Turkish writer Orhan Pamuk, winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature, talked to Germany’s Der Speigel about soccer in advance of Euro 2008.  He grew up in Istanbul a fan of Fenerbahce:

SPIEGEL: Why Fenerbahçe?

Pamuk: It’s like religion. There is no “why.”

Here’s Pamuk remembering watching the games as a child.  Can you tell he’s a writer?’

The image that I remember most of all is of the Fenerbahçe players storming into the stadium before kickoff. They were called the canaries because of their yellow jerseys. It was as if they, like canaries, were fluttering into the stadium out of a hole. I loved it. It was poetry.

Pamuk is less of a fan these days, perhaps not surprising, given his difficulties with Turkish nationalists, such as nearly being prosecuted for “insulting Turkishness” for comments about the Armenian genocide.

Pamuk: My childhood proved to me that there could be no enjoyment of football without community. But it becomes difficult when this community is having problems with its identity. That’s when we experience all possible forms of nationalist exaggeration. And there are many of those in Turkey today. Our relationship with the European Union has not been resolved, nor has our relationship with the Kurds.

SPIEGEL: Has football alienated you?

Pamuk: I still support my club, but it must be through some sort of Pavlovian response I have when I see the colors of Fenerbahçe. Even though national trainer Fatih Terim is an ultra-nationalist, I will of course support the Turkish team during the European Championship, just as you will support the German team. But am I a fan? No.

I wonder what he made of the fabulous Turkish run in the tourney, the scrappy underdogs who specialized in come-from-behind victories.  That’s a team one could root for.  A final thought from Pamuk, which in its own way sums up what I mean by the “five billion person party:”

SPIEGEL: What can one learn from football?

Pamuk: A lot. For example, that there are other countries and people of different skin colors, people who are our equals and whom we should respect. Football can teach us that although a team’s individual players may be weak, it can still be successful if it uses common sense. Or that we should not attack anyone physically when we suffer a depressing defeat. And one more thing: If French President (Nicolas) Sarkozy says that Turkey is not part of Europe, we can say that Fenerbahçe, as an international club, has been part of Europe for 50 years.

Over at Pitch Invasion there’s a nice post by Richard Whittall acknowledging that ESPN’s coverage of the Euros was, you know, actually pretty decent:

ESPN also offered live, uninterrupted coverage of every game from start to finish. No ads for Ford suddenly covering half the screen during the attacking build-up play, no giant banners appearing from nowhere to advertise some horrific sitcom to air later that night, no tape delay, and no presenter trying to serve as interpreter for an audience presumed not to know or care about the sport.

This coverage was somewhat startling to regular soccerheads like myself, used to watching Euro games, often with smooth, skilled British commentators.  As Whittall notes, part of the problem with usual World Cup coverage from the ESPN/ABC family has been the need to explain the sport to the uninitiated.  Dave O’Brien’s never-ending “up close and personal” stories about the players, for example, were an attempt to give viewers a rooting interest in players they were presumed to have never heard of before.  The result was that serious American soccer fans felt like they were being talked down to — at best.  At worst, they simply flipped over to Spanish language coverage in an attempt to avoid the annoying prattling of the announcers who seemed so clueless.  (Cue a dozen bigsoccer threads of complaints.)

Whittall, perhaps because he’s a Canadian, thinks that a lot of the problem with previous coverage was all the nationalism involved as well:

This unnatural, flag-waving attempt to Americanize a game that already had a distinct national history (including a healthy, St. Louis-based league interest prior to 1930 and the Miracle on Grass in 1950) did nothing to preserve its autonomy or capture its unique American flavor. Viewers new to soccer were left with the image of a very slow hockey game played on a big grass rink, while Edward’s unrelenting patriotic exhortations underlined that the match was worth watching only to witness the USA beat the rest of the world at their own game.

Perhaps.  Certainly with no American team at Euro 2008, there was no rah-rah U-S-A style announcing to bother Whittall.  But, see, I’m an American and a fan of the American team.  I don’t mind an announcer who’s biased towards the US.  And I fully expect that come World Cup 2010 Whittall will be disappointed because whoever is announcing the US games — JP and Harksie, perhaps — will favor the US again, if perhaps not in a way that’s quite as easy to mock as Jack Edwards.  That’s because international soccer has become, at least in US sports culture, like the Olympics.  That, in fact, part of the charm to the casual American sports fan, the ones who don’t really know the difference between Real Madrid and Bayern Munich — but can easily grasp and enjoy Spain vs. Germany.  (Cue jokes about World War II or tapas!)  In an Olympic style environment, nationalism is going to be there when the US plays. 

What is improving, and I hope this will continue for the 2010 World Cup, is the willingness of ESPN’s announcers to assume that viewers know a little bit about how the game is played.  The gradual infiltration of soccer into American sports culture means that some understanding of the game can be taken for granted.  A whole lot of today’s sports fans played soccer when they were kids and now they’ve seen some World Cup games.  What was noteworthy about Euro 2008 was the way it drew decent ratings with no US team involved at all.  The “Olympicization” of international soccer means there is some appeal to games matching well-known teams even without the US. 

