It was the second day of winter, and there was nary a cloud in the sky, allowing the brilliant African sun to blanket the Western Cape with a positively balmy 20+ degree day. I could get used to this.

The gold glow of the sun was only matched by the multitude of Bafana jerseys seen on the streets of the Mother City in the hours leading up to today’s final group stage match between South Africa and France. Despite the astronomical odds against their side, the demeanour of the host nation – at least in this city – was incredibly upbeat.

Walking around the Waterfront with Kris Fernandes before the match, it was hard not to feel great for the locals as they sported the bright yellow and green of South Africa with pride. Everyone knew the chances of Bafana going through were slim-to-none, yet no one cared. Today was going to be a celebration, the standings be damned.

Both of us attended our first Fan Fest today, deciding to soak up the atmosphere of the home side’s probable last match. While we had an inkling that it would be a festive atmosphere, it was still tough to imagine just how upeat and full of pride the home fans would be until we experienced it for ourselves.

Strolling along Cape Town’s awe-inspiring oceanside (the stunning natural beauty of this city is really beyond description), one could almost believe that South Africa were on the verge of winning the whole damned tournament. The vuvuzelas were audible from every point in the city, and standing room only crowds filled every bar, tavern and patio in sight. Did these people know that their team had very little hope of advancing to the next round? Did they even care?

When the game kicked off, a huge roar emanated from… well, just about everywhere. The fans’ passion in the streets of Cape Town was only matched by the thunderous support in the Free State Stadium in Bloemfontein. On the pitch, it was obvious that Bafana was feeding off the incredible love that the entire country was sending their way. It was as if only one team had bothered to show up to play, the French side only in attendance to make up the numbers.

While the ultimate result was not what the host country needed to advance, it didn’t seem to matter. The fans that had so passionately gotten behind this side were happy with what they saw: an honest, imaginative effort from a team that is still trying to make a mark on the world stage.

In that way, Bafana Bafana was very much the football version of the country that it represents.

So while the tournament progresses, and other countries vie for footballing supremacy, South Africa continues to celebrate its coming out party. It has shown the world that it can host the planet’s biggest party just as well as anyone else, and it can stamp its own personality on the event, detractors be damned.

For this humble country at the southernmost tip of the poorest continent on Earth, just being able to throw the party was a massive victory in its own right.

Posted by Rudi Schuller (who may still be a bit drunk from the multiple R20 double shots of rum)

Sitting amongst the 45,000-plus in attendance at Ellis Park for the Group C match between Slovenia and the US, it was hard not to get swept up in the moment.

We arrived at Ellis Park well over three hours prior to kickoff, and even at that time there were thousands of eager American fans – not all of them American, mind you – reveling in pre-game anticipation on the grounds surrounding the stadium. There were plenty of Slovenian supporters as well, but it was clear to anyone who the favoured side was on this day.

Johannesburg was alive with Yankee Fever.

It was a bit saddening for myself as a Canadian soccer fan, seeing (and hearing) so many people with such a similar culture to our own getting ready for their country to once again take part in the world’s biggest party while we have to (once again) sit by and cheer by proxy.

Why couldn’t this be Canada?

No matter. Today, I was North American. Or so said the cheerful Yank girls who seemed a little too thrilled at the sight of my Canada Olympic hoodie that has served as my trademark on this trip. I should cheer for the US, they informed me, because soccer success for our giant neighbour to the south can only serve to rub off on us.

I really couldn’t argue the logic, as simplistic as it may be. As goes the USA, so goes Canada in so many ways, as much as we are loathe to admit it. In soccer terms, we are inextricably linked thanks to MLS, a league that needs us as much as we need them.

And so with that in mind, I cheered on the Americans. Spread the CONCACAF love, eh?

I didn’t think I was too emotionally invested in the match. When the Yanks went down by two, I was hardly sad. In fact, at that point I had begun to wonder whether I really cared if the Americans had won or lost.

I mean, this is a team that I should hate, and have hated on many occasions in the past, yet I chose to support them today. So it made sense that I couldn’t really be sad to see them losing, right?

