An Alternative Reality brought to us by Colin Corrigan
Uruguay
If Barry heard any more about these fucking vuvuzelas he was going to lose it completely. It was bad enough having to put up with the noise of them during the games, blaring non-stop through the pub's expensive sound system, without having to listen to the endless debates over whether they should be banned or not. Everyone had a fucking opinion. "You can't even hear the crowd," said Breda. "What do you expect them to do," said Mick from the end of the bar. "They can't ban them, it's part of their culture." "You know why they were invented?" asked Phil. "To scare the baboons out of the villages." "That's bullshit," said Mick.
"But they had to stop using them, because the noise was killing the poor monkeys," said Phil. "But they still blow them at the players!" cried Breda. "That's bullshit", said Mick. Phil suddenly burst out laughing. "You're a gas man, Mick." "That'll be nine eighty," said Barry, pushing another two pints of Carlsberg towards Phil, who had been drinking steadily since Barry had started work at half eleven that morning. When the first game of the World Cup, Mexico against the hosts South Africa, had kicked off the place was already crammed, despite it being only three o'clock on a Friday afternoon. By the time Ireland's match against Uruguay was under way the bar was so full you could hardly breathe. The crowd swayed and moaned and cheered with every kick, every header, every refereeing decision. From what Barry could see it was an especially boring game of football, and it finished scoreless. "What did you think of the match, Mick?" asked Phil. "Shite," said Mick. "Better than I expected, though."
Mexico
The Jabulani was another thing people wouldn't shut up about. The Jabulani was the new football, developed by Adidas especially for the tournament. It was rounder, apparently, than all the other balls that came before. But it moved about a lot in the air. The goalkeepers were going mad about it. One of the managers had called for a summit to discuss it. Some of the players, like Frank Lampard and Steven Gerrard, had come out in support of the Jabulani. Frank Lampard and Steven Gerrard were sponsored by Adidas.
Ireland had been winning their second match of the tournament against Mexico until a shot from distance had slipped through their goalkeeper's hands. Everyone was blaming the Jabulani.
Barry couldn't get his head around this. "Are all footballs not round?" he asked as he was wiping down the tables after last orders. "This one especially," Peter told him. "There's no stitching." "How is it held together?" asked Breda.
"The panels are thermally bonded," Peter said. "Sounds like my underpants," said Jimmy. They all laughed. "Jabulani means 'Rejoice' in Zulu," said Mick from the end of the bar.
South Africa
"If we win, we're through". "Yeah, but if Uruguay win by more goals than we do, we'll meet Argentina. Argentina will hockey us." "Did you see Messi the other night? Fucking incredible." "What happens if we draw?" "That depends on Mexico."
Barry had been listening to this conversation for four days now. Ireland were about to begin their third and deciding group match. South Africa had only one point from their first two games, but Barry had been assured that they had some decent players. They were dangerous on the break. And, as they were playing at home, they were likely to get all the refereeing decisions. The national anthem was played and those few who had seats got to their feet. When the game eventually kicked off Barry snuck out the back for a cigarette. Karen, another of the bar staff, was already outside, pulling furiously on her Marlboro light. While she was maybe a little on the heavy side, she was easily the most attractive of Barry's co-workers. "Did you see the fucking state of him in there?" she said.
The World Cup had highlighted a schism in Karen's relationship with her boyfriend Paddy. Karen was militantly anti-football. She liked to go on about how it was the opium of the people, a tool of the elites for keeping the masses in check. Paddy was now in the bar dressed in a green jumpsuit, his face painted green, and blowing every few seconds into his green vuvuzela.
For Barry, football wasn't offensive or evil, just stupid and pointless. What was offensive to him was Karen wasting her time with an idiot like Paddy, so he tried to give her a look that confirmed that he had in fact seen the 'state of him', and that he understood her disappointment. "When he's in work," she said, "I don't get plastered, dress up like an idiot, and go in and dance on the tables in his office." "Any chance you could shove that vuvuzela up his arse?" asked Barry. "I hear he's into that kind of thing." Karen looked at him over her glasses, a vague warning in her eyes. A roar of excitement rushed out at them from the bar, followed quickly by a groan of despair. Karen stubbed out her cigarette. "Let's go and break into all their houses."
South Korea
The day Ireland played South Korea in the last sixteen was the hottest day of the summer so far. Looking out his bedroom window at the blue sky and sunshine, Barry couldn't face the inevitable mayhem of another Ireland match, so he called in sick and took a DART out to Malahide. He walked along by the shore, letting his mind wander. Despite the beautiful weather, the beach was quiet. He lay down on the sand and finished the book he had started over a month before. When he got home he ordered a takeaway, opened a bottle of wine, and fell asleep watching old Seinfeld episodes on DVD.
When he went back in to work the next day, he was expecting a hard time from Gerry, his manager, but he found everybody in a buoyant mood. Ireland had apparently been 2-0 down to the Koreans with ten minutes remaining, but managed to pull off a remarkable comeback to win 3-2. The place was still buzzing with excitement, the game's finale being relived over and over. When they asked Barry what he thought of it, all he could do was smile and nod. He couldn't tell them that he hadn't even been watching.
That evening, England played Germany to decide who was going to meet Ireland in the quarter-finals. The bar was almost as packed as it had been for the Ireland games, with most people embracing the novelty of cheering on the English. England had been having, by the standards set by their own media, a disastrous tournament so far, but against the Germans they suddenly began to play much better, with some slick passing and lightning-fast counter-attacks, and in the end they won easily, three goals to one. The Korean game was suddenly forgotten, now. All minds were focussed on the task ahead.