Finally, Whittall blames ESPN’s broadcasting style for the US-Portugal game not being a bigger event in US sporting culture.  Maybe.  But I would remind him that a game being broadcast in the middle of the night, US time, is hardly likely to generate a mass audience, particularly for a game where the US was not expected to have much chance of victory.  I don’t think ESPN helped — but it wasn’t the biggest reason, by any means.

So the Euro party is over for another four years.  Sigh.  Such a good show.  Hail the “never-say-die” Turks!  And the temporarily fabulous Dutch!  And, above all, viva Espana!

One side-effect of Italy’s scandals was the derailing of the country’s bid to host Euro 2012, opening the door to the unlikely pairing of Poland and the Ukraine as hosts.  While both have had respectable teams of late, neither has quite the tourist draw or infrastructure of Switzerland and Austria.  Their soccer infrastructures are weak as well.  So their bids depend in part on successful investment in stadiums and roads and so on.

UEFA head Michel Platini is visiting the co-hosts this week.  Poland?

“We are carefully carrying out the plan that we have adopted and that has been accepted by UEFA,” Tusk said Wednesday at a joint news conference with Michel Platini, the president of European soccer’s governing body. “We still have a lot of work to do, including on stadiums, airports and hotels. They are very ambitious projects, but I assured the president (Platini) that we will do it.”

Poland must build stadiums in Warsaw, Gdansk and Wroclaw, and also overcome gaps in roads and other public infrastructure.

Ah, but what’s the situation in the Ukraine, a nation still riven by the “Orange Revolution” and its aftermath?

Well, they’re having a lot of trouble getting the Olympic Stadium in Kiev, due to host the final in four years, renovated. 

Two companies are vying for the right to renovate the Olympic Stadium in Kiev that will host the final of Euro 2012, Ukraine’s sports minister said on Wednesday.

A special commission is due to choose the main contractor on Thursday, ahead of an executive board meeting of organisers UEFA and next week’s visit to Ukraine by UEFA president Michel Platini.

Delays in renovating the stadium have been a focal point of concern that the country has been too slow preparing for Euro 2012 and media speculation is rife Ukraine and Poland could lose the right to co-host the tournament.

This sort of problem is making people wonder if the two countries will be able to host — or will the tourney be moved to another country which already has the infrastructure?  The Scots have their hand up to volunteer to serve as a Plan B.  That’s one way to avoid another qualifying group that includes both of the previous World Cup finalists!

Much as I love Scotland, and would love to sneak over to a Euro tourney in Glasgow and Edinburgh, I do hope they get things in order in Kiev.  One of the most enjoyable games I’ve ever attended was in Kiev:

It is a match-up of mid-table teams. Obolon is in yellow jerseys with black shorts. Borosphyl is in white. They represent the town where the Kiev airport is located, about 30 miles away.

In general, the Rough Guide does appear to be right about the fans, though. I see more Dynamo scarves than Obolon gear. There is a single group of Borosphyl supporters down in front with American style pom-poms, a bunch of cheerful junior high kids. I feel for them. My Ukrainian guidebook is more than 300 pages long and the only time it mentions their home town is in reference to the airport. Must be a whole lot of nothing there, just a short ride away from the metropolis of Kiev, and it must feel worse to have all those travelers bound for faraway places passing through every day. I am reminded of my own home town, hours from Los Angeles but still part of the vast Southern Californian media market. We were bombarded with ads for events we could never attend, always being made aware there was a much bigger, more exciting world than ours.

For more on that, plus a visit to Kiev’s complex of monastery caves, read on after the jump!

Kiev - May 2004

A party has broken out in the heart of Kiev. It is the “Day of Europe” and a massive street fair fills the central Maidan Nezalezhnosti square, spilling down Khreschatyk Street as well. I find central Kiev likeable, perhaps because the style of architecture feels so 1930s. As Lonely Planet sums it up, “…Kiev has survived Mongol invasions, devastating fires, communist urban planning and the mass destruction of World War II.”

The Maidan Nezalezhnosti – “Independence Square” – is about three blocks long in American distances, surrounded by multi-story hotels and public buildings. There’s a series of low-key marble fountains in the middle and sidewalk cafes around the edges. Khreschatyk Street cuts across the square and at the far end is a futuristic glass structure, which upon closer inspection proves to be an upscale shopping mall. Comrade Brezhnev must be most displeased. He probably wouldn’t like the McDonald’s on the square either.

What would really set him off is the trendy mall burrowing underneath the fountains at the heart of the Maidan Nezalezhnosti, a shopping complex stuffed with western brand names – Armani, Adidas and so on. I take the escalator down and might as well have arrived in the suburbs of Chicago or Philadelphia. Once capitalism was the underground economy – now it is just literally underground. The subway stops in the downtown area have become shopping centers in their own right, busy with kiosks offering clothes, DVDs, books, cell phones and the like.

Still, the flower-selling babushkas are everywhere, bent and gray, getting by in this strange new world by offering a cheap way to brighten it. Perhaps they also counsel the young Romeos among their customers on how best to woo their Juliets. All around the Maiden Nezalezhnoski are tables selling small articles – caps, old books – like a flea market on marble. Evidence that the Ukrainian tourist economy is still developing may be the way it proves impossible to buy a single postcard. They are only available in huge packages.