When the second half kicked off, I felt myself questioning what I really wanted to get out of the game. Was I just hoping to soak up the spectacle of a live Wprld Cup game? Was I hoping for a US miracle comeback? Was this just something else on my list of things to do on a trip that has thus far been incredible?

When Donovan scored that incredible goal to open the second half, the answer became clear. As I jumped up and high-fived the South African girls behind me who had adopted the USA as their team to support today, I realized that I was invested. So much so, that I’d just cheered for a goal scored by then man who, as a TFC supporter, I hate more than anyone else in the world.

And yet, it didn’t matter. I was in the middle of thousands of Americans, and mob mentality had taken over. I wanted the Yanks to storm back so bad, that if temporarily suspending my club and country hatred for Landycakes was the requirement, then so be it.

After Michael Bradley scored the equalizer, the place erupted, and I nearly fell out of my seat. What an inredible game this had turned out to be. Even though I felt that the ref was favouring the Slovenians all night long, the American team had overcome, and were now on track to post the first come-from-behind victory of this World Cup. Or so I thought.

The tide had turned, and the US was pouring it on now, searching for that late winner.

Then it happened. Mo Edu, Toronto FC’s first ever draft pick, battled through the maze of bodies on the American set piece and knocked it into the gaping net. The entire stadium roared, the vuvuzelas thundered in approval, the ‘GOALLLLL!’ sign flashed on the screen, and the US players celebrated.

Then, inexplicably, the ref called off the goal.

Unadulterated joy turned to surprise, then bemusement, then anger toward an official who had called a phantom foul on the play that surely would have given the team a hard-fought victory. It all felt familiar, somehow.

Maybe supporting the US isn’t all that different from supporting Canada, after all. At least not today.

Posted by Rudi Schuller (who can’t wait until the World Cup is over so he can go back to hating Landon Donovan with the fire of a thousand suns)

Never having been to live rugby game before, I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect. I’m quite familiar with the sport itself, and I know the basic rules of the game having watched numerous games on TV over the years. But, as anyone reading this is well aware, you don’t really know a sport until you experience it live. And what an experience it turned out to be.

Somehow, I found myself in the first row of the terraces in the south-east corner of the storied Newlands rugby ground. It was a familiar vantage point, almost as if I was standing in section 113 at BMO Field. I must be cosmically drawn to that area of a stadium, I guess.

From so close, it was easy to get caught up in the overwhelming power of not only the giants immediately in front of me, but also the knowledgeable, enthusiastic crowd.

Where soccer is the beautiful game, a sport of finesse and precision, rugby is pretty much the exact opposite. It is a game of power, something a spectator cannot fully appreciate until he witnesses it right before his eyes.

The Springboks, South Africa’s storied international side (and, as told in the movie Invictus, the first of the country’s sporting institutions to be used as a unifying force for a nation that was in dire need of one), took on their counterparts from France. The Boks are one of the three major sporting passions here, with Bafana Bafana and the nation’s cricket side, the Proteas, being the others. South Africa is the current Rugby World Cup holders, and have in fact won two of the four RWC tournaments they’ve competed in since being reinstated following the fall of Apartheid in the early 90′s. In other words, South Africa is very, very good at this sport, and the Springboks are rightly very, very popular here.

It seemed no coincidence that the French – also a past RWC winner – were invited to play a match in Cape Town less than 24 hours after their football team opened its FIFA World Cup campaign a few miles down the road. Like their soccer brethren, the French rugby side were very poor and out-of-sorts, allowing the Springboks to score two tries within the first 10 minutes of the game. From there on out, it was academical, as the green-clad Boks put on a rugby clinic for the adoring crowd.

When the final whistle sounded, South Africa had romped to a 42-17 scoreline, one that actually flattered the losing side. I had to feel bad for the thousands of French supporters in attendance, many sporting their nation’s soccer jerseys, as they made their way thousands of kilometres to Cape Town for a rare soccer/rugby doubleheader, only to watch their teams both perform so terribly.

For me, the game was a learning experience, and I left the stadium with a new appreciation for the speed and strength that the world’s top rugby players possess. I also It’s something I’d definitely do again if given the opportunity.

