STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS: FC DALLAS v METROSTARS (Part II)

PART II: HOT HOT HEAT, RED PLASTIC HATS, AND A GAME FOR THE AGES


Around 4:00 am I had plunked down my sleeping bag on what was probably the only patch of non-soccer-field vegetation within a mile radius of PHP, and was hunkered down nicely, sleeping like the proverbial log. All the sudden, around 8:00 in the morning, I have this awful nightmare. I dreamt there was a mad Scot running around the tailgate site, draped in a huge blanket bearing the crest of Liverpool FC, singing "You'll Never Walk Alone" at the top of his lungs.


I opened my eyes, blinked away the glare of the early morning sun, and found that my nightmare was no nightmare at all, but was actually Jonno. He was, in fact, running around in his Liverpool blanket, singing. It was without a doubt one of the most surreal moments of my entire life. You know how when you're sleeping in a place that is not your home, it will sometimes take you a few moments to figure out where you are? Imagine that happening, and then realizing that not only are you not at home, you're actually in a sleeping bag, in a parking lot, being serenaded by a man in a kilt. It was like some kind of bizarre soccer Woodstock moment.


So now I'm awake, but, having played soccer the night before, out-of-shape and without having warmed up or stretched, actually standing up presented a bit of a challenge. Everything hurt. Every. Thing. Hurt. I felt like someone had taken a hammer to me during the night. Thank the good Lord that within moments of getting vertical, Gordon handed me a cup of coffee and some other angel handed me four ibuprofen. I sat down, sipped the coffee, let the ibuprofeny goodness wash into my system, and enjoyed the morning breeze.


It may well have been one of the finest moments of my life. Pure tranquility. Surrounded by friends, beautiful weather, the smell of bacon in the air . . . does it get much better than that?


And then, my friends, it started to get hot.


Do you remember in the film "Biloxi Blues" when Eugene first gets off the train in Mississippi? "It's hot. It's Africa Hot. Tarzan couldn't take this kind of hot". Yeah, it was like that. And this unrelenting, wicked, oppressive, damnable, ferocious, kick-you-in-the-teeth hot frickin' HOT became the story of most of the rest of the day. Had I not discovered a Del's Lemonade stand on Main Street in Frisco, I don't believe I'd have made it.


I don't want to belabor the point, but, damn it was hot out there. All day, under the shady canopies, waiting for breezes to grace us for 10 or 20 seconds every 45 minutes or so. Trying to stay hydrated, going to your car to sit in the AC for a while, having to use the bathroom but dreading the oven-like porta potties.


It was great.


And, what's more, I'd do it again at the drop of a hat, but not without some industrial strength fans and a large contingent of those water-mist dealies that you see at the state fair.


About 5:00, like a tribe of soccer-loving Bedouins, we pulled up stakes and moved the whole Tailgate about 100 yards north (or maybe south, I get mixed up), closer to the stadium, to what will be the regular Inferno Tailgate site from now on. I guess they needed the parking spaces, or something, but at any rate, it was a feat of logistical improvisation not seen since the Evacuation of Saigon in '75.


Once the new Tailgate site was set up, the rest of the tailgaters started arriving. By this I mean the normal kind of tailgater: sensible folk, who actually had spent the night before in comfortable beds, and who had spent the day indoors, in air conditioning.


Sissies, essentially, is what I'm saying.


At this point, more animals were consumed, more liquids were quaffed, and special guests started flowing through the tent city. Valerie Simmons, whose amazing and brave struggle with cancer was the inspiration for the fundraising aspect of the weekend, arrived with her beautiful family. She was received like the hero she is, and the love present had an actual palpable presence. You could feel it as plainly as you could feel the wind picking up from the north, sending much welcomed cool air through the canopies.


Or maybe the wind was picking up from the south. I get mixed up.


Players Jeff Cassar and Bobby Rhine came by; classy gentlemen both. They seemed genuinely gratified at the support. Good people make good organizations. The players on this team exemplify that idea.


Around 6:00, a good hour and a half before kickoff, I couldn't stand it anymore and decided to head into the stadium. I just had to see it. I had to soak it all in, walk around, smell the smells, hear the noises, everything.


Walking in the North Gate (or south gate, I get mixed up), the first thing one saw was that the Hunt Sports Group has a sense of humor. The first 7500 fans through the doors were given red hard hats, with the PHP logo and the words "Pardon Our Dust" on the side. That was great. I'll treasure mine always.


