The noise is deafening; I can hardly hear my neighbor even when they scream into my ear. The stands are filled to capacity and the micro square accommodating my standing body is the only space there is. With barely a breather to catch air, I cannot afford to sit. On my left is a beautiful lady lost in a passion of blowing her Vuvuzela above humane decibels in a fashion only Kamodo can match. To my right, the guy cheerily jumping in a red strip is face painted black yellow red and his face is hardly recognizable. To my back, a group of about fifty is replicating the famous Poznan celebration.
Not to be left out of the combo, I manage to stretch a hand down my ripped jeans to pick out my whistle and add to the noise, and the roar.
On the outskirts of the playing turf, and…
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