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Not only do the sports themselves offer a great cointrast, but so too do the respctive sporting cultures. While the world debates the merits of the Vuvuzela, this World Cup’s contribution to soccer supporters culture, the rugby side of the debate here has already decided, and the silence is deafening:

That’s right, vuvuzelas are explicitly banned at international rugby matches here, and this rule is strictly enforced. The few hardy souls who decided to test the rule under the shroud of World Cup tolerance were rebuffed at the gates. Natural crowd noise – songs, chanting, the roar of approval and boo of dismay – is alive and well on rugby’s biggest stage, and after watching countless soccer games with relentless droning in the background, it really is a relief to the aural senses.

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Posted by Rudi Schuller

While U-Sector’s Kris Fernandes was in attendance at Johannesburg’s Soccer City for the South Africa versus Mexico opener – and boy, was that a great start to the tournament, or what? – I was a few thousand kilometres south west, near Cape Town, watching the match in my temporary home with my extended family.

The pre-game celebration started early here in the Mother City. Vuvuzelas could be heard breaking the nighttime silence at five this morning. In our house, traditional Western Cape food was being furiously prepared for the influx of guests expected for kick-off.

It was all there. Koeksisters, a donut-like snack food that is a favourite amongst the locals, were baked by the dozen. Pots full of steak curry (with potatoes) were cooked. Biltong, beef jerky’s much tastier cousin, was in ample supply. And of course, there was beer.

The lounge was transformed into a mini-fan park, with the resident 42″ TV welcoming a new, temporary neighbour in the form of a large projection screen (with accompanying LCD projector).

The house itself was adorned with literally dozens of South African flags, lined up along the perimetre fencing like soldiers standing on guard. The gold and green of Bafana Bafana was everywhere, including on the 25-30 house guests who eventually filtered in.

It really was a unique experience, sitting in a crowded living room with fans of the local team, a side which just so happens to be hosting the World Cup.

The game itself was a rollercoaster of emotion, equalling anything I’ve ever witnessed in my lifetime of watching soccer. When Siphiwe Tsabalala (who I’ve long thought would look great patrolling the left wing in TFC red) blasted the ball past the Mexican keeper, the eruption of excitement was almost overwhelming.

While the roar of a couple dozen enthusiastic Bafana supporters is surprisingly deafening, even more of a shock was hearing the instant approval of the entire city. Even from our base in the Southern Suburbs, adjacent to Cape Town proper (with a little thing called Table Mountain separating us from the city), the outcry of emotion could be heard from the streets.

As Tshabalala’s shot bulged the back of the Mexican goal, wailing car horns and moaning vuvuzelas could be heard instantaneously from all around us. It was as if an entire cheering section was placed on reserve, in every corner of the city and surrounding areas, specifically to celebrate that moment.

They take their passion seriously here.

Of course, the Mexicans tied it up in the late stages of the match, and when the final whistle was blown, the two sides were level. But for a team that had been written off by so many heading into the match, the draw still felt like a triumph, and the possible sign of better results to come.

Indeed, for a country that had been written off so many times since FIFA named it host back in 2004, the game itself meant so much more.

Posted by Rudi Schuller

If you’re unfamiliar with it, Table Mountain is one of the most distinctive landmarks anywhjere in the world. Flanked by two tradititonal peaks, it sports a broad, flat top that makes its name obvious. When clouds roll over it, the locals refer to the phenomenon as the Table Cloth.

Naturally, Table Mountain is a tourist mecca, the centrepiece of a national park that can be accessed by car, foot, or – best of all – cable car. Once up top, there are hundreds of square kilometers to explore, each nook and cranny different from the others.

On a normal day, there would be a steady stream of locals and foreigners alike journeying up to Table Mountain’s summit, and most would be dressed in what would be considered to be “normal” clothing.

The day before the World Cup kicks off, however, it becomes very obvious who hails from where. The locals, including those working in the park, all sport Bafana Bafana’s gold and green (Table Mountain’s regular staff uniforms have been temporarily replaced). The rest, including myself today, sport the colours of their home nation.

The French and Uruguayans are here in abdundance, as are Australians, Americans, English, Argentineans, Mexicans, and so on. Every one of the 32 competing countries had at least one representative on the mountain top today.

