I’ve been lucky enough to see some of the world, and while taking in foreign climes have enjoyed seeking out sporting events for some local flavour.
Went to see the Blue Jay’s while in Toronto and made the hot dog vendors night when he found out I was from Leeds so he could wax lyrical about his favourite album; The Who Live At Leeds. He’d be overjoyed with my user name. The game itself was nothing special but speaking with him made the night.
Cricket in South Africa – the Newlands ground in Cape Town with Table Mountain rearing up behind it was a spectacular setting for being slowly broiled in 100+ degree heat over the course of a full day watching England lose. It was so hot some of the locals decided they’d had enough. Quitters. We may have lost the match but I had the moral victory of staying til the bitter end, despite being cooked to perfection.
Football at the Swaziland National Stadium which involved two stoppages due to power cuts, not that we saw too much of the game when it was in progress as they’re obsessed with the English Premier League there and I spent most of my time fielding questions from the crowd around us about Manchester United and David Beckham.
Then there was the US Open, for our honeymoon Mrs J and I spent a week in New York and a week in San Francisco. Mrs J isn’t as big on sport but she loves tennis so when I realised our NY stay coincided with the tennis we had to be there.
Taking in the grounds we saw a young Sloane Stephens on an outside court losing a Girls Doubles match and looking very pissed at the outcome. On Arthur Ashe we got to quarter fins; Caroline Wozniaki beat teenager Melanie Oudin followed by Roger Federer beating Robin Soderling. The 4th set tiebreak finished at ten past midnight, we were torn between wanting Soderling take it to a 5th set for a dramatic denouement and wanting Federer to win it because we were so cold sat up towards the top of the stands that we were in danger of needing to be chiseled out of our seats.
It was a great experience and so different from Wimbledon. The noise never abated even during play whereas at Wimbledon it was deathly silent during play and a reserved chatter between points. Though at Wimbledon we didn’t have to listen to Black Eyed Peas; I’ve Got A Feeling every 15 minutes as an atmosphere enhancer.
It was simple to get tickets for Flushing Meadows whereas Wimbledon involves a random ballot where you had no idea if you’ll get tickets and if you are successful what day or what court you’ll be allocated tickets for. The flipside to that being at NY we were a long way up but it did give a fantastic panoramic view looking down at the court, whereas at Wimbledon we found ourselves with a front row seat almost within touching distance of Maria Sharapova and Juan Martin Del Potro.
At Wimbledon you get the whole day onsite, we had 4 matches scheduled on our court rather than just the two at New York. No overpriced strawberries and cream at NY but similarly, no overpriced hot dogs at Wimbledon.
A lot of memorable occasions then but none quite match the greatest sporting moment I’ve witnessed. The Olympics coming to London was the chance of a lifetime and as a lover of big sporting events this was the biggest of all. Sadly, we weren’t lucky enough to get tickets for anything happening in London but we did get to Manchester for a football double header; Egypt vs New Zealand followed by Belarus vs Brazil. That was our live Olympic experience then but the Paralympics was a different matter. We got tickets for the athletics, a few rows from trackside close to the finish line and front row tickets for swimming the following day.
There’s a stereotypical view in the rest of the country of London as an unfriendly place where no one talks to one another and making eye contact while on public transport is actively discouraged. This was temporarily put on hold for the duration of the games, travelling out to the stadium everyone was smiling. Most unusual. Walking round the Olympic Park it had the feeling of a music festival, happiness and chilled out enjoyment was the order of the day.
One of the stars of the Paralympics was David Weir, a British wheelchair athlete aiming to win the 800m, 1500m, 5000m and Marathon. The night we attended the 1500m final was the last scheduled race with Weir going for gold number two of his epic quest. The stadium was filled to its 80,000 capacity, there were a couple of bronze medals for Team GB earlier in the night and while there was a good atmosphere and reception for every event we all knew what we were waiting for.
The atmosphere, the expectation and the tension ramped up come the main event. As the race began and the athletes rolled around the track a tidal wave of noise from the crowd kept pace with them. It was a constant thunderous rumble of applause and exhortation and each lap was greeted with a steady increase in the noise levels. It didn’t seem possible to ramp it up anymore but as the bell signaled the final lap Weir hit the front and the place went off, the sound was amplified all the way to 11.
The rolling wave of noise was replaced by a constant jet engine roar from all directions with the entire stadium on their feet. I’m used to football crowds where you get sudden, intense bursts of crowd noise accompanying a goal but this was something else. It had the same intensity but it just kept going, one sustained roar with no sense of what any individual shouts were, everything was subsumed into an endless urging on, it was an unidentifiable but fervent barrage.
There was no let up in the tension through the final lap, Weir maintained his lead but couldn’t create a gap, the whole field remained tantalisingly, nerve shreddingly close. The gap between Gold and Silver on crossing the line was 0.23 seconds with the first 6 all finishing within a second of the winner; Weir. That moment he crossed the line, the sound, the joy, the relief. I’ve never experienced anything like it. The noise went on and on but the pitch shifted up as encouragement turned to exultation. I turned to look at the crowd and everywhere was unbridled joy, jumping up and down, arms aloft, embracing, a flood of endorphins reflected in the childlike broad grins plastered across every face. There’s a phrase about British reserve but there was nothing reserved here, it didn’t matter their age, everyone was lost in euphoric abandonment.