And then, walking around for the first time, I can only sum up what I saw with one word: Perfect. It was perfect. I know technically it wasn't perfect, because it was only 95% finished, but that's not what I saw. I saw perfection. A stunning, beautiful, living monument to the game I love in the country I love.


It's perfect. In "Field of Dreams", when Shoeless Joe asks Ray Kinsella "Hey, is this heaven?" and Ray replies, "No, it's Iowa", Shoeless Joe looks around at the field and says "Funny, seems like heaven". It was that kind of moment for me. I've a feeling I'm not alone, either.


Walking around concourse with TexasArsenal, we schmoozed with the hoi-polloi (Mr. Hunt, Mr. Garber, all the biggies), were interviewed by the Frisco Community TV channel (Which neither of us get, even though TA actually lives in Frisco). Oh yeah, and I got yet another Del's Lemonade. It's nectar of the gods, I'm telling you.


Oh, and had I known that the restrooms in the stadium were going to be air-conditioned to about 60 degrees, I might have snuck in and tailgated there all day. It speaks to the severity of a Texas Summer that the most comfortable place I had found all day was the mens room at Pizza Hut Park.


One of the Inferno Drummers didn't feel like drumming, so I got my shot at the big time, drumming during the whole game. Well, most of the game; my tired 40 year old body started to wear out by the start of the second half, and I deferred to one of the younger drummers and just watched and yelled until the final whistle. I've always wanted to be a drummer. I'm not even sure if I kept time or not, but it was a blast.


It is a little melancholy, in retrospect, to realize how much I'm missing by not being a regular in the Inferno. I can't tell you how much I wish I was. I need to start checking on jobs in Dallas. I have no life whatsoever here in Oklahoma . . . it may be time to make a move.


Oh yeah, the match . . . it's almost an afterthought in the telling of this crazy weekend. The match started off like a dream. Good possession, confident play, two incredible finishes by El Pescadito. The second goal was a GOTY candidate if I ever saw one. He was about six yards out, right in front of goal; Ronnie fires in the low, hard cross. Carlos lets it slide between his legs and then pops it with the back of his right heel as it goes by. Tony Meola never saw it coming. It was beautiful.


What was just as beautiful, however, was that even though the goal took place on the opposite side of the stadium from the Inferno, we were able to see it, in replay, absolutely vividly on the two HUGE jumbotrons on the far side. I'm stunned by that technology. There we were, more than 100 yards away, and the replay on the screen was as clear as the television in your living room. It was incredible. The replay was shown after play had already re-started, and to hear the crowd appreciate the goal for a second time was fantastic. The roar was almost as loud as that from the actual goal itself.


And, speaking of noise, it was beautiful as well. I've never, ever heard a Dallas crowd that loud. Not only was the attendance (16,750) twice the normal number, the acoustics of the small stadium, in contrast to the cavernous Cotton Bowl, magnified the voices splendidly. What an atmosphere. When I got home Sunday morning, even though I was exhausted, I turned on the Tivo replay of the game, mostly just to hear what the crowd noise was like on TV. When the inferno was singing . . . it was almost (dare I say it?) . . . European. Words cannot express what it's like to hear that from an American crowd. It's like a dream.


Soccer-wise, the second half was a flaming disappointment. We had a lot of chances to score, but Tony Meola, I must grudgingly admit, kept the MetroStars in the game, and Youri Djorkaeff got a brace to give those Yankee carpetbaggin' swine a 2-2 draw in the end. Djorkaeff is class. I wish he played for us. Ronnie and Youri together in the midfield, along with Simo? I gotta write a letter to Santa Claus (and start being good, I suppose), because that's what I'd like for Christmas. I don't care if he is 58 years old, the man can play!


Truly, though, even a draw couldn't dampen the high spirits of the evening. Oddly enough. all four goals were scored on the far end of the field from us. I was just dying for an FC Dallas goal on our end, and having one of the boys do a "Lambeau Leap" into the Inferno. Ah, well, there's time enough for that in the future. Which, as they say, is bright.


I'm sure there's more I meant to mention, but, I'm telling you, it's Tuesday morning as I write this, and I'm just now feeling like I've recovered from the weekend. And Texgator is one impatient son-of-a-gun, and I'd hate to incur his wrath further by delaying the posting of this epic epistle. So that, as they say, is that. What a weekend, what a stadium, what a supporters group, what a team.


One last thing: thanks to all the Inferno folks, who always make me feel welcome and like one of the family whenever I venture south to the promised land. You are a great, great group of people, and I love you all. I'd start going through names, but then I'd forget someone and blah blah blah. But you know who you are.


That's all for this week. See you Saturday for the Revs.