England
When the final whistle finally blew, it called forth a deafening roar of joy and relief from the whole bar. Looking around at all the contorted faces, Barry could feel the tension being released as everyone realised that the game was, at last, finished. Ireland had led since the fourth minute, and had endured another four hours, or so it seemed, of relentless English pressure, but they had prevailed. People staggered around the bar hugging and kissing cheeks indiscriminately.
"Olé, olé olé olé," came the chorus, and soon everyone had joined in. Arms were wrapped around necks as the whole bar formed a collective embrace, bouncing up and down on several hundred knees, waving any free hands in the air.
Paddy was straight up on the table, blowing passionately into his vuvuzela, and he was quickly joined by as many revellers as the tables would hold. Karen was over chatting with them and suddenly she was dragged up alongside, laughing with only slight embarrassment as Paddy guided her through the movements of his own take on African dancing.
Jimmy was standing in the middle of the floor, punching the air. Peter and Breda were holding a large tricolour aloft, swaying to the official team song that someone had set playing through the sound system. At the end of the bar, Mick was quietly weeping.
"All drinks on the house!" roared Gerry.Everybody cheered. This was unprecedented. Behind the bar, Barry was suddenly faced with a deluge of orders – the first three people asked for cocktails."No cocktails!" called Gerry.
Everybody laughed. Barry was doing his best to serve as fast as he could, when Gerry called him and the other staff aside, and poured them all a shot of Jägermeister. This was also a first.
"To Ireland!" called Gerry as he knocked back his shot. "To Ireland!" shouted Barry, gulping his down. Karen was there beside him now, and she draped her arm across his shoulders and kissed him on the cheek. "Trap is on!" came a call from the back. "It's Trap!""The Trap is on!"
Giovanni Trapattoni, the manager of the Irish team, had appeared on the TV screens, and everybody was hushed and the music was cut off as Gerry frantically bumped the volume back up. In his broken English, the clearly emotional Italian spoke of his pride at the victory, his love of the Irish people, how he had never dreamt of making it to the semi-finals when he accepted the job two years before. Every sentence was cheered in the bar. Then he talked of how this was only one game, and he didn't want anybody getting carried away. We hadn't won anything yet. Another massive cheer. There was to be another game, a semi-final, in just four days, and it was important to be ready.
Brazil
Ireland started well against the Brazilians, their players all full of energy and commitment. Every tackle made by a player in green brought a roar of approval from the pub floor, and you could see that the South Americans were getting upset by the rough treatment. After twenty minutes Damien Duff was dribbling down the touchline when he was tripped by Dunga, the Brazilian manager. Mayhem. Dunga protested his innocence but was sent to the stands by the Spanish referee.
As the game went on, the Brazilians had more and more possession, passing the ball neatly amongst each other with their quick feet. But then, just before half time, the Irish broke down the field. Stephen Hunt, making his first start of the tournament, raced to the endline and crossed and there was Robbie Keane at the back post to bash it past Julio Cesar in goal. Pandemonium. Keane ripped off his jersey in celebration and swung it in the air. Jimmy dragged off his jersey and swung it in the air. Breda peeled off her jersey. "Olé, olé olé olé." The half time whistle was met with a massive cheer.
Everyone was thirsty. Barry pulled his pints with more energy and commitment than he'd ever shown before. As they waited for the second half to start, an eerie atmosphere settled on the bar. They were all forty-five minutes away from a World Cup Final. It was weird.
Barry had to run down and change a couple of kegs, and when he got back upstairs it was still one nil to Ireland, with half an hour to go, but Brazil were launching one attack after another on the Irish goal. Kaka was fouled on the edge of the box, and after rolling around on the grass for a while he stood up and curled the free kick into the top corner. There was no saving that. One one. And then Robinho skipped past Glen Whelan and nicked it to Fabiano. Fabiano backheeled it to Kaka. Kaka slid it across to Elano, who was in on goal. O'Shea tried a despairing lunge. Penalty. Red card. Goal. Ireland were down to ten men, and Brazil led two one.
There were still fifteen minutes left, but Ireland just couldn't get the ball. Trapattoni made his final substitution, drawing cries of derision from most of the bar. A few loyalists kept the faith and called out their support for Kevin Kilbane, but Barry could tell they didn't really believe it themselves. Shay Given booted it long, too long, and the ball sailed over the heads of the Irish attackers. Cesar came out to catch it, but misjudged the flight of the ball at the last moment and it squirmed out of his gloves. And there, suddenly, was Kevin Doyle, nicking in with his toe, and the ball rolled agonisingly over the Brazilian line. What a goal!
"Jabulani Jabulani Jabulani," sang the bar. This was unbelievable.
Extra time. Wave after wave of Brazilian attacks. Ireland defended. They tackled, kicked, lunged, dived, blocked. They battled. Kevin Kilbane, what a player! They fought like heroes. They carved their names in legend. Brazil hit the post three times, but just couldn't score. At last the ref blew it up. It was going to penalties. Lawrence, Lucio, Whelan, Fabiano, Duff, Elano, Doyle, they all scored. The pressure, impossibly, rose with each kick. Robinho stepped up to equalise for Brazil... and blasted it high over the bar! Shay Given, the Irish keeper, raced around pumping his arms in the air, assuming all the credit for the Brazilian's miss.
"Jabulani Jabulani Jabulani," sang the bar.
And now it was up to Robbie Keane. The captain. The record Irish goal scorer. One more kick, and Ireland were through to the World Cup final. In close-up on the screens, he looked suitably sombre. He looked ready. The whistle blew, and he stepped up and drove it low and hard towards the bottom corner. Cesar dived to his right and saved it. Keane clasped his hands to his face. Kaka converted the next penalty. Then Dunne kicked his wide. Alvez scored. Ireland were out.
Barry gripped the rail of the bar and squeezed his eyes shut. He felt like he'd been punched in the stomach.
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