Goodbye World Cup, Good riddance vuvuzelas

The World Cup took my hearing and might haven given me cancer. It was totally worth it.

Last night, I watched the final match with a coworker, C, her partner Paul, 17 of their friends and a couple hundred crazy fans at a bar called the Mexican Shebeen. The only thing Mexican about the place that I could see was that they served "tortilla with vegetables/chicken." The shebeen (formerly the term for an illegal bar in the townships; now most are legal, but still informal) part, though, seemed pretty accurate. The walls were covered with corrugated metal, giving the appearance of being inside of a shack; the seats were overturned, empty beer crates; and the tables were either picnic tables or just a piece of wood balanced on top of a stack of overturned, empty beer crates. There was always at least one person around me smoking, creating a haze that seemed ideal for concealing illegal activity.

Despite the lack of light and the clouds of smoke, there was no about who supported who. Individuals painted the flag of hir chosen team - Spain or Holland - on hir cheek and some, for those super hardcore fans, even painted hir entire face. Spanish and Dutch flags were worn as capes. People wore jerseys of red and yellow and scarves of orange and white. Personally, I donned an orange and black hat with joker-style cones with bells at the end sticking out of it. I found the Dutch fans to be more creative and committed when it came to their costumes. There were a couple of people in orange jump suits. Some wore neon orange afroesque wigs. But I could be biased because I was rooting for the Netherlands. I could also be biased because I was surrounded by Spanish fans, most of whom I wanted to punch. But there was one man who really stood out among all the others. Let's call him Dick.

Dick supported Spain. Dick had the red and yellow stripes of Spain's flag painted across the width of his face, from ear-across the nose-to ear. Dick had his hair styled like David Villa and drew a perfectly triangular black soul patch centered under his lower lip.  Dick waved a full-size Spanish flag over anyone around him and from time-to-time created an unnecessary cloth door with the flag in the poorly lit, disorganized, small walkway next to our table. Dick, instead of walking around the table to get from one side to the other, walked across the table, often using me to balance himself and causing pieces of the ceiling to fall like a dusting of snow on everyone and everything below him. Dick, at one point, decided to stand next to me on the bench where I was sitting and blow his vuvuzelas while doing a little dance, which resulted in him almost falling on top of me and hitting me in the head with his butt. All of this would have been manageable if Dick didn't have a vuvuzela. But he did. If I blame anyone for my current hearing problems, it is Dick. Dick blew his stupid vuvuzela almost constantly for five hours. In or very near my ears. I take back everything positive I ever said about vuvuzelas. Dick ruined them - and my auditory system - for me.

By the end of the night, most of the tables in the bar were covered with empty bottles of Savanna Dry (hard cider) and Miller Genuine Draft. As the game wore on, people became more drunk and less patient for someone to score. There was one particularly stellar individual - not Dick - who decided that incessant banging on the metal walls was a useful way to expel some energy. When Spain finally scored and won the game, the place erupted. Someone spilled beer on me. A drunk man stood on an unstable table, which broke, causing him to fall and kick me in the leg on his way down.

What a glorified way to celebrate the beautiful game.

After the game, C, Paul, and I walked to Cape Town's party central - Long Street. The original plan was to go to Waiting Room, a hipster bar that I visited on my first time in South Africa with the Children's Table, with some of their friends, but we instead ended up at a pizza place. This was just fine by me. The three of us shared a pie and then squeezed our way back through the crowds of crying Dutch fans and euphoric Spanish ones to Paul's car.

Despite this not being the first World Cup game I watched in a bar, it was definitely the most fun. I can say without hesitation that I enjoyed the World Cup the way the World Cup was meant to be enjoyed, at least by drunk American standards.