Camden and the World Cup

A Last Word story

“What do you mean you’re showing a baseball game?” Camden screamed into the phone. “It’s the bloody World Cup final!” She slammed the phone down and looked over at Sal, who shrugged.

“I told you,” he said. “No one cares about the World Cup here, especially since the U.S. isn’t in the final.”

“But seriously,” she said, “a baseball game between the Dodgers and the Nets?”

“I think you mean Mets,” Sal corrected. “See, you know even less about baseball than I do about soccer.”

“I know there won’t be almost a billion people worldwide watching baseball today,” she retorted. On this point he could not disagree.

“Why do you care anyway?” he asked, taking a different approach in hopes of ending this conversation. “England was eliminated a week ago. I know this not because I care about your silly game where no one dives on a loose ball — un-American, by the way — but because you got drunk and sobbed late into the night.”

“To the Portuguese,” she said bitterly. “And on penalties. Again.”

“Whatever that means,” Sal said. “My point is, you’re English, England is out, move on with life. Trust me; I’m a Jets fan, so I understand losing. Maybe go sell a book or two so we don’t lose the store.”

“It’s the final of the bloody World Cup,” Camden replied in a tone that threatened to rise into a scream again. “I have to watch it.”

“Fine,” he said. “So none of the sports bars you called are showing it?”

“Not one. Baseball, golf, and something called NASCAR, which I can only assume is an American version of Formula One.”

Sal tried not to laugh at this last part; it would only anger her more. Then he had a thought. “Who is playing in the final?” he asked.

“Italy and France.” Her expression when she said “France” was that of someone forced to swallow a mixture of broken glass and cat urine. Not a fan, obviously.

“Then my advice is that you call around to the Italian restaurants,” he said. “Even though most of the ones here are actually run by Lebanese and Albanians, I bet they will show the game in the bar area to at least appear authentically Italian. And I suppose Lebanese and Albanians like soccer more than baseball.”

She stared at him wide-eyed, then a smile spread across her face. “That is brilliant!” she said happily, snatching up the phone book. “A simply brilliant idea, Sal.”

He walked to the kitchen for a beer while she dialed. Sal had thought that running the bookstore he and Camden had recently inherited would be the difficult part, but sharing the apartment above the store with his English cousin had proven even trickier. He walked back into the living room to find her beaming.

“Napoli’s is showing it!” she exclaimed. “And the man on the phone said their bar has a big screen TV.”

“See,” Sal said, “it all worked out just fine.”

“Do you want to come watch it with me?” she asked.

He knew he should say yes, but he couldn’t. Anything — baseball, golf, NASCAR, watching paint dry — would be preferable to watching a bunch of Italians and Frenchmen kick a ball around for two hours, score one time, and then call the game a classic.

“I would,” he said, “but I need to rearrange the fiction section downstairs.” This was not untrue; it had needed rearranging for weeks. “You could ask Julia.”

“No, she asked for the afternoon off,” Camden said. “It’s her mother’s birthday or something. And Heather has to cover for her, so she’s out too.”

“What about –” Sal began, but Camden cut him off.

“Do not suggest that I take Jacob with me,” she said.

“I was going to suggest Kate,” he replied. “She always closes her shop early on Sundays anyway.”

Camden pondered this for a moment, seemed to find it acceptable, and picked up the phone again. Sal finished the beer and quickly left the apartment, just in case.

As they entered Napoli’s a few hours later, it was clear who the soccer fan was. While Kate was dressed in a t-shirt, shorts and sandals, Camden looked like a walking billboard for the England National Team. She wore a David Beckham jersey, which was forgivable both because he was the England captain and because he had left the hated Manchester United for Real Madrid. Real Madrid was also hated, but they didn’t play Arsenal twice a season. Her England kit shorts bore the number 3; this was Ashley Cole’s number, and he was an Arsenal player. In spite of the heat, she wore an England scarf, and had painted the St. George’s Cross on her face. Kate had not known this was the flag of England, having only ever seen the Union Jack before.

