Amidst the swirl of the events over nine days of volunteering at the Women’s World Cup 2015, I struggle to find the highlight: the event, person, or happening that was the single most impressive thing. Of course, there were the myriad behind-the-scenes workers: FIFA employees, contractors, production people from a variety of broadcasters and media outlets from around the world, and the volunteers, hundreds of volunteers. The World Cup is a huge machine, one that gets assembled and then tinkered with every day.
There were the teams, each one with its unique personality. I had the privilege of seeing 10 teams play in Winnipeg: Nigeria, USA, Australia, Sweden, Thailand, Germany, China, New Zealand, Japan, and Ecuador. I often mused that teams would share the standard criteria for membership common to all World Cup teams, but that there also would be certain qualifications unique to each team. Having seen the Nigerian team dance and sing their way off of their bus on the first day they played, I can imagine that the interview for their team went something like this:
“Are you Nigerian?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Are you a woman?”
“I am that as well.”
“Are you an elite player? That is, are you really really good at soccer?”
“Why, yes, as a matter of fact, I excel at soccer.”
“That is all excellent. One more question: do you sing?”
“Sing? What kind of question is that?”
“Well, this is our team-specific qualification. You see, if you cannot sing, we might have to take a second look at your qualifications to be on the team. There may still be a way for you to play, but you would have to exhibit exceptionally strong playing skills if you cannot sing. In fact, without singing, you will have to be really, really, REALLY good in order to play for our team. After all, we’ll need some skill to replace your lack of singing.”
“I see. Well, yes, I can sing.”
“Very good, you are in! Welcome to team Nigeria.”
There were the teams, each one with its unique personality. I had the privilege of seeing 10 teams play in Winnipeg: Nigeria, USA, Australia, Sweden, Thailand, Germany, China, New Zealand, Japan, and Ecuador. I often mused that teams would share the standard criteria for membership common to all World Cup teams, but that there also would be certain qualifications unique to each team. Having seen the Nigerian team dance and sing their way off of their bus on the first day they played, I can imagine that the interview for their team went something like this:
“Are you Nigerian?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Are you a woman?”
“I am that as well.”
“Are you an elite player? That is, are you really really good at soccer?”
“Why, yes, as a matter of fact, I excel at soccer.”
“That is all excellent. One more question: do you sing?”
“Sing? What kind of question is that?”
“Well, this is our team-specific qualification. You see, if you cannot sing, we might have to take a second look at your qualifications to be on the team. There may still be a way for you to play, but you would have to exhibit exceptionally strong playing skills if you cannot sing. In fact, without singing, you will have to be really, really, REALLY good in order to play for our team. After all, we’ll need some skill to replace your lack of singing.”
“I see. Well, yes, I can sing.”
“Very good, you are in! Welcome to team Nigeria.”
***
Every day when I arrived at the volunteer centre to check in, I was greeted with “Here’s the guy with the best seat in the house.” Gentle ribbing, to be sure, but tinged with truth and just a wee bit of jealousy. I had a great job. As one of only two broadcast media volunteers, I was the personal assistant to the Broadcast Liaison and Information Manager for the Winnipeg World Cup venue. My boss saw to it that all the video broadcasters had places to set up cameras, were given access to the players for interviews, and had general access to all the important goings-on. As for me, I stood next to her most of the time and jumped when I was told to jump. For fourteen-hour days. During the actual matches, however, my usefulness to her was limited. So, I mostly stood on the pitch next to the photographers and just watched the games. During those times, my standard location was at the corner of the pitch between the photographers and the chute where the players entered and exited the field of play from their dressing rooms, about two metres back of the goal line and at the sideline where, further down the field, the team benches were. I could have stood right behind the goal had I wanted to but that felt too conspicuous to me, so I positioned myself at the side instead. In this spot, I was close enough to get an excellent view of players during corner kicks. I could see the sweat, hear the conversations with other players and the refs, and hear the thud of foot on ball when it was kicked. From this vantage point I also got a front-row view of the teams entering and exiting the field: for warm-up, game-time, half-time, and at the end of the matches. I saw everyone come and go.