The “Day of Europe” fair has dozens of stands offering beer and snacks. It is busy with people. Every free spot worth sitting on – and some that are not – is occupied. The fair itself represents the Ukrainian aspiration to join the West, to be more European. (It was this aspiration that helped power the “Orange Revolution” months later.) There are representatives from many European countries staffing booths or putting on displays – Polish folk dancers, Spanish paella cooks, the Bulgarian tourist board bragging about their beaches. A street preacher is making his pitch as well.

The Ukrainians stroll along, seeking balloons for the kids, ice cream for everyone. The ice cream stands rival the beer stands in number. (My kind of people!) The Ukrainian men look remarkably like my stereotype – Slavic faces, close-cropped hair, often in track suits. It is the style of Russian leader Vladimir Putin or, perhaps, members of the Eastern bloc mafia. I feel a bit like I’m in a James Bond movie. But maybe that’s because I had stayed up late the night before watching a Roger Moore Bond film, dubbed into Russian or Ukrainian, on my hotel television.

Leaving the crowds behind, I walk a couple of blocks away from the square and step into the Ukraine’s national museum of art, an excellent collection if one is fond of religious art and impressionistic views of peasants on the vast steppe. (I do like the latter.) After a little browsing, I continue on, following the river, past the classic residence of the Ukrainian President, and through more parks. About a mile from downtown I reach the renowned Lavra complex, the heart of the Ukrainian Christian tradition, and perhaps Ukrainian history in general.

The Lavra – the word translates as “monastery” – was founded way back in 1051. It has been growing, getting sacked, and being rebuilt ever since. Although Kiev is now capital of an independent Ukraine, it was the birthplace of the Russian state and Russian Christianity as well. It was at Kiev that some intrepid Vikings set up shop in the 800s, conquering a Khazar kingdom. It soon became a prosperous trading state known as Kievan Rus. It was at Kiev, in 988, that Christianity was adopted by the government, perhaps the key point in the growth of the Russian and Ukrainian Orthodox religion.

Kiev’s decline began in the 12^th century, with the rise of Moscow, and 13^th century Mongol invasions. The Ukraine later came under Lithuanian and Polish rule before the Cossacks rebelled in the 1600s. The Ukraine was effectively independent for a time but looked to Russia as a patron and, eventually, the Czars took over.

While we Americans tend to see Russians and Ukrainians as being synonymous, they do have differences. This is especially true in the western Ukraine, which was often under Austrian or Polish rule, not the Czar. It might make more sense to think of them as brothers, sometimes working together in a family business, sometimes going their separate ways.

The upper Lavra complex, surrounded by a high wall like a palace, is a museum today. They charge admission to enter the grounds, with a steady flow of tour bus passengers rolling in. The grounds are filled with restored churches and religious antique shops. The individual churches have separate admissions charges too, like you are always making an offering. The upper Lavra is in fine form these days, lovingly restored after communist neglect, as the new regime establishes its Ukrainian bona fides.

The Orthodox Christian tradition loves gold and icons. Their churches shine and glitter. At upper Lavra, the Church of the Holy Name is particularly impressive, with the iconic faces of the holy staring down at you – some stern, others cheerful – to remind you of the powers that be who watch our actions.

Guide-led groups from the tour buses flow through the grounds, over the cobblestone streets, pausing at noteworthy churches for short lectures. Meanwhile, babushkas, solitary or in pairs, head directly for favorite shrines or just to the shops for religious curios.

I visit some churches then locate a path to the lower Lavra, which is more of a working monastery these days than a money-making museum. Below the bluff, the Dnieper flows on, and across the river I can see the urban sprawl of Kiev, the soaring apartment buildings on the fringes looking more impressive from this distance. Although it is a sunny and pretty day I am looking to go underground – into the Lavra caves.

The “Near Caves” are closed this day so I wind around the narrow streets with the other pilgrims part way further down the hill to the “Far Caves.” The entrance is inside a church and, along with everyone else, I purchase a pair of candles to light my way in the caves. The candles are of traditional make – beeswax, mainly – and are quite long and skinny, like elongated pencils.

The doorway to the caves is rather like the line for a ride at Disneyland but with less organization and more jostling. We dip our candles in a flame to set them alight. A teenage girl in front of me allows a drop of hot wax to splatter my hand and murmurs a quick apology. It stings but perhaps it is the kind of toll I should pay for playing tourist in what is clearly still a holy area to everyone else.

Into the darkness of the caves and then the half-light from all the candles we carry takes over. Many of the faithful are the predictable elderly women, ever the bastion of the church-going. But there are plenty of others, a rich mixture of families, teenage girls, middle-aged men on their own.

The cave feels like a tunnel, the roof just a bit taller than I am. No need for me to stoop but I see others forced to do so. The walls feel like solid stone. The way is wide enough for one to walk comfortably but two people side-by-side makes it tight. We end up in a lengthy single-file line. A series of niches along the sides are occupied by the glass coffins of leading monks of days gone by. The dead still wear their religious robes and iconic pictures of the departed hang on the wall above their coffins. Pilgrims bend to kiss the glass of the coffin or the portraits of favored saints.

A handful of side rooms branch off from the cave, filled with separate sets of coffins. This allows the pilgrims more time with the dead since pausing for long in front of a saint in the main cave tends to clog up the traffic. The guidebook says there is a whole church somewhere down here but I can’t seem to find it. An inquiry finds – if I understood properly – that it is in the Near Caves and so is closed at the moment.

