Like children peering expectantly into our lunch bags, we wonder what surprises await us inside the Stade Gerland, a beautiful, newly-renovated stadium that is officially registered as a historic landmark. Once inside, we find our seats, which are right in the thick of Sam's Army. The Sammers, who could be considered the Cameron Crazies of American soccer, are already standing and singing. We learn the songs quickly, because most of them are simply variations on common tunes every American knows (you can probably figure out where the song "When the Yanks Go Marching In" comes from, for example).
The Sammers are loud and well-organized. In the grand scheme of things, they aren't that influential on the outcome of the game. Unlike Duke's Crazies, the Sammers make up just a small portion of the crowd, which today is dominated by Iranians. But what they lack in numbers, they make up for in spirit; they are the only group in the stadium that stands and cheers for 90 minutes, non-stop.
Right in the heart of the Army-among the foot soldiers, if you will-stands a stocky man dressed like all the rest: red t-shirt, USA Soccer hat, Sam's Army scarf. Positioned as close to the very center of the group as he can possibly be, he is virtually indistinguishable from all of the others. But this man is special, for it is he who started all this organized chaos.
Mark Spacone bangs on his drum and leads the cheers at the top of his lungs. A middle-class New Jerseyan with a simple passion for soccer, he is the man behind
Get The Chronicle straight to your inbox
Signup for our weekly newsletter. Cancel at any time.