In the grand scheme of things sport may not be a matter of life and death, it might only be a transitory escape from the routine but that race and the reaction of the crowd, being in the centre and part of such an ecstatic release of emotion will stay with me forever.
In writing this its the first time I’ve actually watched the race back and I still felt a knot in the pit of my stomach. The crowd noise comes through even with the commentators talking over it but being there was something else.
tnocs.com contributing author JJ live at leeds
In writing this its the first time I’ve actually watched the race back and I still felt a knot in the pit of my stomach. The crowd noise comes through even with the commentators talking over it but being there was something else. He completed the set as well. Four events and four gold medals. I may well never see another home Olympics / Paralympics (though Paris 2024 isn’t that far to get too) but it was a privilege to be there that night.
Let the author know that you liked their article with a “heart” upvote!
Views: 68
I am not a sports fan in any sense of the word, but I do enjoy going to the occasional live game in virtually any sport. (The exception is American football. Nothing can induce me to go to an American football game. I try not to talk about it too much, living as I do, in middle Tennessee where this opinion is considered blasphemy.) The enthusiasm is infectious, and the hot dogs are delicious. I envy you your Olympic experience.
I don’t care for pro football either, but I find high school football more infectious and watchable. Maybe it just brings me back to the years when some of my best friends were on the team.
I’m not a big sports guy but I am something of a Red Sox fan. It’s part of the DNA of growing up in New England.
Baseball is a strange sport. It takes a long time between anything happening, but when things do happen, they can be pretty weird. I don’t know how Devers managed to be safe at third yesterday, only to be tagged out in a rundown between third and home. Like I said, strange. Exciting, even heartbreaking, but strange.
I’m traveling this week. I was on a plane yesterday and struck up one of those innocuous conversations with the person who was shoehorned into the seat next to me. They were from Paraguay.
When they found out I was from the northeast, all they wanted to talk all about was the Red Sox.
This happens a lot. They are everywhere.
Met an English guy named Nigel in an Amsterdam bar. When he found out we were from Nashville, all he wanted to talk about was Jerry Reed.
OK.
In late 2016, I was on a bus in Liverpool on one of those touristy but incredibly satisfying Beatle tours. Soon after we departed, the host does his thing and asks everybody where they are from. I guess because I talked funny or something, when I said “the states“, everyone turn to looked at me and gave me a large “Woahhhhh.”
Very dramatically, the tour guide said “OK everybody, you know what we have to ask him… “So, kind visitor, what do you think of your new president?”
With 40 sets of British eyes fixed upon me, I thought it better to keep things light. So I said, “would it be OK if I just declared that I was a Red Sox fan?“ Hilarity ensued. Reason number #674 to love the British.
So, I’ll see your Jerry Reed and raise you a Donald Trump.
Well played, my friend.
Okay, Virgin and mt58, I knew there was a reason we seem to be on the same wavelength for a lot of things. I, too, am an ex-New Englander (Western Mass.) but born and raised a Yankee fan (my father pitched for a season in the Yankee farm league) but I won’t let that hold it against you two.
Spent many a night in the Fens but have yet to make it to the House That Ruth Built.
My first memory of seeing a game in Boston is in eighth grade as our school had a field trip to a Sahx-Twins day game.
After the game, we got seperated from our chaperones and I gathered all my classmates and herded them to our bus.
Several intoxicated middle aged fans were ogling the young ladies from our group, so I stood in front of them and said as loudly as I could “Gentlemen, it’s been a great day for a ballgame but I’m sure your lovely wives will be expecting you home soon as I’m sure dinner will be waiting. Please us get on our bus so we can get home to our families”
After some grumbling, the group dispersed and we boarded our ride.
Katy, one of the prettiest girls in the class, came up to me and said “Dance, that was a nice thing you did and may I sit with you on the way home.”
She slept on my shoulder all the way home and, for one day, I was the knight in shining armor.
When my daughter and I were in Ireland a few years ago, every time we mentioned that we were from Tennessee, someone immediately asked if we had brought any Jack Daniel’s with us.
In a bar (I really don’t spend all my time traveling in bars) in Poland, we saw a chandelier made of Jack Daniels bottles. We didn’t tell anyone we’re from Tennessee, but I wondered why they weren’t vodka bottles.
I don’t usually talk about where I’m from, but our Irish tour was all B&B’s. All of the hosts were super friendly, and they all asked where we were from. I still have no idea whether they like JD all that much, or whether that was the only thing they knew of from Tennessee.
No Dolly?
Sadly, no Dolly.
JD bottles are quite attractive with their distinctive necks, and are probably exotic in Poland, compared to vodka. I, on the other hand, have a chandelier made from sandblasted Bombay Sapphire Gin bottles in my dining room, and it looks totally fabu. No-one’s guessed their origin yet.
Um, no words seem to have appeared there. Very strange. (Note to the administrator — this happened after I wrote something, realized I wasn’t logged in, copied the text, logged in, refreshed the page, and pasted the text. The font looked weird in the box.)