My lit candle gradually melts lower as I walk along. The cave has the potential to be extraordinarily spooky if one were here alone in the dark with all the dead. In the company of hundreds of pilgrims, however, the religious mood predominates. The devotion is humbling. I feel voyeuristic, a weak Catholic among the true believers of the kind who survived the long atheistic years of communism. It’s not as if I know who any of these saintly monks were. So I do my best to be respectful and study their portraits, invariably of sad, long-bearded old men.

I’m startled when we pop back up to the surface, in another part of the same church that hosts the entrance. A glance at my watch shows I was in the cave for a half-hour. It felt longer, down in the candle-lit dim. I go outside, blinking in the sharp light. I pause at a river overlook, under a blue cloudless steppe sky, feeling a long way from home.

In the evening, the “Day of Europe” festival is still going strong. I watch a troupe of Ukrainian break-dancers for a bit, noticing that business seems to have shifted in favor of the beer sellers. The Maiden Nezalevzhnosti is utterly packed, as if everyone in Kiev is here. The big city feels much smaller now, like all the locals are out to stroll or simply to relax in the square to pass the time joking with buddies.

A decent rock band calling itself Camouflage takes the main stage, their music dark and throbbing, as if they’ve spent a lot of time listening to Nine Inch Nails. I end up talking to teenagers eager to practice their English, which is clearly going to be more useful than Russian in the future “days of Europe.” My rudimentary knowledge of rap music disappoints them. What kind of an American am I? Luckily, I can praise some Eminem and Public Enemy tracks to avoid being considered totally hopeless. Instead, I’m just thought to be old.

I do better when I steer the conversation to Dynamo Kiev. All five are fans and are particularly disparaging of the team’s rival, Shaktar Donestk. “Stupid miners,” comments one, with the typical disdain of the capital for those from gritty industrial towns. Dynamo will win the league again this season, they’re confident.

Camouflage is followed by a Latvian rock band whose name is something like “Brave Shto,” who start working a rich vein of melodic mid-tempo guitar rock, like the 80s Simple Minds or Train. I like it but the teenagers get bored and drift away. I eventually leave the crowd behind and walk back to my hotel.

It is a bare bones place but comfortable. I appear to be the sole guest. Whenever I arrive or leave I always seem to interrupt an intense conversation between the desk clerk and the bellhop/bartender, as if they are in engaged in some endless unresolvable negotiation or debate. I keep expecting one or the other to offer me a shady investment opportunity or to suggest a trip to an underworld nightclub. Instead, they just ignore me – the concept of customer service is still developing in the former Communist world.

Late at night I find myself channel surfing, fascinated by the mixture available on Ukrainian television. Their sports news not only tells me of a last second Lakers victory in the NBA playoffs – I get some highlights. There are numerous music video channels, which seem to be mostly Russian blondes singing over disco-sounding synth pop. I also find an endless supply of gruff Russian cop shows.

More importantly, and a happy coda to the “Day of Europe,” a Ukrainian singer wins the annual Eurovision song contest. Eurovision is an odd mixture of “Star Search” and the Olympics, with most countries in Europe sending a contestant. Ukraine is nowhere near joining the EU, being too poor and corrupt at the moment. For example, the front page of the weekly English Kiev newspaper features two stories, both about corruption. But at least they can sing pop as part of Europe, just like Dynamo Kiev can take on Arsenal or Bayern Munich. Sometimes European, sometimes not, always the Ukrainian dilemma.

My hotel is on Kiev’s arty street, the Andreyevsky Spunk, long-time haunt of bohemians, even under the communists. Beloved surrealist writer Mikhail Bulgakov, author of The Master and the Margharita lived for a time on Andreyevsky Spunk. It curves down slowly and steeply from the bluff to one of the port neighborhoods along the river. During the day it is like a flea market – all along the sidewalk are tables offering crafts like miniature paintings and Russian nesting dolls and Soviet military kitsch. Like in the cave, the pedestrian traffic flow is stop and start, always halting as someone pauses to eye an intricate ring or Soviet army cap. Some of the stands are clearly aimed at tourists, with Kiev guides and hordes of nesting dolls. There is also frequently a replica soccer jersey for sale, that of Andriy Shevchenko, once a Dynamo player but now of AC Milan, still star of the Ukrainian national team.

I pause at the base of Andreyevsky Spunk to visit the “Museum of One Street,” a fascinating set of displays taken from various houses over the years. A glimpse into the lives of ordinary Kiev residents over the years through their belongings. The displays from the 1800s seem much like the rest of Europe, the Communist era ones more alien. It is one of the few museums I have left thinking “I wish there was more to this.”

In the early evening on Sunday there is another game at Dynamo Stadium, Obolon Kiev versus Borosphyl, perhaps in place of the originally scheduled Dynamo game, which has been postponed until Tuesday to allow for the Lobanovsky tourney. It is the cheapest game I’ve seen since the beaches of the Copacabana – it’s free. In fact, not understanding this, I almost mistakenly buy a ticket for Tuesday’s Dynamo game at the box office. I head into the stadium, still not quite believing it, worried the language barrier prevented the ticket seller from conveying some important catch to me.

