WC2006: I Feel Like A Jelly Doughnut

BERLIN (5:05pm local time) -- The pun would make more sense if I had my camera and the picture I took of said jelly doughnut, or if you know your history.

My first full day in Berlin started off with a quick trip back to the main train station (Hauptbahnhof) to collect my bags and get help filling out the form that might get me back my camera. This also afforded me a chance to find my way to the apartment by myself, which went without a hitch.

There was a vague notion of some sort of pickup game at 6pm, so that left a good four or five hours of pointless wandering. I sought out soccer and wound up finding history, as the Brandenberg Gate is one of the mile-long Fan Fest area, with four or five monstrous screens, food, beer and souveniers. I tried kicking a ball at a target for a prize. I missed. I got my picture taken with Pelé, thanks to the same technology that let me be photographed in Mulder's office some ten years ago, the only difference being now you can send the picture to someone's phone.

Caught a fair chunk of Spain-Ukraine on the big screens, and was thankful the Ukranians managed to get beaten worse than we did. I have to wonder, though, if you grab somebody's shorts but it absolutely doesn't stop them in the least, should it still be a foul? A red card? Apparently so.

Once the scrimmage was cancelled, my host directed me to a café/beer garden on the other side of the canal that would be a good place to watch the Germany-Poland match. After a quick stop at an Internet café where my phone almost joined my camera among the missing - I swear, I need to staple my electronics to my clothes or something - I headed over. Looks like the venue wasn't any kind of secret, as there were no tables to be had. A waiter took pity on me and set up a spare table just off the main floor, in clear view of a 42" widescreen set. I ordered a beer and a pizza and settled in.

There was a certain element of high society going on at this particular restaurant. I got the sense that these were vaguely upper crust, trendy patrons surrounding me. You would think this sort of clientele would care more about being seen than the match, but everybody seemed to tune in after kickoff.

The Germans clearly wanted this match. The Poles clearly weren't going to let them have it. Only three clear chances in the first half, two going wide and one saved. The German attack picked up in the second half, even more so when a Polish player was sent off with his second yellow card. Everyone in the beer garden was taut with expectation, teased time and again with a break on goal only to have their hopes dashed by some spectacular goalkeeping.

After one impossible sequence where two amazing saves were followed by a disallowed goal on an excellent offside call, it seemed the Germans were destined to share the points. I leaned over to my host, who had joined me at halftime, and commented on how someone,somewhere, was guaranteed to write that, this time, Poland stopped Germany short of their goal. Then, suddenly, a cross, a slide into the goal area, and Germany finally punches through in stoppage time. The restaurant, the city, and the country erupt. It's tantric soccer - a seemingly endless build to a euphoric climax.