What I had pasted was this (assuming it works; trying ctrl+shift+v this time):
JD bottles are quite attractive with their distinctive necks, and are probably exotic in Poland, compared to vodka. I, on the other hand, have a chandelier made from sandblasted Bombay Sapphire Gin bottles in my dining room, and it looks totally fabu. No-one’s guessed their origin yet.
I appreciate the detailed error log, mumchance. The issue probably was a combination of not first being logged in, and then some weirdness with the paste buffer. I’ll work on this, and I appreciate that you didn’t give up!
You’re welcome — can you tell that I used to work in software testing?
I promise to make you proud! 🙂
^
(Admin note from mt58: If you have trouble seeing your text when you are pasting, try using “Paste using plain text” ; this should work. Sorry for the bug – I’ll work on it.)
I spent 3 months in Swaziland in 2004/05 volunteering on a conservation project. Questions about English football came up wherever I went from the locals. On the other side though there was a German guy with us who when the talk turned to music I asked him about Rammstein. He got very annoyed as he said the only German band anyone from other countries knew about was Rammstein and he was sick of having to talk about them. We got on pretty well but we avoided discussion of music after that, he was quite mild mannered but he obviously wasn’t a Rammstein fan.
Something similar happened to me in the 1980s. I was in Germany, and as always, music is an international icebreaker.
It was around the time that “99 Luftballoons” was popular in the United States.
I found myself in a conversation with a native, and I asked if Nena was as popular in Germany as in my homeland.
I learned my lesson after getting a dressing down about how they were not a real band.
Going forward, I think I’ll just make like Switzerland, and go for the most neutral musical act I can think of.
At least you didn’t get the country wrong and say someone like Taco or Falco (or another act that doesn’t end in -co).
“Ladies and gentlemen…put your hands together and let’s give it up for…”
“PETCO!”
Der.
Der Hast.
Der Hast Rammstein.
Oh I would’ve been pummeled cause I could’ve done that all day….. lol
There seems to be a law in baseball that the most exciting thing to happen in the game is while you’re in line for something. Two hours of not much, and the triple play happens while you’re waiting for garlic fries.
College football fan here… Having lived in Florida my whole life (and 11 of my first 18 years on this earth in Gainesville), I didn’t have much choice in the matter. My parents surely would’ve disowned me.
Although I gotta say (and probably sound like a grumpy old man doing it), the game just isn’t the same as it used to be. I liked it better back in the days when there were more conferences than bowl games, and you could spend the entire off-season arguing who the “real” national champs were.
If it makes you feel better Aaron, I sold every student ticket of mine to UF home games all 4 years I was there. The FSU/UF ticket alone would pay for 2 years of my season tickets. I finally went to my one and only home game as a UF student my senior year – the homecoming game. Figured I should at least go once!
Football is no joke for many areas around the US, and at all levels. I would joke my senior year of HS (the only year I attended in Florida) that it would take me actually attending one of the universities to finally learn which school/city/mascot/colors were FSU and UF, I could care less. (75% of my relatives are Penn State grads, that was the only school that mattered as far as I knew!)
I learned pretty quick you don’t kid around with Florida college football. Lol
My observations of college football stems from working the parking lot security for home games (arena staff manned the lot security). There were various reserved parking lots around campus, with the cost going up the closer you got to the stadium. But these were not daily parking – if you wanted a parking spot on campus, you paid for a season pass. The cheapest? $1000 for the season to be guaranteed a spot in a field in a dorm complex about a 15 minute walk from the stadium. It was in this lot we encountered some very irate Alabama Crimson Tide fans in their RV trying to park there, and not wanting to hear it was reserved parking. The driver kept yelling how much to park, and myself and another worker were like, got a grand? Cause that’s what these people paid. And then they threatened to drive over us anyway. Ahh, Southeastern Conference football – such passionate fans.
Anyway, oddly enough, after that weekend, I got reassigned to the Bull Gator lot for the rest of the season, and all the following season. The Bull Gators were the elite alumni, with their blingy custom RV’s and coach buses that got the privilege of parking in the lot immediately next to the main gate to the stadium. Prices in that lot started at 15k a season I believe it was. It was the greatest gig there – the road to the lot was closed by campus police, so the only vehicles coming in there were Bull Gator folks anyway (or the rented smoked BBQ caterers that got hired for tailgates). Main stadium/suites entrance was about 50 feet from where I sat. All morning, it was just endless people-watching for me, a front row seat to the madness of Saturday college football. That was alot of fun.
Ah yes, if my math is correct you were there during the first half of the Spurrier era, when Gator football finally solidified into something consistently exciting. Selling your tickets was a lucrative decision indeed. My buddy and I were lucky to enough to show up at the stadium the afternoon of the 1997 UF-FSU game and score a pair of tickets in the student section for under $100 (a bargain considering that year’s matchup more than lived up to the hype…Spurrier swapped out quarterbacks between almost every play, and UF spoiled FSU’s shot at a national title for a second straight year. Loudest game I ever went to).
And yeah, SEC fans are the worst-and/or-best (depending who you ask).