They are not expecting much of a crowd tonight, even at this apparently low price. Only one side of the stadium is open for seating. They’re right – I’d guess about 500 people turn up. As my Rough Guide puts it: “With a population of three million, the city of Kiev could easily support two or three clubs in the Ukrainian top flight. The problem is that Kievites support only one: Dynamo.”

The authorities are expecting trouble for some reason I can’t discern. There are police everywhere – they fill whole sections of the stands in the closed areas. My backpack is repeatedly searched. I scan the crowd and see no obvious ultras section with potential hooligans. Strange.

I find a good spot high up in the bowl – about the 20^th row – near the center circle and settle into the blue plastic seat. Bouncy Europop plays as the teams warm up.

The concessions are limited to the solitary beer truck stationed just before the fans go into the seating area. The fans near me prefer eating sunflower seeds. The couple a few seats to my left appear to be engaged in a contest to see who can devour them faster, with the pile of debris at their feet increasing rapidly. I see that he is wearing a green Obolon baseball cap backwards so not all Kievites support Dynamo.

Just before game time the familiar rousing chords of Bon Jovi’s “It’s My Life” come blasting out, a dose of New Jersey arena rock for this late spring day on the steppes. Sting’s catchy “Desert Rose” follows it as the teams get ready for the game to begin.

It is a match-up of mid-table teams. Obolon is in yellow jerseys with black shorts. Borosphyl is in white. They represent the town where the Kiev airport is located, about 30 miles away.

In general, the Rough Guide does appear to be right about the fans, though. I see more Dynamo scarves than Obolon gear. There is a single group of Borosphyl supporters down in front with American style pom-poms, a bunch of cheerful junior high kids. I feel for them. My Ukrainian guidebook is more than 300 pages long and the only time it mentions their home town is in reference to the airport. Must be a whole lot of nothing there, just a short ride away from the metropolis of Kiev, and it must feel worse to have all those travelers bound for faraway places passing through every day. I am reminded of my own home town, hours from Los Angeles but still part of the vast Southern Californian media market. We were bombarded with ads for events we could never attend, always being made aware there was a much bigger, more exciting world than ours.

Today, though, the kids have followed their team to Kiev and they are determined to have a good time. I see a drunk in the famous green and white of Celtic – no matter how far from Glasgow you go there is a decent chance Celtic will be represented at a soccer game. As the game kicks off, a small brass band at the far end of the stands comes to life. This is one of the happier-feeling games I have seen, even with all the police. Maybe they are just here to watch the game too, a reward after spending all day yesterday keeping watch on the “Day of Europe” festivities.

The first 25 minutes of the game are more Obolon than Borosphyl. They get more of the corners and draw more free kicks. Borosphyl gets a better early shot, however they don’t score. Both teams seem competent and organized, just slower than Dynamo. It is back and forth, and Borosphyl starts getting more of the play in the latter stages of the first half. Just before half, Klymenko of Borosphyl gets onto the end of a free kick and scores for a 1-0 lead, the better to enjoy the half-time break. The pom-poms shake madly and the kids give us a round of the “ole” song.

Half-time is a low-key affair. Subs trot out to the field and practice shots and passing in the charming spring early evening. I stroll out in search of a beer, which proves refreshing but nothing special. No need to look into importing Ukrainian beers. The public address system pumps out the likes of “Shout” by Tears for Fears.

The second half turns is entertaining and eventful. We certainly get our money’s worth. About five minutes in, Obolon earns a penalty kick during an intense tangle in the box. Mazurenko converts it and we are tied at 1. The brass band strikes up a cheery tune. The pace increases, the play going end-to-end. The fans sit forward, drawn in. The couple with the sunflower seeds are piling them up even faster. I wonder how many they have – their supply seems endless. The scoreboard flashes photos of the players when they score and it becomes clear they are just kids themselves – players in their prime end up with Dynamo, Shaktar Donetsk or go abroad. The penalty is a sign that game is become tougher and a series of yellow cards are awarded after hard fouls.

It seems to be Klymenko’s day. Around the 60^th minute Borosphyl is awarded a free kick. The ball floats into the box and bounces around. Klymenko manages to poke it into the net, 2-1 Borosphyl!

There is a clot of Obolon ultras down near the band and, judging by their periodic outbursts in song, they are getting drunker as the game goes along. A couple of minutes later Klymenko comes flying by us, gracefully beating two Obolon defenders but puts the shot into the side netting. By this point the brass band has become mostly drums, all the better for the ultras. Not that there is anything wrong with that.

The managers try some substitutes but the game remains 2-1 heading into the last ten minutes. Then things really get wild. Shadows are creeping onto the field. An Obolon attack generates an excellent cross to the far post – and Serheiev of Obolon gets onto it. Goal! We are tied. The “Ole” song breaks out.

Just when the game is winding down, an Obolon player gets fouled right outside the box. The free kick comes curling in and the Borosphyl keeper has to block it, not able to make a clean catch. The rebound falls to…Serheiev of Obolon and he coolly puts it in! 3-2 to Obolon! The “Ole” song revives. The ultras are singing hard and loud now – even some of the other fans are joining them.

