But I thought it was time that our blog moved from its original home on www.huschka.com/blog to its own little spot in cyberspace.
I've move all our original posts from the World Cup, our England soccer tour and our latest trip across the pond for the USA's match at Wembley in late May.
So, it's been awhile since the USA's match against Spain. I wish I'd blogged right away, but I'm going to try to reconstruct my memories from that game.
After the game versus England, Amy and I hung around London until Saturday. On Thursday night, we swung by Craven Cottage for Ireland's match versus Columbia. It was a spirited match that Ireland won on an early deflected goal. Only some great Irish goalkeeping kept Columbia from drawing (or even winning) the match.
As die-hard Fulham fans, the highlight of the match might have been when the PA announced said: "Remember to purchase your Fulham season tickets -- when we'll again be hosting Premier League football next year. You don't know how happy I am to be saying that." That drew a chuckle from the crowd.
Sunday morning, Amy and I parted ways -- after staying up until 4 a.m. AGAIN to watch Game 4 of the Stanley Cup finals. We actually took naps between period breaks. Immediately after the game was over, I had to catch a flight to Germany where I was going to spend a few days with my friend Chuck who's teaching this summer in Leipzig.
After two days of drinking German beer, I caught an early flight Wednesday morning to Bilboa. From there, I needed to catch a bus to Santander. I quickly learned that NO ONE in norther Spain speaks English. (I know about three words in Spanish.) Still, it proved fairly easy to get to the bus station and buy a ticket to Santander. The only mistake I made was I didn't know that the buses had assigned seating and got booted from my seat. Fortunately, the guy who had my seat spoke English (and was in fact going to game.)
Once I got to Santander, I proceeded to quickly get lost while looking for my hotel. I ran across a tourist information center and once I again discovered the value of an iPhone. By showing the Google map location of my hotel on my iPhone screen to the nice woman at the counter, she was able to give me directions.
After checking in, I decided to begin the hour-long walk over to the stadium. I knew if I just walked along the bay, I'd eventually run into the stadium. The view of the high cliffs towering over the surf was stunning. The air was cool but not cold. A wonderful day for a walk.
And then I heard a huge rumble tear across the water. Above me, Spanish fighter jets performed an incredible Blue Angels-style air show. A massive crowd had gathered along the cliffs to watch.
After the show, I continued my trek. But I hadn't expect such a crowd. A few folks began to notice my U.S.A. jersey. Some pointed. Others gave me a few dirty looks. But I encountered no outward hostility.
The plan was to meet a few fellow American fans at an Irish pub along the beach across from the stadium. But (and, are you sensing a trend here) I couldn't find it. Then, I turned around and ran into fellow American, Robert from Amsterdam, who I'd met the week before at the England game.
With his help, we located the pub. First, we went to the upstairs bar. As we walked in, we noticed nearly every person was wearing a Spain jersey -- and it seem like every head turned to look at us. We were looking for food as well as drink, but the bar tender indicated that food could only be found on the lower lever.
Fortunately, downstairs was a bit more quiet (and less hostile.) But still no food, just some crappy bar nuts that, in our hungry, we quickly devoured. Two more Americans showed up, but Robert and I decided to head over to the stadium early since he needed to pick up his ticket from will call.
Around the stadium, we walked in a cool, light rain through a fan fest surrounding the stadium. A few fans stop to take pictures with us visiting Americans. The centerpiece of the festival was a large white tent, featuring a tribute to Spanish football and the European Championships.
Amsterdam Robert quickly retrieved his tickets, and we headed into the stadium in search of food. The concourse of the stadium was pretty typical of European stadiums: dark, concrete, smelly walkways. But we found a sandwich stand, and, despite my limit Spanish, was able to snare a baguette with pepperoni. (Something, Spaniards would serve me over and over during my two day stay. Apparently, the Spanish think American like pepperoni.)
Our seats were in the second level of the stadium, just above one of the corner flags. A few U.S. supporters were already in the stands. There was no security separating our section from Spanish supporters -- which I took as a sign that no one was expecting even a bit of trouble. I ate my sandwich.
As more Americans arrived, we chanted and sang. The Spanish fans around us mostly laughed and took pictures.
Thankfully, the US played better than they had a week before in London. Also, security didn't care that we stood the whole match. The fans around us seemed to enjoy our antis. A few teens behind three some sunflower seeds at us. But we mostly ignored them.
Eventually, a late, inevitable (and pretty impressive) goal from Spain cost the U.S. a tie.
With Amsterdam Robert's help, we caught a bus back toward the hotel. And I quickly crashed, finishing a long
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