I even met an Irish guy in a Uruguay jersey. You can all guess his reasoning for adopting the South American nation as his own ahead of Uruguay’s opener again France here in Cape Town tomorrow.

Three thousand feet below, the sounds of the World Cup are as clear as the brilliant South African day. The vuvuzelas can be easily heard interspersed with traditional African drum beats and car horns, as Capetonians congregate in the streets for yet another impromptu midday celebration.

The party is just beginning. Let the games begin!

Posted by Rudi Schuller

The soon-to-be-ever-present plastic horn is a bane to my existence as a fan of supporter atmosphere in football stadia. Its incessent, overpowering moan drowns out any and all other sounds emanating from the stands, to the point that a lively stadium ends up sounding more like a giant beehive.

I’m glad it’s banned from BMO Field, as I don’t think the Toronto soccer fan could tolerate it.

All of that said, I grew a newfound appreciation for the blasted thing today.

Wednesday was “Unite Behind Bafana” day here in South Africa. At noon, everyone was encouraged to gather at pre-determined points around the country, sport the vibrant green and gold of the national football team, and honk their vuvuzelas in a show of unified support.

The result was incredible.

Here in Cape Town (and the suburb that I’m staying), thousands of people rushed the streets on foot, in cars, on bikes, hell… however they could, and they celebrated. What was supposed to be a ten-to-fifteen minute show of support lasted well beyond daylight, and in fact is still going on right now (it’s 8:15pm local time as I’m writing this).

Jubilant fans piled into the back of pick-up trucks and rode around, excitedly high-fiving passersby and honking their horns (both vuvuzela and car alike) as if they had just won the World Cup. Of course, it doesn’t kick off for another 44 hours or so.

In Johannesburg, Bafana Bafana players, coaches and family members rode high atop an open-aired bus, as tens of thousands of well-wishers cheered them on. Coach Carlos Alberto Parreira waved triumphantly to the approval of hopping fans below.

I couldn’t even imagine what this place will be like should South Africa defeat Mexico on Friday.

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Visited Cape Town Stadium today, which is full-out prep mode for Friday’s opener featuring France and Uruguay. While the stadium itself is stunning, the grounds around it are still undergoing last minute finishing touches, landscaping and such. With the backdrop of Table Mountain setting the scene, this may be one of the most beautiful images you’ll ever see in football.

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Posted by Rudi Schuller

Since I arrived last Wednesday night, it’s been cold, grey and rainy every day except for two: today and Saturday. It’s to be expected, of course, as this is late fall here in the Southern Hemisphere, and South Africa is about as far south as one could get before hitting ice.

That said, I’d trade this “winter” for just about any that I’ve experienced in 30 years in Canada. It can still get up in the 20′s during the daytime, and at night it’s usually warm enough that a thick sweater would suffice.

One oddity is the houses themselves. Unlike Canada, this country isn’t blessed with trees in abundance, so  most homes are built with concrete. That’s all well and good in the summertime, when the solid block walls act as a filter and actually keep the coolness in the homes. But in this weather, it works against you.

It’s perpetually a good five or so degrees cooler inside than it is out. And when it’s only 12 degrees like today, you’ll feel it. Even right now at nearly 7:00pm local time, I’m typing away with a hood over my head, and shoes on my feet. No one takes their shoes off in the houses, as the floors are ice cold at this time of year. Strange stuff.

Apart from all of that, the mood here in the week leading up to the World Cup is understandably festive. Car flags are just as popular here as they are in the GTA, but of course 99% of them sport the bright colours of the South African flag, rather than the vast mix of nations that you’d see represented in Toronto.

That said, there are quite a few vehicles with other nation’s flags on the windows, although they are usually paired alongside  the red, blue, black, gold and green of South Africa. I’ve even seen a Canadian flag on a car here. I thought I was the only one!

Soccer-wise, Bafana Bafana fans are on a high, as the side is riding quite the hot streak into the World Cup. Optimism abounds here, although most are aware that Mexico is a formidable opponent that is on a bit of a good run itself, and should not be taken lightly. Still, the entire country seems to be anticipating a great performance from its boys, and is ready to explode in kind.

