I bike all through the west end looking for the Ukraine game. I pass young men on the sidewalk looking for the same "We don't want any old bar - we want something Ukrainian."
It takes directions from the Ukrainian Social Service Agency at Jane and Bloor to point me toward the Golden Lion, a banquet hall in south Etobicoke. I'm riding all along the Queensway hoping for a sign; police officers, construction workers can't tell me where to find the game (they do happily recommend the Lancaster strip club however).
Finally I hit paydirt at Canmotor road just past Royal York: it's the Golden Lion, and yellowy blue is waving.
Ukraine is destroyed 4-0 by an incredible Spanish attack. The perogies (only $5 for about 15) make up for it.
It takes 24 subway stops to get from Royal York to Coxwell, for Tunisia v Saudi Arabia. Every station on the Bloor Line looks identical. Not much fun. Until Zanta hops on at Runnymede and tells me how famous he is. I nod in agreement and delightedly take photos. But he's off again at Keele and leaves me chuckling and the rest of the staid T-dot commuters barely stifling their smiles.
Djerba la Douce is owned by Abdul, who has been on CBC a lot recently - first he opened the only Tunisian restaurant in the city (although he proudly points out that Djerba is an island off the coast, so he's not a mainlander), and now his countrymen take on the football world. At first I'm the only one watching, but curious reporters begin trickling in, followed by a half-dozen actual fans. The CBC capture me pouring a mint tea as though I were dyed in the wool Djerbescu.
Tunisia plays well before the half, but the Saudis turn it on in the final 45 and take a 2-1 lead. It looks bleak, but with minutes left Abdul rejoices as his boys tie it up and the match ends 2-2. Abdul shakes his head - Tunisia got lucky.
I finally make it inside the Goethe Institute, where 'The Wall' has crumbled and the match shows to all on the beautiful big screen. I only watch 10 minutes before the half ends, and then I'm off to SportChek to buy my brother an Italy jersey for his birthday (Happy 30th, CJT!). Germany wins 1-0 over Poland but I don't care - I've already been alienated.
Korea 2, Togo 1
I miss Korea-Togo because I'm too busy writing on this blog. Dangit. I gotta keep these summaries brief. Don't worry Koreatown, I'll catch up.
France 0
, Switzerland 0
Next I'm at Zazou bar on King W at halftime of the noon game, where France-Switzerland is on the big screen. I love the France jerseys but don't care for this year's team. Zinedine Zidane is the man but that smarmy keeper Barthez turns me off.
Zazou is surrounded by touristy French restaurants, and I'm hungry, but pommes frites won't cut it for an anglo dog like me. I can imagine Charles de Gaulle yelling "vive le Quebec libre!" as I opt for Timmy Horton's.
France can't score; they haven't scored since 1998. The game ends a draw. I meet a pissed-off Algerian in the bathroom whose friend lost a chance at $10,000 because France didn't win ("He was gonna be 16 out of 16! The coach is an idiot - why did he leave out Trezeguet?"). I hold off telling him that gambling is for suckers, but I feel bad nonetheless.
Brazil 1, Croatia 0
Portugal fans are scary - but Brazil fans are fun. The matches take place in the same Portuguese telecasts in the exact same bars along College, so the fan behaviour's an interesting contrast. Expect street craziness and traffic snarls for both.
I try El Bola (College west of Dufferin) before halftime, but it's steam and sweat inside as they're stuffed beyond capacity, so head east past Ossington to one of my reliable 'old-man bars' - Carlo'S nack Bar (that's what's written on the sign).
Brazil wins but don't play their best game. The fans don't care - they won. It's drumming and dancing in the streets - right as rush hour hits College. 100 police officers on bikes attempt to control the mess. Hotshots cruise down Dufferin to add to the chaos. Brazil is so fun.
Australia 3, Japan 1
I never knew Hemingway's in Yorkville was an Aussie bar. But sure enough the owner has an accent. For once I arrive on time for the 9am start (credit 7:30am Pilates for getting me out of bed). First thing I notice about this matchup: the Australian players have some pretty ugly yellow jerseys.
At the bar I sit and order an Aussie croissant, an Aussie fruit cup, then down an Aussie coffee (just kidding - none of these things are Australian). Helen, the newly minted bartender, is serving her first ever shift in Canada. She's from Sydney or Melbourne or Perth, one of those round-the-world-live-in-Toronto-for six-months-then-Vancouver-for-six kind o' Sheilas. And much like a beleaguered Australian goalie, Helen has to fend off offensive forays from the Japan fan beside me, a drunken Japanese-Canadian (drunk at 9am, yes) who once lived in Australia himself and who since it's Japan v. Australia considers himself The Most Interesting Man In The Bar.