Ah, but as happens so often, Borosphyl immediately attack while Obolon are celebrating and distracted. Dmytruk gets some open space and puts the shot away. 3-3! Whoa! We are on a roller coaster now. The “Ole” song stops short. The fans are stunned silent, except for the kids from Borosphyl. By the time we have adjusted to the new 3-3 reality of the game the referee is blowing the whistle for full-time.

As I walk out, past statues of Lobanovsky and the “death match” players, I wish I could stay longer in Kiev – but I am almost more tempted to go see Obolon again, instead of a Dynamo game. In the meantime, my guidebook recommends a restaurant with dishes favored by the Cossacks. Mmmmmm. Grilled meat…

My day job is in politics.  I don’t discuss it (much) here but sometimes I do daydream about ways we can improve America’s image through the “beautiful game.”  So, a modest proposal: President Barack Obama should attend a game at the 2010 World Cup.  (Assuming, of course, that he wins the November election.)

I’ve been watching Euro 2008 and a staple of the television coverage is the cutaway shot to the celebrity and/or politician fans.  German Chancellor Angela Merkel has been particularly prominent:

She has even chided German winger Bastian Schweinsteiger for being suspended for the Austria game. He said: “She told me that I shouldn’t do the same stupid things again. When Frau Chancellor says you have to do something you have to do it.”

Germans have been charmed by her enthusiasm, which with a general election expected next year, she may find useful.

If a President Obama traveled to South Africa to watch, say, a US-Ghana rematch with his Ghanian counterpart, you know that the worldwide television feed would show him every chance it got.  And the message sent would be, to paraphrase US Weekly, “Americans: they’re just like us.”  In the wake of the last few years, we need to reassure other countries that there are shared values, that the US is not simply an angry, alien land. 

Obama is already something of a continental hero in Africa — a trip to South Africa for Africa’s first World Cup would be wildly popular there and seen as a gesture of respect, much like President Bush’s plan to attend the Summer Olympics in Beijing. 

I recognize that Barack Obama is not known as a soccer fan, although the British tabloids seem to think he supports West Ham.  His love for basetball is abundant and authentic.  But he is clearly a serious sports fan and the World Cup has become a popular sporting event in the US.  As such, he might even have a great time — and having millions and millions around the world see him doing that would be worth more than most public diplomacy initiatives dreamed up around Washington can achieve.  Barack Obama has written eloquently of how America is viewed in the shantytowns around the globe.  Here’s a simple trip he could take that would bring him into all those shantytowns at once.

Oh, and for his domestic political advisors, here’s a thought:  Have a President Obama attend the next US-Mexico World Cup qualifier in 2009.  Millions of Hispanic voters will be watching!

Today’s Euro semi-final match-up of Germany and Turkey highlights something most Americans are unaware of — the vast Turkish immigrant population of Germany.  The post-World War II rebuilding of West Germany involved importing a lot of low-wage, low-skill “guest workers” from Turkey, many of whom put down roots and stayed.  It is a bit reminscent of the influx of Hispanics to the US.

It’s been a difficult relationship at times but the influence of Turks in Germany is undeniable.  For example, the quintessential street food of Berlin may be the doner kebab, a shaved meat sandwich.  (It’s yummy.)  It’s a bit like the way adapted Mexican food has become an American staple, a cultural infiltration through the stomach.

If you believe the New York Times, today’s game will be a friendly rivalry match:

If the most memorable symbol of Germany’s successful hosting of the World Cup in 2006 was the German flag displayed without shame or second-guessing, the motif this time around for German spectators are the twin Turkish and German flags flapping from countless car windows around the country.

“Of course my heart lies first with the German team,” said Rainer Krause, 63, a Berlin native who bought a red Turkish flag as well as a German one at a store in the heavily Turkish Neukölln neighborhood, where he works., “But over the decades the loyalties have grown together, there are such strong feelings of connection.”

And:

Some Germans have gone so far as to switch allegiances from their home team to Turkey, a sentimental favorite of the tournament if not quite a Cinderella, considering its run to the semifinals in the 2002 World Cup. “It’s only fair,” said Rosie Lambrecht, who was out shopping for a Turkey T-shirt on Tuesday morning and who roots with her Turkish friends and neighbors in Neukölln. “They’ve never won the tournament.”

The Times says 500,000 (!) are expected in the public viewing area by the Brandenburg Gate.  Hopefully, it will go off peacefully, a sign of how sport can bring people together.

Someday, the US and Mexico may reach that stage.  For now, it’s not important enough for most Americans and, perhaps, too important for Mexican fans.  But it’s nice to imagine a re-match of the US-Mexico knock-out round game in the 2002 World Cup at, say, a 2022 World Cup with thousands of fans of both teams watching together in parks in New York and LA and DC…

I haven’t commented on my DC United much of late, although the team has found some form.  Too busy with the oft-pulsating Euro 2008 — sigh, the Dutch got my hopes yet again — and, sadly, with work.

But leave it to Dan Steinberg over at the Post to remind me why I love my trips to RFK:

The Barra Brava and Screaming Eagles monopolize Washington’s “Look! Soccer crazies!” media attention, and rightfully so. But if you’re always staring at their bouncing side of the park you might miss some of the team’s other vibrant supporters groups. Like, say the Dark Cyde.