***
In 2007, a group of three rabid soccer fans from Lincoln, Nebraska formed a group dedicated to the support of men’s and women’s soccer teams in the United States. Today, the American Outlaws has chapters all over the United States with thousands of members. I think that they all showed up in Winnipeg to see the American women play their two games during the group stage. For those games, the house was full, attendance ringing in at just over 32,000 for both games. Given the flags and the noise, I have to estimate that 25,000 were American fans, and I think the majority of those travelled from across the border to attend the games. And did they ever put the “fan” back in fanatic. They chanted, they bellowed, and they sang from the American Outlaws song book. They carried huge pictures of the faces of their favourite players: like disembodied heads floating above their supporters. They cheered for their players, yelled when the calls did not go their way, and jeered, mostly in a good-natured way, at the players from other teams.
***
Today I saw the highlight reel that FIFA posted of the most impressive moments in the group stage of the tournament. It shows goals and saves and fabulous soccer plays. But my personal highlight was not there. What was my highlight? Nilla Fischer and Olivia Schough from the Swedish team. They are superstars, to be sure, and were involved in their share of impressive plays in the games that Sweden played. But those were not the reasons I was impressed. ...first, however, let me digress.
***
Soccer is a hard sport: I have experienced this first-hand as a player, a coach, and a spectator. At the elite level, the game consists of two 45-minute halves with a 15-minute break between them. The teams typically warm up for 45 minutes before the games start. The rules state that you can only substitute three players during the game, which means most players are on the pitch (field) for the full 90 minutes of the game, as well as 45 minutes of warm-up. So, by the end of the game, the players are tired, some nursing injuries sustained during the game, others with newly aggravated chronic problems. Despite what many say, soccer is a full-contact sport: either incidental or deliberate. Shins contact shins, feet to torsos, and heads to shoulders, other heads, or the turf. At the end of a game, then, there is much to compel a player to head straight for the dressing room and into the care of the team’s physiotherapists and masseurs. But at the end of the game the players’ responsibilities do not end. The star players are presented with “Player of the Game” accolades at mid-field, and then the requests for interviews just outside the exit chute begin. And when I say requests, that really means demands, because players are not free to decline an interview. So, tired and sore, they move to the interview positions. And, of course, physical discomfort is only multiplied by the psychological toll of a defeat, especially in a match that was the make-or-break of a team’s place in the next round of the tournament.
***
The English word gauntlet is derived from the Swedish word gatlapp, which comes from the words for run and lane; the English word was used as early as the 17th century in Europe. However, the idea of the gauntlet comes to us from ancient Rome, where soldiers were executed by forcing them to run through a lane lined with other soldiers armed with clubs and whips, the runner usually being slowed by a guide with a sword who ensured that his time on the course was sufficient to kill him. In some versions of the gauntlet, the runner was spared if he emerged alive from the far end; in others he was simply sent through again to face his death. Suffice it to say, in no version, in any culture, was the gauntlet something that you chose; it was always punishment for some crime, and the best that could be hoped for was emerging battered and near death.
At the edge of the Winnipeg soccer pitch, just before the chute that took the players to their dressing rooms, was a gauntlet, of sorts. It was at this place that the pre-teen and teenaged fans, girls mostly, congregated to scream their adoration of the players as they exit the pitch. And they held things out, not to strike the players with, but to have them signed, touched, or simply acknowledged by the players: a jersey, a ball, a shoe, a program. And while all the players had to muster the psychological courage to walk or run this path, they did not have to participate actively in the ordeal, because the fans are positioned some two metres above the level of the pitch. Indeed, many players chose not to stop or even slow as they passed by, perhaps giving a weary wave or nod to the fans shouting their names if they chose to acknowledge them at all. However, occasionally a player would stop and sign one or two items before moving on. And I watched this happen game after game, witnessing the excitement on the faces of the fans, the elation of those who got some small personal touch from a player, and the dejection of those who were passed by without even a nod or a gesture.
At the edge of the Winnipeg soccer pitch, just before the chute that took the players to their dressing rooms, was a gauntlet, of sorts. It was at this place that the pre-teen and teenaged fans, girls mostly, congregated to scream their adoration of the players as they exit the pitch. And they held things out, not to strike the players with, but to have them signed, touched, or simply acknowledged by the players: a jersey, a ball, a shoe, a program. And while all the players had to muster the psychological courage to walk or run this path, they did not have to participate actively in the ordeal, because the fans are positioned some two metres above the level of the pitch. Indeed, many players chose not to stop or even slow as they passed by, perhaps giving a weary wave or nod to the fans shouting their names if they chose to acknowledge them at all. However, occasionally a player would stop and sign one or two items before moving on. And I watched this happen game after game, witnessing the excitement on the faces of the fans, the elation of those who got some small personal touch from a player, and the dejection of those who were passed by without even a nod or a gesture.