Anyway, the game: the Japanese team fell victim to heat stroke under the afternoon sun, because after scoring first and defending well for 80 minutes, their discipline dissolves completely, and Australia hammers hard with three explosive goals in the final 10 minutes. A comeback in stunning fashion. Helen has the last laugh over Tokyo-Jack Daniels, and the Socceroos carry the morning, vile jerseys and all.
Czech Republic 3, USA 0
I drive out to Etobicoke, the undervisited Kiping-Lakeshore area, for Czech Republic v. USA. There's a whole other Toronto tucked away past Mimico, past Alderwood into 'New Toronto', an area long populated by Eastern-European immigrants. Downtowners can discover this waterfront area by taking the 501 Queen Streetcar right to the end of the line.
Google research tell me the Woodhouse Pub is Czech soccer headquarters. But when I get there it's actually closed! The internet has lied to me again; now the game's almost over, and I don't even get to sample any pork + dumplings.
Miffed about my poor intelligence, I head to Di + Gabby's, the nearest hole in the wall with tv screen. It's already 3-0 for the Czechs. There's three other Czech fans, nonagenarian-alcoholic types, borderline comatose. Nothing to do but drink at this time of day, in this part of the city. I think about ordering a massive Slovakia-sized can of beer, but then I think about the drive home, and order a Coke instead. I'm a party animal.
Forza Italia! (2-0 over Ghana)
"I bet a lot of people called in sick today, with a case of Ghanarrhea." ~bad pun by bad football punster, made over the telephone
As I may have indicated, I'm Italian in origin (cupcake in inclination). I cheer for Italy when the opportunity arises (once every four years). In '94 and '98 I lived and died with Roberto Baggio's exploits and embarrassments, when he had short hair, when he had long hair, when he missed that goddamn penalty kick against Brazil. What's more, I actually live in the vicinity of Little Italy. What's super-more - I actually got Paolo Rossi's autograph back in January of this year.
Does that make me a knowledgeable, hardcore fan of gli Azzurri?
Not in the least.
I can name the following Italian players off the top of my head: Totti, Del Piero, Nesta, Zambrotta, Cannavaro, Buffon, Toni ... that's about it.
.
I am joined by my friend the lovely Tricia who also boasts il sangue italiano and more importantly, had the day off to watch ragazzi nostri take on the newbie Ghanaians (and I'll keep using parole italiane - Italian words - until it gets really annoying). Little Italy runs along College from Shaw to Euclid; all the Italian-themed bars are packed with Italian-themed fans (I say 'themed' b/c as we all know the real Italian bars are up in North York and the 905) . Tricia and I take refuge in Southside Louie's, opposite Bar Italia and the Big Dip (with its mammoth patio and dozens of outdoor flat-screens, the Diplomatico crowd gathered round prohibits civilized viewing) - but if anybody asks I was at Gatto Nero from start to finish.
Southside offers no Peroni, Moretti or Mennabrea so I drink Moosehead instead and order deep-fried onion rings. Somewhere Garibaldi is spinning violently in his grave. Anyhow we watch the game: Ghana hustles, but talented Italy is too much. Iaquinta scores on a Ghana giveaway to make it 2-0 ("he's Ghana pay for that") and set off the tricolour celebration.
Garibaldi rejoices. As do the fans along College, with their horns honking and drapeau bravado. It's no Portuguese beer-bottle brawl - but it's good loud fun. I can only imagine what things were like on the St. Clair Corso or at Nino D'Aversa's at Keele and Finch. Bravo!
Holland 1, Serbia 0
Sunday morning is gorgeous, the streets empty. I'm riding my bike Mario with anticipation.
What Dutch presence there will be at Betty's (240 King East @ Sherbourne); what kind of Dutch name is Betty? Three blocks north still reeks of crack-whore but King E is gentrifying, loft-ifying and renovating: a lovely neighbourhood.
I get there late as usual, 10:30 am and Holland-Serbia is almost over.
Order a coffee and scope out the fans, whose garb burns a hole in my retina. The colour of Netherlands is bright orange - it's oh so citrus and I pine for a smoothie.
Holland wins 1-0, their fans are polite but glowing (orange) with pride. I think about my Dutch friend Claire and wonder if she's happy (in fact if I ever open a Dutch bar it will be called Claire's).