That three-year-old group’s membership is a bit vague–its founder said there are about five members–but that founder more than makes up for the small numbers. He is Darth Hooligan, and he is awesome. Witness the District logo tattooed on his left arm, the red-and-black DC Shoes on his feet, the stuffed United mascot hanging from his midsection, the No. 69 “Darth Hooligan” jersey around his torso, the $10 Target light saber twitching in his hands, and the self-applied Darth Maul-inspired red-and-black paint on his face. Yesterday his hair was out, adorned by two feathers; “usually, I wear my little devil hat,” he said, as his friends gleefully displayed his red and black skull cap.

Darth Hooligan, eh?  Now that’s a mash-up of devoted fandom, indeed.  Perhaps one reason for soccer’s rising appeal in the US is the way we are still discovering/inventing our fandom.  NBA or NFL games have become very programmed, filled with piped-in music and prods.  The supporters’ groups at a United game drive the cheers, not the PA system.  The growing awareness of the international game means fans here have a better idea of what their options are.  We can pick and choose among traditions, not simply adapting styles from other American sports or — thankfully — from stereotypical British hooligans.  We’re still figuring it all out, which makes it feel more lived in.

Back to “Darth Hooligan”.  He offers an interesting take on why Darth:

“One day I was watching ‘Star Wars Episode I,’ and it just hit me, out of the blue,” he explained. “You know how Darth Maul is red and black? I’m starting my own supporters club called the Dark Cyde. Come as any villain in any movie, as long as you wear red and black.”

The choices are theoretically endless, as long as you can imagine, say, Norman Bates sporting red and black face paint. Anyhow, why villains? Darth said that United is the New England Patriots of the MLS, at once dominant and reviled league-wide, the unbeatable standard hanging over every rival club. Villainous, in other words.

Ooooh.  Embrace the bad guy, eh?  Personally, I would have thought that would have made us the Oakland Raiders of MLS but perhaps their image has fallen because of their recent losing seasons.  It’s hard to be the villain when you’re bad — at least bad in terms of winning and losing. 

There’s a certain appeal to the villain.  As a serious comic book collector in my youth, I can attest that invariably the villain is a better character than the hero.  And they almost always have more fun…at least until they get caught.  It’s an interesting exercise to contemplate adopting a villain for your soccer fan alter-ego.  Darth Maul doesn’t do it for me, which is probably partly a function of age.  The original Darth was my generation’s villain but that costume would get pretty toasty at a summer game at RFK.  Same for Doctor Doom.  Perhaps the Joker would be more my style.  (I suppose you can make him in red and black.)  Or perhaps Magneto.  He’s got a red helmet after all….

The Czech collapse against Turkey yesterday was startling, a rapid unraveling of a previously solid team.  (Wait, Petr “possibly best goalie in EPL” Cech made a crucial error?)  Credit the Turks for an impressive display of fortitude.  My wife M. says she likes to root for teams that show “can do” spirit — clearly she should be cheering on the Turks now, given that remarkable comeback plus the way they came from behind against the host Swiss in that wicked rainstorm.

This may represent the end of an era for the Czechs, who like other smaller nations with strong soccer cultures, usually need a couple of stars to lift them from the “regular qualifier” level to “dark horse threat to win it all” level.  (See also: Croatia, Sweden, Bulgaria etc.)  American fans remember all too well the way we were dismantled by the Czechs at the 2006 World Cup, before the Czechs went awry at that tourney.  They’ve had a handful of world-class players in recent years but they are largely moving on — Pavel Nedved has retired from international play, giant Jan Koller will join him soon, Tomas Rosicky has injury problems and missed this tourney.  They’ve still got Cech but he wasn’t exactly helping the cause yesterday. 

This Czech side peaked at Euro 2004, where they arguably played the best soccer of any team before running into the brick wall of the Greek defense in the semi-finals.  I was lucky enough to see them beat Denmark in the quarter-finals.  What was it like?  Here’s a taste.  For more, read on after the jump.

Around minute 30, the Danes start swaying in unison.  The Czech fans, on the other hand, perhaps provoked by the Danes, begin doing one of the stranger cheers I have seen.  First, they chant “Czech-ia!” and then “Hop Hop Hop” hopping as they say it. 

As best I can gather it means “Onward, Czechs!” but the effect is as if the section beside us is getting a Ramones concert on a frequency the rest of us can’t hear and doing the pogo – either that or offering encouragement to rabbits.  “Hop!  Hop!  Hop!”

The Czechs, in white jerseys and shorts, start the game well, led by Pavel Nedved.  He is small and determined man with shaggy hair, somewhat resembling the “Tommy”-era Roger Daltrey of the Who.  On the field he is always busy, often taking the ball away from the Danes, often distributing it too, a rare blend of flair and grit.  Tall Jan Koller is up front with the quick and rather girlish-looking Milan Baros.  Midfielder Tomas Rosicky contributes interesting passes as well.

The Danes, who are in red jerseys and shorts, have trouble coping.  Bald and scary-looking midfielder Thomas Gravesen is yelling at his teammates, at the ref, at everyone.  He knows they’re in trouble.  Or maybe he’s just one of those over-intense maniacs.