“You take this soccer thing seriously,” Kate said once they were seated at a small table in front of the television.

“No more than fans of American sports do here,” Camden replied with naïve sincerity.

“Camden, honey,” she said sweetly, patting Camden’s hand, “here only the college kids paint their faces. And only when their team is playing.”

“Really? How odd.”

A waitress took their order, trying unsuccessfully to keep a straight face when looking at Camden. Kate glanced around the bar; there were only a few other patrons, none of whom had team jerseys or painted faces.

“So, is it common in England?” Kate asked.

“Oh yes,” Camden replied. “We’re not as passionate about the national squad as our club teams, but only because we’ve had our hearts broken so many times since ‘66.” She said this as if she had even been alive the one and only time England had won the Cup.

“Club teams?” Kate asked, confused.

“In the Premier League,” Camden said. “It’s like your NFL, I suppose. The loyalty to a club gets passed down generation to generation. I got it from my mum, since dad was a Yank and only came to the game later in life.”

“Your mother raised you to go out in public like this?” Kate asked, shocked.

“Oh no,” Camden said. “Mum would be scandalized if she knew I wear a Beckham jersey. Only Arsenal players for her. When I was a little girl, she ran an antique shop and absolutely refused to sell to anyone who was a Tottenham supporter.”

“I assume that is a rival,” Kate said. “But how would she know?”

“She asked them right out of the gate. No Manchester United fans either. For the Liverpool and Chelsea fans she just charged a higher price.”

The waitress returned with their drinks, stared at Camden for a moment, and left.

“So, who is playing again?” Kate asked.

“Italy and France,” Camden said. “Or as we would say back home, Italy and the Cheese-Eating Surrender Monkeys.”

“Who won last year?” Kate asked. Camden wasn’t sure she had heard her right.

“Say again?”

“Who won the World Cup last year?”

“It’s only played every four years, Kate.”

“Oh, like the Olympics.” Kate shifted uneasily in her chair. “I have to confess something,” she said, her eyes not meeting Camden’s.

“What?” Camden asked, suddenly a bit worried.

“The thing is, I don’t know anything at all about what we’re about to watch.”

“That’s no problem,” she said with a smile. “I can explain it all before the match even starts. The World Cup is played every four years. Nearly 200 national teams compete to be in the finals, which is pared down to 32 teams for the final tournament, which takes a month. They start with eight groups of four teams each who play the teams within their group; the top two from each group move on to the knockout stage, and from there it’s a simple single-elimination format. England was eliminated in the quarterfinals.”

Kate nodded as if this all made perfect sense, and then their attention was drawn to the television screen. The teams were walking out of the tunnel and onto the field. In the Berlin stadium nearly 70,000 fans roared, all dressed as colorfully as Camden.

Seven minutes into the match, France took the lead on a penalty kick by the humorously named (in Kate’s opinion) Zinedine Zidane. “Bloody frogs,” was all Camden said. Before play resumed, Kate had another confession.

“Camden,” she said sheepishly, “when I said that I didn’t know anything about what we were about to watch, I didn’t mean the World Cup, at least not exactly that.”

“What then?” Camden asked, trying to look at Kate and the screen at the same time.

“I meant I know nothing about soccer.”

Camden’s head whipped around. “Nothing?”

“Well, I know that you’re supposed to kick the ball in the net, and that you’re not allowed to touch it with your hands. Except for the tall guy standing in front of the net — why is his jersey a different color? — and when it goes out of bounds, but it doesn’t look like that’s always true either.”

Camden was about to reply when the bartender reached up and changed the channel. Suddenly they were watching baseball. Camden shot out of her chair like a missile.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she snarled.

“The Mets are playing the Dodgers,” he said, still facing the screen. Then he turned, saw the murderous look on her painted face, and changed it back without a word. She returned to the table.

