Finally back in Toronto, full on World Cup fever pitch, and I'm still looking to find Algerian fans. And I'm not having much luck. And I'm getting stranger and stranger looks from folks when I pose the question, "Hey, you know any Algerians?" They don't. So, where are they hiding? Knowing that the Bloor and Shaw neighbourhood houses several African restaurants, I figured of any area in the city to try, that's got to be worth an honest shout. Short of wearing a "Hey, you Algerian?" t-shirt, I opted for the most recent Rangers top for recognition with the hope that if they've heard of Bougherra, they know who he plays for.
I know it doesn't specifically say 'Algerian', but...
Now admittedly, I have had a brief and foggy history with the neighbourhood, in that I vaguely remember being there in the wee hours during the 2002 Japan/Korea World Cup chasing venues to watch the matches at 3:00am battling lager and lethargy. Again, hazy. But there are definitely places to be found. Rumour also had it that the restaurant African Palace was the place to be. I was assured that all African nations would watch their matches there. Anticipating a mobbed bar, waiting to stand Monday-morning-on-the-King-car crammed in with Desert Foxes' fans, aching to be the one to fire up chants of "Bou-gher-ra! Bou-gher-ra! Bou-gher-ra!", I bundled into a cab and headed to African Palace.
There were three people. Two were staff. I guess Algerian fans have to work mid-afternoon on a Friday as much as everyone else.
DOWN IN FRONT!!!!
This doesn't bother me in the least, and it is definitely not the first time that I've been the only white guy in a place watching football. And it's not the first time that people have questioned my allegiances. Immediately after being asked if I'm here to watch the game, I'm asked if I'm cheering for England and am not believed when I tell them I'm all Algeria. "You're cheering for Algeria? No. Really?" Not only am I Boughie-daft, I find it hard to support England. They remind me of annoyingly die-hard Leafs fans (think they invented the game, feel entitled for no reason, haven't won anything since the 60s...the similarities are glaring). The Rangers top didn't appear to have the instant recognition that I'd hoped. I'm told that the samosas are the best in the city and am brought a plate promptly. They are fantastic, sided with a salsa verde that is spicy. Green sauce. Green beer bottle. Green Point Stadium. Algeria in all green. This has to happen.
Green dough and plate and this would have been perfect.
The national anthems kick off and the woman beside me starts singing along to the Algerian national anthem. Result! I ask if she's from Algeria.
"No. Monaco. We're neighbours."
Dammit.
That said, that is wickedly neighbourly. I don't know about you but when the US played Slovenia, I wasn't karaoke-ing "...and the rockets' red glare". Apparently I'm a horrible neighbour.
The match kicks off, both sides resorting to back-up keepers after their first match gaffes. So no one has any idea what's going to happen at the back. It could be a match peppered with fantastic goal mouth saves. It could be Hoover Dam replaced by the screen door from the cottage. It becomes glaringly obvious that Algeria has the size advantage as England's Gerrard stands beside Algeria's Yahia; Yahia towering over Gerrard like he was taking his lunch money at the coin toss.
One scoop of pudding and I taste proof. Algeria have way more player-for-player physical strength for sure, but not as much control coughing up balls like passes to cinder blocks. Bougherra did not disappoint, putting his mark on the game, pushing forward and immediately tracking back to defend. As the match wore on, it wasn't just the viewers, players, or even Capello that figured out that England would be ineffectual. During England's first corner, the bird perched atop the Algerian net obviously knew about Heskey's heading ability and elected to stay. The longer the match wore on, the more there was the sense that if Algeria couldn't win this, they could at least tie their way to safety. The close-down of England became more and more sustained.
The game hit the dying moments and Algeria are keeping the draw in their sights, still looking as if they could sneak a late winner. So too could England at this point, but they don't have the confidence, it being eroded gradually over the course of a match they had the arrogance to believe would be a no-brainer. Suddenly, the traditional African treat of Ruffles potato chips hit the table. My English mates are texting me about how England are a "million-dollar pub team", and that they should "bring Prince Harry on!" It's all going crazy. Bougherra falls backwards into David James and has an awkward neck-bending moment. Were it anyone other than Boughie I'd be worried. I spend the final minutes thinking up Chuck Norris-style jokes using Bougherra ("Why was Britain's navy considered the best? Because Bougherra never decided to take a swim."). At this point, a full-time draw is palpable which will bring Algerian safety. Boughie coughs up a corner in the dying minutes and dread creeps in as the aching suspicion that Crouch could awkwardly poke in a winner
just won't go away.
The elephant's right into it. The giraffe can't bear to watch.
Algeria stave off the pressure and the ref blows the final whistle. I listen intently to Bloor St. No horns. No cheers. No hope of me finding a guy driving his car with a flag sticking out of the win
dow so that I could share a moment. Or failing that, another find a location crowded with Algerians. It's becoming more and more apparent that in the African communities, here, not unlike in South Africa, you support all African teams, not just your own. Nigeria, Ghana, South Africa, it doesn't matter. You're part of the family.
Now that is neighbourly.
I'd appreciate if you quit asking why Morgan Freeman is on the window.
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