Think of the anticipation in Canada for our men’s hockey team ahead of the Winter Olympics this past February, now multiply that by a hundred.

I can’t wait.

Posted by Rudi Schuller 

World Cup Qualification can be a pretext for a bit of heavy-handed hyperbole. Emerging unscathed from the ether of the qualifying process can leave some to the entertain the idea of already placing one hand on the World Cup, as seems to be England’s wont every four years. For Chile, on the other hand, some are placing their hands and hearts on something a bit more unworldly, the prospect of Sainthood for Marcelo Bielsa.

Surely tongue must be firmly planted in cheek when the accomplishments of the Argentine coach of Chile’s National Team are served up on a religious platter, but sainthood in the world of football can easily be purchased, merely by consistently saving someone else’s mistakes from the damnation of consigning a team from an almost certain loss. ‘San Casillas’ has been saving the mental lapses of his defenders for years for Spain, so scaling the lofty heights of Bielsa’s saintly status isn’t something entirely new.

But intentions towards Bielsa weren’t always couched in such well-meaning. In an earlier guise, Bielsa was dubbed as ‘El Loco’ while wrestling with the expectations that coaching Argentina so often carries. Of course the ‘certification’ of madness in football circles can simply be a matter of taste. One coach’s thirst for attacking football may be seen by some as a desire to quickly hit the unemployment line, while for others a coach who is a defensive pragmatist may simply be one who lacks the will to stick his neck on the line. But for Bielsa, the ‘El Loco’ moniker wasn’t affixed strictly as a matter of taste, but more simply due to his disdain for the conventions of formation grammar.

Bielsa’s dip into the well of madness mostly stems from the unconventional formation he holds close to his heart: a 1-3-3-1-3. Most teams that consider themselves serious actors on the FIFA world stage shun a back three, and hardly use three players to spearhead their attack. That Bielsa uses a formation bundled in triplets is either an exercise in madness or divine genius.

But the success of Chile in CONMEBOL qualification lies beyond Bielsa’s attack-oriented formation that places a premium on athletic ball moving midfielders. Rather than purchasing just the idea of attacking football, Chile has purchased the entire Bielsa program, as U20 sides and sides at the Tournoi de Toulon tournament have utilized the 1-3-3-1-3 formation, and, to much success, placing second at last year’s Toulon tournament and finishing first this past summer.

The Chile team that performed well at the 2007 FIFA U20′s?They played with a back three as well.

The vertical integration from senior squad to youth of Bielsa’s formational ideas has certainly helped to provide at least the depth necessary for CONMEBOL’s world cup qualification run. That the depth itself has a bit of talent can also explain why they managed to qualify second above Paraguay and a floundering Argentina.

It’s not being saddled in Group H with Spain that is Chile’s biggest problem,it may very well be their over-reliance on youth. Chile used a total of 59 different players during 2010 qualifying and the average age of those selected was just under 24 years of age. Marcelo Salas, at the ripe old age of 32, seems practically a geezer when compared to some of his younger peers.

So it shouldn’t come as too much of a surprise that Chile wants to extend Bielsa’s contract to 2015, not so much that Chile enjoyed breaking out the party hats when the minimum standard of qualifying for South Africa was met, but maybe because 2014 may be a more accurate assessment of Bielsa’s worth when the squad tacks on another 4 years.

There is talent right now, as Arturo Vidal, Gary Medel, Matias Fernandez, Humberto Suazo, Mark Gonzalez, Jorge Valdivia and a few others make for a competitive squad, but the inexperience of youth, coupled with a formation that places a premium on ball moving midfielders in addition to a back line that isn’t terribly tall and backstopped by a ‘keeper who plays on a team just below the Spanish top flight, Real Sociedad, may consign Chile to an early exit.

Still, it would be a bit of a terrible disappointment for Chile to not even make it out of the group stage, for anyone who enjoys the almost unbridled madness of Bielsa’s brand of attacking football would want Chile to go as far as they possibly can.

Far too often the equation for success in international competitions is based around the success of a defensive shell. If Bielsa’s Chile succeeds, then he will at least ask some to reconsider the primacy of a defensive equation.