JOHANNESBURG - The South African sun has yet to peek over the eastern horizon when a groggy Canadian journalist, unable to snooze, steps outside his suburban Johannesburg rental home to get some fresh air.
It is 5:30 local time in the morning, some 8-1/2 hours before the opening game of South Africa 2010, and the neighbourhood is wonderfully peaceful.
Suddenly, in the distance, the grinding wail of a vuvuleza horn shatters the silence, echoing eerily for blocks.
Even at this wee hour, they are tooting these things.
For the rest of this day, one of the most significant in the history of this country, they will not stop. Not for long anyway.
- 8:52 a.m.: With the other four Canuck scribes having snapped out of their respective comas, this less than fearsome fivesome is stuffing themselves into an embarrassingly undersized rental car when a local across the street aims his vuvuzela at them and begins blowing. Get used to it, boys.
- 10:17 a.m.: Walking into the media centre at Soccer City, word comes down that Nelson Mandela’s great grand daughter was killed in an auto accident the previous night. Mandela's scheduled visit to the historic Mexico-South Africa game has been scrapped. Tragic.
- 11:21 a.m.: Sports Illustrated’s Peter King is spotted in the media centre. Did someone bother to inform him that this isn’t the same “football” he usually covers? This is the sport of Steven Gerrard, not David Garrard.
- 12:17 p.m.: Two sandwiches, a donut, coffee, and orange juice for just $13 Cdn! Would that even get you half a Burkie Dog at the Air Canada Centre?
- 2:01 p.m.: The opening ceremonies kick off with a gaggle of roaring jets doing a fly by. Low. Very low. At one point, we are waiting for the wings to scrape the roof of the press centre. And even then, you can still hear the vuvuzelas. Amazing.
- 2:13 p.m.: We approach the security gates expecting to be frisked, prodded and poked. Instead, this “crack” security team doesn’t even run our computer bags through the metal detector. The only request is to remove our cell phones. Those suckers are dangerous, after all. Just ask our bosses, who are deathly frightened about the ballooning phone bills we’re racking up over here.
- 2:18 p.m.: Inside the stadium, the scene is awesome. And so is the volume. With about 500 performers doing a wonderful series of African dances, the ear-throbbing sounds of 50,000 vuvulezas honk in unison. Thank heavens for ear plugs.
- 3:48 p.m.: Some yahoo wanders into the front of the press seating area and begin chanting “Mex-i-co ... Mex-i-co.” His sombrero is so big, it almost eclipses the playing surface. We can’t see the @#$%! field, buddy. As a result, he is asked in a not-so-politely fashion to get his butt back to Tijuana.
- 3:59 p.m.: Just when you thought the joint couldn’t get any louder, it, in fact, does when the the South African team walks onto the pitch. It’s like Jimmy Page playing Dazed and Confused two inches from your earlobe.
- 4:02: p.m.: FIFA prez Sepp Blatter asks for silence so he can inform the crowd that Mandela will not be attending because of his great grand daughter’s death. For the only time all day, you can hear a pin drop. Classy folks.
- 5:09 p.m.: After being outplayed in the first half, South Africa scores. The joint goes bonkers. Except for the Mexican fans. One of them decides to give the entire section a beer shampoo, spraying his suds wildly through the air. Thanks for that.
5:36 p.m.: With just 11 minutes to go and a line of police cars circling the stadium to contain potential rioting, the cursed Mexicans score to knot the game 1-1. The stadium is stunned. So close ... and yet so far.
6:37: Back near the rental home being occupied by the ink-stained wretches from Canada, euphoric fans are out on the street in the middle of traffic gleefully slapping the hoods of passing cars.
Maybe they didn’t win. Maybe it wasn’t the victory they were longing for. But it still was a great day.
Outstanding show, South Africa.
Thanks for the memories.