***
A friend of mine once recounted a story to me.
“A few years ago, I decided one day to give something to my sons: my undivided and unrestricted attention for as long as they wanted. And so I approached them and said, ‘If we could do anything together today, what would it be?’ It was the middle of winter and we had built a small skating rink in the back-yard. They said, ‘Dad, come and play hockey with us.’ And so I did. I expected the game to last a few minutes, perhaps an hour, before they released me from my self-imposed commitment to them. But it went on and on. We played and we played. And after four hours, they finally said, ‘Let’s go back inside, Dad.’
“And you know what? They still talk about that day with fondness as the ‘best day we ever had.’ And it was simple: I gave to them until they were satisfied.”
I remembered that story as I watched the players exit the field, game after game. And I thought to myself, “What if a player just stopped what she was doing? What if she ignored the pain and effects, physical and psychological, from the game, and simply stood giving to the fans, all of the fans, what they wanted until there was no one left who wanted anything?” Perhaps that is not possible. Perhaps there are too many who want and too little to give. Perhaps.
“A few years ago, I decided one day to give something to my sons: my undivided and unrestricted attention for as long as they wanted. And so I approached them and said, ‘If we could do anything together today, what would it be?’ It was the middle of winter and we had built a small skating rink in the back-yard. They said, ‘Dad, come and play hockey with us.’ And so I did. I expected the game to last a few minutes, perhaps an hour, before they released me from my self-imposed commitment to them. But it went on and on. We played and we played. And after four hours, they finally said, ‘Let’s go back inside, Dad.’
“And you know what? They still talk about that day with fondness as the ‘best day we ever had.’ And it was simple: I gave to them until they were satisfied.”
I remembered that story as I watched the players exit the field, game after game. And I thought to myself, “What if a player just stopped what she was doing? What if she ignored the pain and effects, physical and psychological, from the game, and simply stood giving to the fans, all of the fans, what they wanted until there was no one left who wanted anything?” Perhaps that is not possible. Perhaps there are too many who want and too little to give. Perhaps.
***
I watched the USA-Sweden game. It was the best game, bar none, that I saw in the group stage of the 2015 FIFA Women’s World Cup. Being ranked higher, the Americans were the heavy favourites. And in the packed stadium, 25,000 of the 32,000 in attendance were clearly on the side of the American team. But the Swedes played a brilliant game of ball control, frustrating the American’s aggressive style. Once the game was over, ending in a 1-1 draw, the players began jumping through the usual media hoops. The Americans left first, most of the stars leaving with a wave to the fans who were calling their names. Some stopped to sign an item or two, most of those items branded with American flags.
Before this game, I had known nothing of the Swedish players. I had never heard names like Nilla Fischer or Olivia Schough, despite the fact that Fischer, at least, is a pretty big deal in Sweden. When it comes to elite female soccer players, my vocabulary is limited to Solo and Sinclair, so it is not surprising that I had no idea who these people were. I love the women’s game, even more than the men’s, but sadly, there is little opportunity to watch elite women’s soccer in Canada. Indeed, I must say that I know little more of Fischer and Schough today than I did on that game day. Wiki pages are pretty bare, and what I can find on the Internet tells me little of them as people. But, as with many of the experiences that have become my repertoire of stories, it is the short, meaningful encounters with others that prove them heroes or villains. It is those fragments of time that make me stop and say, “That was impressive.”
Nilla Fischer is hard to miss in a crowd. She is tall, for a woman, and she has the bright blonde hair that is so common amongst her country-men and women. But, as I caught sight of her out of the corner of my eye, I found myself wondering once again, “What if a player chose to stay, and simply give and give?”
Fischer started first, from what I recall. She signed Swedish flags passed down to her from the stands. Then jerseys and programs. And she carefully caught smart phones tossed to her, and, lining up her face with that of the owner’s and others in the stands, she took one selfie after another. Of course, the American fans, seeing that she was there, were instinctively drawn to this woman who acknowledged their presence. So they, too, in even greater numbers, began to pass down phones and scarves and shoes and, yes, pieces of fruit: I saw one girl pass her a banana! And Fischer signed each item, took each picture, and carefully passed everything back.
