Good Sports
Trip Start
Oct 05, 2008
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10
12
Trip End
Ongoing
Hangzhou, China
Friday, October 19, 2007
So on the odd occasion when an event comes around that average punters are actually interested in and can afford to attend, what does a Chinese spectator do?
I pondered this as I and a new foreign teaching friend, Ed from Melbourne, made our way up to Hangzhou to watch Australia play Norway in the Womens Football World Cup. This was indeed one of those rare sporting events that was likley to entice the locals to part with their hard earned yuan and attend.
After quickly checking into our hostel, Ed and I, clad in all our green and gold glory, made our way to the Hang Dook stadium in readiness for kickoff. I was fitted out appropriately in my Socceroos jersey. The last time I wore it was at the World Cup Qualifier against Uruguay in Sydney in late 2005. That night it felt like I was wearing a peice of armour as I and 80 000 Australians, all baying for Uruguyan blood, roared the Socceroos to their first World Cup appearance in 32 years.
Tonight though, things were a bit different.
As we walked up to the stadium, we did so alone. This time we weren't part of any green and gold army, united by past failures and a hated opposition. In fact the closest thing Ed and I saw to another Australian shirt, was a bloke wearing a Geelong guernsey. Apart from him and a couple of other far flung pockets of gold high up in the stands, we were isolated in our support for the Matildas. This was to become patently obvious during the national anthem. With hands on hearts, Ed and I stood and launched into 'Advance Australia Fair' with the usual gusto, only to be horrified at the sound of our voices being accompanied by no one else's. I felt like a pop star who'd just been caught lip synching after their backing track had stopped. With nowhere to hide and thousands of curious Chinese craning their necks, trying to see who was making that hideous noise, we soldiered on, forgetting the words about half way through in typical Australian fashion. To our suprise though, not mention relief, we got a standing ovation. The Chinese love singing, especially out of tune, so they thought our performance was the bees knees. Pavarotti never got an applause so good.
This kind of summed up the evening in a way. China wasn't playing, so apart from a smattering of Australians and Norwegians, the crowd of over 30 000 was made up of wide eyed locals who were just happy to be there regardless of the result. They were there to experience an event where, among other things, you could hear woeful renditions of obscure national anthems. The occasion was fun but devoid of passion. Maybe this had a lot to do with sport itself too? After all this was womens soccer we were watching and even I couldn't name any one of the Australian players I was there to support. It may have also have had something to do with the abscense of the one thing that can inspire passion into even the most morbid of occasions. Alcohol.
In Australia, as in most other western countries, sport and alchohol are like peas and carrots. Rocking up to a sporting event and being able to buy a beer is considered a no brainer, like going to a library and being able to find books. You can imagine my disappointment then, when after finding that our seats were located conveniantly close to the kiosk, in being told by the bloke behind the counter that there was no beer. Not only was it the negative response I recieved after asking for beer, using one of the very few Chinese words I know, but it was the look of sheer bewilderment on his face that struck me. He looked as if I'd asked him for a packet of tampons.
"Beer! At a football match? What are you crazy? What on earth would you want beer for when we've got lukewarm Fanta instead?''
Such a grave situation required drastic action. Ed and I clutching passouts, quickly brushed our way up from our seats and out of the stadium in search of a solution. It came in the form of a two little glass bottles of clear liquid aquired for the princely sum of 7rmb at a small shop outside the stadium. Baijio. Like water in appearance and nail polish remover in taste, Baijio is the traditional Chinese rocket fuel; what vodka is the Russians or Tequilla to the Mexicans and at 56 % proof, it was just the tonic required to liven up the atmosphere which was almost as flat as our softdrinks.
Things started badly for the Matilda's up against their more fancied Norwegians. Norway, who won the World Cup the last time it was staged in China in 1991, had won their opening group game against Canada and were expected to top the group, which also contained Ghana. With physiques similar to their Viking ancestors, the Norwegians bossed the opening exchanges and scored an early goal to have the Matildas on the back foot. Up in the stands things were tense. Not only were Ed and I worried about proceedings on the pitch, but also about keeping away from the prying eyes of stadium security as we slipped the Baijo into our drinks.
By half time the Matilda's had worked their way back into the game and the Baijo had worked it's way into our bloodstreams. Though still a goal down, we sensed things were about to change for the better. Below us a green and gold beach ball appeared from nowhere and had the locals whooping with excitment as it bounced above the crowd. It reminded me of those hot summer afternoons and evenings watching the Australian cricket team playing in a one dayer. Beach balls in the crowd, rowdy spectators with beers in hand and of course, Australia winning. All of a sudden the passion for the contest arrived. Ed and I were instantly energised. No longer were we going to be polite, apathetic bystanders who were just pleased to be there. No, Ed and I were suddenly rabid Matilda fantics or as Ed suggested more bluntly, Aussie C#*!ts. The Chinese were about to to be exposed to a less genteel form of spectator behaviour.
