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World Cup diary part 6
Jun. 22nd, 2006 11:55 am21 June: 21 blokes and Ali Daei
Thanks to the joys of the internet, a ‘borrowed’ wireless connection and the endless patience required to hit ‘refresh’ every two seconds for about 20 minutes, I managed to buy a ticket for Angola v Iran in Leipzig the day before the game. FIFA’s ticket website is efficient if frustrating, with yellow ticket images for returns appearing but leading to nothing as someone else jumps in and snaffles them before you do. But patience is, apparently, a virtue sometimes and not only did I eventually get a ticket, but it was one of the small number of €35 ones. A bargain.
The only difficult decision the day held was how to get to Leipzig. It’s only just over an hour away from Berlin by train, but the problem would be getting back in time to watch Holland play Argentina in the evening. The fast trains are only every two hours, with the 6pm being too early to catch, the 8pm cutting it a bit fine, the 10pm involving missing half the game, and the midnight getting back rather late and meaning I’d be spending the evening alone in Leipzig. So I decided to drive. After the mileage I’ve been racking up on this trip, what’s another 250-mile round trip?
It turned out to be the right decision. It was an easy run down (110mph is a Good Thing), and I parked at the park & ride by a tram stop near the exhibition centre, just off the motorway in the north of the city so well placed for a quick exit. They were running special trams through to the stadium, too, which only took about 20 minutes. The ticket centre at the stadium once again proved every bit as efficient as the website (without the added frustrations), and ticket in paw I was off to the match.
The Leipzig stadium was completely rebuilt a couple of years ago, on the site of the old Communist arena. Parts of it have been left for posterity – a tower and the main staircases leading up to it, and some of the old wooden bench seating has been left in place on the grassy banks behind the new stands to show how it used to be. The new stadium looks like it was dropped into place by aliens; it was essentially built for political reasons so there was another World Cup venue in the old east. And there are stairs. Everywhere. After the main staircase, there’s another long L-shaped one taking fans to the top of the hill, and then a series of fourth ones dropping them down onto the main concourse behind the lower tier.
Home to fourth-division FC Sachsen Leipzig, the stadium is unlikely see the big crowds it deserves very often. Curved roofs cover the two-tiered long sides, dropping down to flat tops on the single tiers behind the goals. The sides of the stands are open to allow the wind to circulate, and the whole ambience was reminiscent of Porto’s Dragão stadium. On a lovely hot, sunny day, the breeze was welcome. In the depths of winter, the howling gale would be perishing.
The seats that run around the ground in blue-and-turquoise ripples filled up slowly. Without one of the teams that has a huge travelling support in town, the atmosphere had been subdued, though there were still plenty of white Iranian shirts and a few red Angolan ones milling around. For once, the match wasn’t a sell-out. The gaps weren’t in the areas reserved for neutrals, though, they were in the fan areas where segregation decreed that the unsold tickets couldn’t be flogged off to just anyone. Otherwise, given the trouble I’d had buying my ticket, I’m sure it would have been full. As ever, there were plenty of England flags. Slogan of the day, on one of them: ‘Vorsprung durch metatarsals’. Well, it amused me.
The match proved the point that games featuring two unfancied sides needn’t be rubbish. OK, so it might have been 21 blokes I’ve never heard of and Ali Daei, but it was end-to-end stuff, with both sides creating plenty of chances. After about 20 minutes we were treated to the rather surreal sight of two Angolan players being stretchered off from opposite halves of the field. One hobbled back on, the other had been done for by a chunky challenge and didn’t. Although it remained 0-0 at half time, there could easily have been several goals.
Despite being thin on numbers, the fans managed to create a great atmosphere, with the Iranians blowing hooters and the Angolans at the other end beating drums. The drums beat faster 15 minutes into the second half, when striker Flavio buried a cracking header to give Angola the lead. The hooters got to respond quarter of an hour later, when Sohrab Bakhtiarizadeh (wouldn’t want to pay for that to be printed on the back of a replica shirt!) headed a response into the Angolan goal. The score remained 1-1, I lost track of the number of yellow cards, and the crowd streamed away having been well entertained.
And my plan to get back for the evening game worked beautifully. I was straight on to a tram, there was no traffic jam leaving the car park, the autobahn was mercifully clear, and I was in Berlin by 8pm. Plenty of time to spare to get to an Irish bar (yes, I know) for the evening’s entertainment, yet again wearing the old orange Wednesday away shirt I’d promised my Dutch friends I’d wear to watch them play. If the potential quarter-final between us comes off, I might have to revisit that promise...