I wander for 30 minutes on Mario, accidentally running into Woofstock, a massive outdoor fair for dogs and another sign our civilization has lost its marbles. Most dog owners scare me; treating animals better than humans is a perverse fetish (yes yes, bring on the hatemail - I'm ready for you people).
Mexico 3, Iran 1
La Mexicana's north of Bloor on Yonge, boutique ethnic in South Rosedale - not exactly Latino central, but blessed with multiple screens. If Mexico makes it out of round-robin I'll hit the bars in Kensington that should have me hopping till manana.
I enter a fiesta of 80 Mexicans; the room is built for 20. I'm practically the only Gringo in the place; they tell me "There's space for you in the back room." A most welcome segregation - it's stuffy inside but sunny and cool on the patio.
The owner of La Mexicana, a not very Mexican looking Mr. Wong, is arranging umbrellas above his tv to minimize glare from the sun. Suddenly everyone on the patio is a professional set decorator; I even start suggesting ways to cut down the glare. "The sun's coming from the east!" I keep shouting. This is oh so important.
I order Corona from a slow-witted waitress who won't bring anyone their beer and wants to feed me an entire platter of tacos. "I can't eat that much," I explain, and she's annoyed at me. She's not actually a waitress, just somebody's sister. I successfully negotiate a burrito and sit facing the tiny glare-ridden screen.
The game is ok. The Mexican football announcers - to their credit - scream 'goooolllll!' just as loudly and lustily when Iran scores as when does Mexico (they each tally a goal before the half). I hadn't expected such impartiality.
After 45 minutes I'm fed up with glare and done with my beer; I don't speak Spanish so I sheepishly hit the exit. Next time I'll take the mountain to Mohammed and do Iran at Yonge and Steeles.
Portuguese madness!
I bike home to prepare for Portugal-Angola. Life in Portugal Village ain't easy during football (or during Portugal Week, during Portugal Month or during any number of religious processions). Portugual followers in Toronto are notoriously proud. They love being Portuguese more than any other country loves being itself. They love their flag more than any other nation loves their colours. They love putting those plastic mini-drapeaus on the windows of their cars. I'm an Italy fan myself (and we're supposedly a patriotic lot) and I'm in awe: it is scary to witness the full flower of Portuguese nationalism. World Cup action in the College -Dufferin-Dundas-Ossington rectangle is a kind of dream-nightmare hybrid. Just don't try driving for groceries anytime after a match (that includes Brazil).
I watch from one of the nondescript old-man bars on the north side of College near Ossington, where Little Italy ends its yuppy charade and becomes 'Little Azores' for real. The crowd is loud and cranky. I'm drinking Heineken (is there Portuguese beer?). Pauleta scores an early marker, and the chaos by now is predictable. The drapeaued cars begin barrelling east-west with the horns shrieking staccato; funnelling down from St. Clair and up from Dovercourt. Portugal wins 1-0 over their former colony Angola (who btw have the best jerseys of the tournament - deadly black and red) and the streets are soaked with green red gold - and traffic-jam exhaust fumes - for the next 3-4 hours. Good thing for Mario.
Sidebar - there is a 40-man brawl at Dundas and Ossington long after the match is ended - front-page of The Sun kind of stuff. It was an argument between Portugal fans, probably over who loves Portugal the most. Apparently it necessitated several mouthfuls of broken glass to decide the matter, but in the end nobody wins.... Go Portugallll!
I bike all through the west end looking for the Ukraine game. I pass young men on the sidewalk looking for the same "We don't want any old bar - we want something Ukrainian."
It takes 24 subway stops to get from Royal York to Coxwell, for Tunisia v Saudi Arabia. Every station on the Bloor Line looks identical. Not much fun. Until Zanta hops on at Runnymede and tells me how famous he is. I nod in agreement and delightedly take photos. But he's off again at Keele and leaves me chuckling and the rest of the staid T-dot commuters barely stifling their smiles.
Tunisia plays well before the half, but the Saudis turn it on in the final 45 and take a 2-1 lead. It looks bleak, but with minutes left Abdul rejoices as his boys tie it up and the match ends 2-2. Abdul shakes his head - Tunisia got lucky.
I finally make it inside the Goethe Institute, where 'The Wall' has crumbled and the match shows to all on the beautiful big screen. I only watch 10 minutes before the half ends, and then I'm off to SportChek to buy my brother an Italy jersey for his birthday (Happy 30th, CJT!). Germany wins 1-0 over Poland but I don't care - I've already been alienated.