Before this game, I had known nothing of the Swedish players. I had never heard names like Nilla Fischer or Olivia Schough, despite the fact that Fischer, at least, is a pretty big deal in Sweden. When it comes to elite female soccer players, my vocabulary is limited to Solo and Sinclair, so it is not surprising that I had no idea who these people were. I love the women’s game, even more than the men’s, but sadly, there is little opportunity to watch elite women’s soccer in Canada. Indeed, I must say that I know little more of Fischer and Schough today than I did on that game day. Wiki pages are pretty bare, and what I can find on the Internet tells me little of them as people. But, as with many of the experiences that have become my repertoire of stories, it is the short, meaningful encounters with others that prove them heroes or villains. It is those fragments of time that make me stop and say, “That was impressive.”
Nilla Fischer is hard to miss in a crowd. She is tall, for a woman, and she has the bright blonde hair that is so common amongst her country-men and women. But, as I caught sight of her out of the corner of my eye, I found myself wondering once again, “What if a player chose to stay, and simply give and give?”
Fischer started first, from what I recall. She signed Swedish flags passed down to her from the stands. Then jerseys and programs. And she carefully caught smart phones tossed to her, and, lining up her face with that of the owner’s and others in the stands, she took one selfie after another. Of course, the American fans, seeing that she was there, were instinctively drawn to this woman who acknowledged their presence. So they, too, in even greater numbers, began to pass down phones and scarves and shoes and, yes, pieces of fruit: I saw one girl pass her a banana! And Fischer signed each item, took each picture, and carefully passed everything back.
She stopped for a few minutes, being pulled into the post-match interviews. The Swedish reporter asked her a few questions and then moved away. For most players, that provides the opportunity to escape the crowd. But Fischer returned to the fans, now joined by Olivia Schough. And when the first group was done, they moved to the other side of the players’ chute and continued with the fans that were there. From the end of the match until these two finally exited the pitch to join the rest of their team in the dressing room, at least 45 minutes must have elapsed.
And so, I got the answer to my question, “What if…?” On top of that, I experienced the most profound highlight of my tenure as a volunteer. I must admit it was the most impressive thing I witnessed throughout the four match days in the Winnipeg stadium. I saw a bunch of fans—most of whom, like me, had not even been aware until that match who Nilla Fischer or Olivia Schough were, and some of whom perhaps still do not know—experience two professional soccer players stopping specifically for them, and in those few minutes giving of themselves until everyone was satisfied.
I hope that those young girls who experienced this gift will pause, some day, to remember that giving does not take all of your time, just some of it. To reflect that those who experience whatever you have to give them will be the richer for it. And that you will too.
And so, I got the answer to my question, “What if…?” On top of that, I experienced the most profound highlight of my tenure as a volunteer. I must admit it was the most impressive thing I witnessed throughout the four match days in the Winnipeg stadium. I saw a bunch of fans—most of whom, like me, had not even been aware until that match who Nilla Fischer or Olivia Schough were, and some of whom perhaps still do not know—experience two professional soccer players stopping specifically for them, and in those few minutes giving of themselves until everyone was satisfied.
I hope that those young girls who experienced this gift will pause, some day, to remember that giving does not take all of your time, just some of it. To reflect that those who experience whatever you have to give them will be the richer for it. And that you will too.
Dennis Maione is an author, speaker, and teacher from Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada. He has been on a 20+ year journey through two bouts of colorectal cancer due to a Lynch Syndrome mutation in his genes. He speaks and writes about his cancer journey, his insights into the medical system, and finding heroes and villains in the unlikeliest of places.
His latest book, What I Learned from Cancer, is available in electronic form at his payhip.com site: http://bit.ly/wilfc-ebook. Physical copies of the book are available at the Prompters to Life web store, where shipping on copies of the soft cover edition is always free (except to the international space station). To order a paper copy of the book, visit: http://prompterstolife.com/shoppers
His latest book, What I Learned from Cancer, is available in electronic form at his payhip.com site: http://bit.ly/wilfc-ebook. Physical copies of the book are available at the Prompters to Life web store, where shipping on copies of the soft cover edition is always free (except to the international space station). To order a paper copy of the book, visit: http://prompterstolife.com/shoppers
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