There are certain sounds, shrill, piercing, relentless, that nothing can subdue: sounds that cut through the air with relentless force, aurally incessant hammer blows that prey viciously on the hearing. The teething child on an aeroplane. The mournful howl of the troubled canine. Fingernails across a chalk board. Danny Morrison. And then, in its only particular class, there is the vuvuzela, that simple plastic weapon of the South African soccer fan, a crude trumpet that could arouse a migraine in Beethoven.

Anyone who’s watched soccer in South Africa will know the raw and terrifying power of the vuvuzela, a discordant orchestra providing a brutal soundtrack to any local ground. And as anyone who’s ever watched local soccer with the cloying cloud of the previous night’s indulgence hanging heavy on the head (if you’re Kevin McCallum, this is default setting at all soccer matches; indeed, all sporting occasions), there are few more punishing experiences than being greeted by a fusillade of vuvuzelas as you enter a ground, knowing that for the better part of two hours, they’re set to torment you.

Thus Sunday’s soccer in Pretoria, played out to the dim thud of Saturday night’s Durban celebration, could have been a searing experience, as more vuvuzelas than I dreamed existed joined forces with football’s most colourful, flamboyant, drum-thumping fans, to produce a cacophony of sound that rivalled the riot of colour in jolting the senses. Instead, a remarkably joyous weekend of sport (this column has declared a moratorium on discussing anything remotely connected to cricket, Pakistan, or choking violently, for the remainder of the month, other than to congratulate Kallis, Parnell and De Villiers on deservedly making the team of the tournament), finished on a note of double triumph, for Brazil and for South Africa — and I walked out of Loftus having seen my dislike of the vuvuzela simmer to tolerance, and then to benign acceptance, and finally, to my retrospective astonishment, something almost approaching enjoyment.

To that in a moment, first, the double triumph. I found myself sitting directly behind the Italian goal in the first half, which made for front row coverage of Buffon’s desperate attempts to hold a marauding Brazil at bay. The added width of the Loftus pitch gave greater scope for Brazil’s midfield and attack to tear the Italians to ribbons, and with one or two defter touches and a lesser man in the Italian goal, it could easily have been six by half-time. Brazil were irrepressible; that said, it was as poor a 45 minutes as I’ve ever seen an Italian team produce, the midfield overrun, and the defence reduced to static chess pieces chasing samba shadows, as the Brazilian drums grew louder and more celebratory across Pretoria.

That Italy, a couple of key tactical changes, produced such a defiant second half, illustrated both the character of the team, and the depths to which they’d sunk in the first half, but Brazil had slowed down markedly after the break, the destruction complete in 45 intoxicating minutes of football. Thursday’s semifinal might not be pretty for South Africans, but watching Brazil in this sort of mood, playing football to drool over, is a privilege, and the Spain-Brazil final that looms makes Sunday night at Ellis Park one of the year’s hottest sporting tickets.

But if the more immediate triumph was Brazil’s, then South Africa takes an equally deserved bow on Sunday’s evidence. The damning whisper campaign led by Australian John O’Neill, aimed at undermining our hosting ability and shifting the World Cup Down Under, at times gathered damaging momentum, not helped by a nation prone to self-criticism and self-doubt. Anyone who was at Loftus on Sunday would have had any last lingering doubt removed: from the efficient park and ride system manned by smiling volunteers, to a smooth entrance and exit from the ground, the Confederations Cup experience was, minor catering issues aside, faultless. The next World Cup, Mr. O’Neil, is in excellent hands.

And it’s set for an atmosphere only a South African carnival might match; even then, capturing the blend of African and Latin celebration will be impossible to mirror. And therein lies my reborn attitude to the vuvuzela, thanks to an unexpected baptism. The constant booming blended in with a raucous crowd, Mexican waves and football delight creating a cauldron of delighted football worship. It was on the way out, though, that my epiphany played out: the simple, beautiful sight of two Brazilians, large drums hanging of dancing shoulders, banging out an hypnotic beat that played off four vuvuzelas, in perfect chorus, as fans in every colour, and of every colour, shuffled, swayed and weaved around them with assorted ability, but unqualified enthusiasm.

It was everything that was good about football, about sport, about South Africa. It sealed a night of football fantasy — unless you happened to be an Italian footballer — and it ratcheted up my already manic excitement for what lies just under a year ahead of us. There will still be times when the blast of a vuvuzela reduces me to homicidal rage, I have no doubt, but at the football, as a uniquely South African tribute to the beautiful game, I reckon it’s alright. I am more convinced than ever that we’re going to host one hell of a World Cup.

  • Contact Dan at dan@metropolis.co.za


    RSS
    Digg
    de.li.cious
    facebook
    MORE FEATURES
    Vintage start to the Open Written in a castle with limited connectivity, Dan Nicholl talks up the Scottish experience.
    Is the Tri-Nations needed? (c) AFP iafrica.com columnist Jon Harris is struggling to get excited about the 2009 Tri-Nations.
    How to beat the 'bonk' (c) AFP With riders burning 10,000 calories per day, the right fuel is essential to avoid the 'bonk'.


    Print this page
    Send this article to a friend