Just as their third round of drinks arrived, Italy pulled even on a header by Marco Materazzi off a corner kick. Camden tried to explain the concept of set pieces to Kate, but she giggled like a teenager every time Camden said the word “header.” Perhaps the third drink was too much for her.

The match remained scoreless through the end of regular time, and Camden could see that Kate was getting bored as the most exciting part was approaching: extra time. It was possible that they might even remain scoreless after that and have to decide the champion on penalty kicks. As an England supporter, the mere thought of a penalty shootout made her want to punch a French nun and then throw up.

During extra time Kate started whining.

“Is this going to be over soon?” she asked, slurring her words. “I have to open the bakery at 5 in the morning.”

“Yes,” Camden replied, irritated that she nearly missed an amazing save by the Italian keeper Buffon, who just tipped a Zidane shot over the crossbar.

Just as Kate was about to start yammering again, Camden was saved by the most unlikely person: Sal. He appeared from nowhere, beer in hand, and pulled a chair up to the table. Kate’s protests ceased immediately, replaced by a dreamy look as she stared at him.

“What are you doing here?” Camden asked. “I thought games where you don’t dive on a loose ball were un-American.”

“They are,” Sal replied. “But after I closed up the bookstore I started feeling guilty, as an Italian. I should at least make a token effort to cheer for the homeland.”

She turned to look at him, and saw his eyes grow wide. She spun back to the television.

“What?” she asked, fearing that the Frogs had scored. An Italian player was on the ground, Zidane standing over him.

“The bald guy just head-butted one of my paisanos,” he said, amazed.

Sure enough, the referee was racing toward Zidane, a red card held high over his head. Zidane looked defiant, then defeated.

“What does that little card mean?” Kate asked.

“He’s been sent off!” Camden nearly squealed with glee.

“Sent off?” Kate said. The alcohol had definitely impaired her.

“The Frenchy got tossed out,” Sal translated. “Deserved it too. So does that mean we win?”

“No,” Camden said, exasperated. “It means they have to play with only ten men now.”

“That’s a shame,” Sal said, motioning to the waitress for another beer. “I was hoping it was over.”

It was not over. After neither side scored in extra time, it did indeed come down to a penalty shootout. It was almost anticlimactic after the Zidane head-butt, but the Italians won the shootout 5–3. Everyone at the table was pleased: Sal that the Italians had won, Camden that the French had lost, and Kate that it was over and she could go to bed.

As they walked back to the apartment after putting Kate in a cab, Camden seemed lost in thought.

“What’s on your mind, cousin?” Sal asked.

“Just thinking about how the whole Italian population is celebrating right now,” she said, “and wondering if I’ll ever experience that in my lifetime.”

“Of course you will,” he said reassuringly. “You Brits are good at warm beer, funny TV shows, and small pasty guys who can kick a ball.”

This brightened her mood immediately; she was clearly blocking out the fact that he knew nothing about football, real football.

“You think 2010 will be our year?” she asked with the optimism of the true believer.

“Sadly, no,” he replied. “I have actually watched some of the highlights the past few weeks…had to sit through them waiting for ESPN to get to the baseball scores. Anyway, I’m picking the next winner based on the hotness of the country’s female fans.”

“Brazil?” she asked, assuming he preferred the scantily clad Samba babes.

“Nope,” he replied. “Spain. Based on the women I’ve seen, 2010 will definitely be Spain’s year.”

“No chance,” she replied. “They are the choke-artist kings of the football world.”

“I’ll bet you a hundred bucks right now,” he said. “Spain versus the rest of the field.”

“Think we’ll still be here slinging books for a living by then?” she asked with a smile.

“Yep,” he said. “No doubt about it.”

“You’re on then,” she said, shaking his outstretched hand. “Easiest hundred dollars I’ll ever make.”

“We’ll see, Limey. We will see.”

If you’d like to read more about Sal and Camden’s adventures in the world of bookselling, you can check out The Last Word series here.