Salzburg — Some say that soccer is war by proxy, but it's rarely that. At big international tournaments such as this one, there's incredible friendliness and, for the most part, every host city is enveloped in a benign glow of congeniality.
Yet, as soon as an international soccer tournament starts, certain elements of the media - especially in Canada and the U.S. – trot out the word “hooligan” with some glee. The smallest example of “hooliganism” is then given big play.
The theme is absurdly overplayed. A lot of lazy journalism is being done and it's all utter nonsense.
The other day in the Austrian city of Klagenfurt, dozens of German and polish fans were arrested. All, according to reliable reports, were either right-wing cranks who'd infiltrated the pre-game party, or loudmouths who'd made a few nasty remarks. They were arrested so they could be hustled away and the party could continue.
Some four million soccer fans are descending on Austria and Switzerland for Euro 2008, travelling from city to city, drinking beer, eating meals, wearing silly costumes and having fun. The fact that about 100 people were arrested for being disorderly is a staggeringly good statistic, and should tell the world that not much of this so-called hooliganism actually happens.
Fact is, people drinking beer, singing and dancing, are not hooligans. They're enjoying themselves. If enjoyment of beer, singing and dancing made for hooliganism, then tens of thousands of nice, middleclass Canadians who go out for a good time on a Saturday night could be described as hooligans.
Yesterday in this ancient city of Mozart and a place that's been a cultural capital for hundreds of years, Greece played Sweden. Exactly why Greece would be at war with Sweden is anybody's guess. They're not. And there was no war of any kind here. It was soccer as it often is – a blend of chess and ballet. And away from the game, it was one astonishing occasion.
Before the game, I stood for a time on the bank of the Salzach river, watching as groups of Greek supporters gathered on one bridge over the river and, with gusto and good cheer, chanted and sang at a far larger group of Swedes gathered on another bridge a short distance away. It was vastly entertaining and affirmed everything I've felt about these tournaments – it's about the big peace, genial the party, not the small wars.
As I stood there a Greek fan came and stood beside me, chortling away at the sight. He stole a look at my press badge and said, “Canada!” He asked me if I was from Toronto and I admitted that I am. “You know Danforth?” he said. Indeed I do, I explained, and said I'd seen the wild celebrations there when Greece won Euro 2004. “That was historic,” he said. Then we both returned to watching the mass signing competition, the sound of it echoing out all over the extraordinary vista of the old town. The mass of yellow shirts for the Swedes and the blue-and white for the Greeks lent a vivid pageantry to it. The young man beside me said, “I think today is a historic day for Salzburg.” And he walked away smiling.
He was right. The colour, sound and atmosphere transformed this ancient place of baroque architecture, many churches, a Cathedral, a fortress, a monastery and a palace. It brought ebullient, joyful people and not the usual, awe-struck tourists.
And it's not just the Swedes and Greeks. There are few sights more majestic than the Oranje Army – the Dutch supporters - on the march. There can be 50,000 of them descending on a city, and all dressed head-to-toe in orange. Some mock the stereotypes associated with Holland by wearing clogs. Supporters of other countries do similar things. The Swiss will wear giant plastic slices of Swiss cheese on their heads, or plastic cow's udders. There is something very positive in these people's intuitively ironic sense of how others see them. It diminishes antagonism for a start.
In all the international soccer games I've attended, all over the world, I've never once felt frightened. There are panhandlers in Toronto who scare me more than the entire Oranje Army.
Mozart , that man of mischief and genius, would have enjoyed yesterday in his home town. He'd have adored the colour and joy. He'd have taken the notes from the singing and chanting and turned into art. He'd know how to play it.