Photos are here
Thanks to the joys of the internet, a ‘borrowed’ wireless connection and the endless patience required to hit ‘refresh’ every two seconds for about 20 minutes, I managed to buy a ticket for Angola v Iran in Leipzig the day before the game. FIFA’s ticket website is efficient if frustrating, with yellow ticket images for returns appearing but leading to nothing as someone else jumps in and snaffles them before you do. But patience is, apparently, a virtue sometimes and not only did I eventually get a ticket, but it was one of the small number of €35 ones. A bargain.
The only difficult decision the day held was how to get to Leipzig. It’s only just over an hour away from Berlin by train, but the problem would be getting back in time to watch Holland play Argentina in the evening. The fast trains are only every two hours, with the 6pm being too early to catch, the 8pm cutting it a bit fine, the 10pm involving missing half the game, and the midnight getting back rather late and meaning I’d be spending the evening alone in Leipzig. So I decided to drive. After the mileage I’ve been racking up on this trip, what’s another 250-mile round trip?
It turned out to be the right decision. It was an easy run down (110mph is a Good Thing), and I parked at the park & ride by a tram stop near the exhibition centre, just off the motorway in the north of the city so well placed for a quick exit. They were running special trams through to the stadium, too, which only took about 20 minutes. The ticket centre at the stadium once again proved every bit as efficient as the website (without the added frustrations), and ticket in paw I was off to the match.
The Leipzig stadium was completely rebuilt a couple of years ago, on the site of the old Communist arena. Parts of it have been left for posterity – a tower and the main staircases leading up to it, and some of the old wooden bench seating has been left in place on the grassy banks behind the new stands to show how it used to be. The new stadium looks like it was dropped into place by aliens; it was essentially built for political reasons so there was another World Cup venue in the old east. And there are stairs. Everywhere. After the main staircase, there’s another long L-shaped one taking fans to the top of the hill, and then a series of fourth ones dropping them down onto the main concourse behind the lower tier.
Home to fourth-division FC Sachsen Leipzig, the stadium is unlikely see the big crowds it deserves very often. Curved roofs cover the two-tiered long sides, dropping down to flat tops on the single tiers behind the goals. The sides of the stands are open to allow the wind to circulate, and the whole ambience was reminiscent of Porto’s Dragão stadium. On a lovely hot, sunny day, the breeze was welcome. In the depths of winter, the howling gale would be perishing.
The seats that run around the ground in blue-and-turquoise ripples filled up slowly. Without one of the teams that has a huge travelling support in town, the atmosphere had been subdued, though there were still plenty of white Iranian shirts and a few red Angolan ones milling around. For once, the match wasn’t a sell-out. The gaps weren’t in the areas reserved for neutrals, though, they were in the fan areas where segregation decreed that the unsold tickets couldn’t be flogged off to just anyone. Otherwise, given the trouble I’d had buying my ticket, I’m sure it would have been full. As ever, there were plenty of England flags. Slogan of the day, on one of them: ‘Vorsprung durch metatarsals’. Well, it amused me.
The match proved the point that games featuring two unfancied sides needn’t be rubbish. OK, so it might have been 21 blokes I’ve never heard of and Ali Daei, but it was end-to-end stuff, with both sides creating plenty of chances. After about 20 minutes we were treated to the rather surreal sight of two Angolan players being stretchered off from opposite halves of the field. One hobbled back on, the other had been done for by a chunky challenge and didn’t. Although it remained 0-0 at half time, there could easily have been several goals.
Despite being thin on numbers, the fans managed to create a great atmosphere, with the Iranians blowing hooters and the Angolans at the other end beating drums. The drums beat faster 15 minutes into the second half, when striker Flavio buried a cracking header to give Angola the lead. The hooters got to respond quarter of an hour later, when Sohrab Bakhtiarizadeh (wouldn’t want to pay for that to be printed on the back of a replica shirt!) headed a response into the Angolan goal. The score remained 1-1, I lost track of the number of yellow cards, and the crowd streamed away having been well entertained.
And my plan to get back for the evening game worked beautifully. I was straight on to a tram, there was no traffic jam leaving the car park, the autobahn was mercifully clear, and I was in Berlin by 8pm. Plenty of time to spare to get to an Irish bar (yes, I know) for the evening’s entertainment, yet again wearing the old orange Wednesday away shirt I’d promised my Dutch friends I’d wear to watch them play. If the potential quarter-final between us comes off, I might have to revisit that promise...
Photos are here
