Techno 1, Vuvuzela 0
It was the day the vuvuzela died.
Hold back the cheers and the high-fives. This was just one vuvuzela, figuratively stuffed back down the throat of a drunken Aussie wedging me into the back corner seat of a minivan bus headed to Nelson Mandela Bay/Port Elizabeth Stadium.
On the World Cup trail, there are moments of disappointment and anger and happiness - and even elation, like this one, the driver turning the key in the Park 'n Ride shuttle from a local high school, the thumpingest, stomach-flippingest blast of Techno kicking in, shaking us all up and stopping the elephantine belch of this Mundial's most common, cursed and celebrated toy before it had barely started.
We're all bozos on this bus – World Cup bus, World Cup bozos – but we all agreed.
Everyone of the dozen of us – Portuguese supporters, the Aussie's friends, two Canadians - cheered as the blond Bruce drooped the vuvuzela to half-mast between his knees, nodding his head to the beats as the stadium coming into sight from above Techno 1, Vuvuzela 0. No extra time needed. I think he was happy too. Except for one thing. He turned to me, noted the media badge: “I have no tickets. Can you get me in the stadium?”