The Danish fans are standing the whole time, regularly making noise.  The nearby Czechs take awhile to get going, doing only an occasional cheer until midway through the first half.  I eye the Czech banners.  They seem to represent fan clubs – Brno, Olomuc, Obranic – and hardly conjure up the tourist dream of the Italian banners.  Around minute 30, the Danes start swaying in unison.  The Czech fans, on the other hand, perhaps provoked by the Danes, begin doing one of the stranger cheers I have seen.  First, they chant “Czech-ia!” and then “Hop Hop Hop” hopping as they say it.

As best I can gather it means “Onward, Czechs!” but the effect is as if the section beside us is getting a Ramones concert on a frequency the rest of us can’t hear and doing the pogo – either that or offering encouragement to rabbits.  “Hop!  Hop!  Hop!”

At the half, the game is scoreless, with the Czechs having played the better.  It’s rather dull, actually.  The crowd has been livelier than the teams.  The Czechs, though, come out strong in the second half and grab the game.

About five minutes into the second half, the Czechs earn a corner.  It floats in and Koller – who supposedly is 6-6 – gets a head to it.  1-0, Czechs!  “Hop!  Hop!  Hop!”

The Danish fans keep up their cheering, trying to rally their side.   For another ten minutes it is back and forth.  The next goal is vital – will it tie things up or give the Czechs the decisive lead?  The tension rises.  “Hop!  Hop!  Hop!”

Milan Baros, the Czech forward, decides matters.  First, he sprints on to a nice through pass and chips a shot over the Danish goalie.  2-0, Czechs!  Then, before we have even processed that score, he adds a second goal just two minutes later.  3-0, Czechs!  Game over, and everyone knows it.  The Danish fans continue to sing, if not quite as loudly, but they know it too.  They had a good run but it’s all over.

By the end the Czech fans are doing the wave and taking turns celebrating their favorite players.  “Pa-vel!  Ned-ved!  Mi-lan!  Bar-osh!”  Even up 3-0 the Czech coach, Karl Bruckner, a gray-haired bear of a man, is pacing the sidelines, shouting instructions.  As if the Danes might find a miracle.  They don’t, of course, and it ends 3-0 to the Czechs.  “Pa-vel!  Ned-ved!” rings out into the night, as we depart the Dragao.  (Little did I know I was watching a preview of the US-Czech game in the 2006 World Cup, with Rosicky playing the two-goal scorer role of Baros.)

As I’ve expressed before, I’m a fan of the Dutch.  So their brilliant demolition of Italy was a treat to watch, perhaps even some long delayed vengenance for the painful semi-final defeat at Euro 2000.

But this BBC blog post brought back some fond memories of my trip to Euro 2004. 

Orange Elvises, orange mountain maids, orange bears, orange road workers, nuclear plant workers in orange radiation suits - orange variations of any kind of clothing you care to mention rolled into town and sparked a huge, huge party.

I know at some level that this what the Dutch so often do — raise our hopes with great play before losing in heartbreaking fashion, probably on penalty kicks.  But it’s always fun at first and while I’m stuck in the US for Euro 2008 it’s good to know that the Dutch fan tradition continues. 

I think we’ve all had that homicidal feeling after a referee gives the other team a huge break.  Like, for example, a borderline penalty call in stoppage time of a crucial match. 

“…last night I was speaking very differently about the whole thing, I wanted to kill.  Referees make mistakes and this was an obvious error that harmed us all…”

That’s Polish Prime Minister Donald Tusk, on the Austria-Poland game.   Brilliant political pandering to his angry constituents or a reckless stirring up of passions?  You make the call. 

Euro 2008 kicks off tomorrow.  Alas, I won’t be there.  I haven’t managed to arrange my life so that I can jaunt off to the tourney for a week like I pulled off in 2004.  But awhile back I did catch a game at the stadium that will host the final in Vienna on June 29th:

I’ve gotten to soccer games in a variety of ways – subways, driving my car, the bus, hiking up a hill.  This, I conclude, is undoubtedly the coolest.  M. and I are riding a mini-train – the “liliputbahn” – to the Ernst Happel Stadium in Vienna.  And, to make it even better, the train is pink. 

We are bound for an important Austria Wien game — Wien being German for Vienna – against Olympique de Marseille.  It is the first leg of a two-game playoff for a slot in the lucrative Champions League group stage.  The kid-sized train is rolling along through the Prater park, packed with men chugging beers and reliving their childhoods.  Woo-woo! 

Want to hear more about that, along with a quick trip through Austrian soccer history?  (Really, they used to be good, despite the current national team being so pathetic as to generate a petition to withdraw them from Euro 2008 to avoid embarrassment.)  Read on!

How on earth did someone fund this guy’s design for a public housing building?  Is this a sign of growth and change amid a sea of dead marble and long-gone empire?  Is this the sign of a different sensibility?  A rebellion against the machines and straight lines?

It makes sense that it would show up early in a place like Vienna – so much history and so much dead decadence to be provoked by it.  And the people come from all around to see it.  Hundertwasser Haus has become a major tourist attraction.  A hunger for something different, perhaps, or maybe just the desire to see a freak.

M. and I circle the Hundertwasser Haus, attempting to capture it on film, like all the other tourists.  M. can’t quite find the right angle.  You can only get glimpses, not the whole sense of