Football Partnerships

By Alex Kotler

Waking, Preparing, Watching
I woke at half five, the imaginary sounds of hooting horns and clapping fans from the night before playing in my mind. I smiled, recalling the match, the howler of a goal that the Pirates’ keeper let in, the class of Peter Ndlovu, Zimbabwe’s all-time leading scorer who marshaled the midfield for the Red Zulu, and Nelson, accompanying me and accompanying everything with exactly. Special.

Although registration for Soccerex opened at 8:30am, I took the morning to catch up on work and to properly prepare for the event. I reviewed the program and timetables, marking discussions of interest with an asterisk in the margin. Several notables included the opening panel on South Africa’s readiness for World Cup 2010, featuring Jérôme Valcke, General Secretary of FIFA, and Dr. Danny Jordaan, CEO of the South Africa 2010 Local Organizing Committee (LOC), a panel on Brand Beckham, featuring Jeremy Dale, Corporate VP of Global Marketing at Motorola, and Terry Byrne, David Beckham’s personal manager, as well as one on emerging markets, featuring Ian Ayre, Commercial Director at Liverpool FC and Dr. Sridhar Maturi, Head of Sports Marketing at Satyam, a global IT firm based in India and one of the major sponsors of the 2010 World Cup.

Three hours, ten asterisks, forty emails, two cups of rooibos tea and one yoga session later, I was ready to register. I loaded YouTube for a quick review of how to tie a Double Windsor, and - after no less than six futile attempts - I executed one with panache.

Building off of my trial run the day before, I took a more direct route to the SCC, walking by an outpost of the American auditing/consulting/advisory firm, Grant Thornton. A black man over six feet, thin and wiry, came on the sidewalk from the opposite direction with a wide grin. He made to speak with me, and - accustomed to taking a New Yorker’s guarded approach with strangers - I prepared to brush him off. You look like you coming from church man. It was so sincere that I was embarrassed. He’d disarmed me, and I scrambled to reply, awkwardly, that I wish that I had been coming from church, which I’m still interpreting now.

On the right-hand side, immediately following a roundabout, a Radisson hotel was under construction. The exterior of the building was complete, polished glass reaching up thirty some-odd stories. Workers, each with a task, busied themselves measuring, leveling, dumping, knocking, hammering, and banging, chattering all the while. I walked on.

Like the Radisson, the SCC was a nest of activity. Police and workers buzzed about, with suit-clad people entering and exiting, some with event credentials and others en route to retrieve theirs. I joined those lacking, sliding through a security checkpoint, strolled confidently up to counter to mark the official start of my Soccerex. Misha Sher, Director of Business Development at Soccerex, made me within 15 seconds. Alex!, Misha!, we exchanged warmly, as he put a mobile call on hold to shake my hand. We talked for a moment and shook hands again before he was pulled away.

Half an hour later the Kisogo Football Festival was scheduled to begin in Mandela Square, an event which included an amateur tournament, a lesson for the winning team with instructors from the David Beckham Academy, appearances by world-famous freestyle footballers, dancers and drummers, and two matches comprised of legends from Liverpool FC, Manchester United, and stars from the African continent, such as John Barnes, Bryan Robson, and George Weah, respectively. By the time I negotiated my way through Sandton City Centre, quite possibly either the largest mall I’ve ever been in or the most difficult to navigate if you’re not the map-reading type, the tournament was underway. Shoppers and delegates alike positioned themselves around the Sony Fevapitch, an enclosed field with turf footing, rinked walls, and topped with netting to keep astray balls inside. The six or so restaurants in the square proved key, with the best vantage points being two behind a giant statue of Nelson Mandela overlooking the pitch from one flight above. Predictably, all seats were taken by eaters or loiterers or loitering eaters.

Baglio’s Cafe on ground level, though, had countless tables open on the patio. I requested a table for four, as Dan Wood, Adriano Franco, and Abbas Farid were to join me before Abbas performed his freestyle routine for the crowd. From our seats, Gerard Houllier, Technical Director of the French Football Federation, and former players Lucas Radebe, former captain of Bafana Bafana, and Mark Fish, also of Bafana Bafana, all passed by our seats. For me, it was like being a 16-year old girl on set for the filming of an episode of the OC. However, despite my giddiness, we paid more attention to our chat about freestyle football and Soccerex than to the legends.

As the tournament reached its climax, with Manchester United taking on Liverpool, I spotted a man seated at a neighboring restaurant on the patio wearing a US Soccer shirt. Making the assumption that he was wearing it for professional reasons, I introduced myself as a fellow Soccerex delegate and someone involved in the United States football scene. Thus I met Scott Spencer, Director of Coaching at the Alabama Youth Soccer Association, and also a coordinator of matches and tours in the US and abroad. We discussed our business lines, an exercise for me to practice the Football Partnerships pitch and to recruit another US-based member to the group.

Later at the Town Lodge, I set the alarm for five to get a strong start to the next day.

By Alex Kotler

Hostel Safari
When, at four o’clock in the morning, the two birds of unknown origin began cawwing, I was relieved to have had jet lag and woken up at two. The noise felt like an eruption, shaking the windows of my room, and leaving me momentarily petrified in my bed. Had I been sleeping, I would have been startled awake in terror, disoriented and paranoid until my mind caught on to the fact that we were no longer in New York. As it was, I realized that, if I wanted to be ready and rested each morning at Soccerex, remaining at the Ritz was not in my best interest.

At 5:30am with nary a chance of returning to sleep, I stepped out to do my yoga practice on the lawn. The sun was up, and little yellow birds - not the guilty cawwers - flitted about around me. One towel-bound guest passed me en route to the shower, too confused to reply to my salutation of good morning.

By 7:30am, I had showered, packed, checked out, made reservations in Sandton - where the convention would be held - and had called a cab to transport me to the Town Lodge, a business class hotel for thrifty travelers within walking distance of the Sandton Convention Centre. My cabbie came within minutes, Nelson his name was, and we immediately struck up a conversation. I shared that I had a ticket to go to the Orlando Pirates v. Red Zulu match at the new Orlando Stadium, my first taste of the South African top-flight soccer league. Nelson was elated, giving me no less than three high-fives and responding to everything I said with exactly. For the remainder of the ride, we discussed whether South Africa would be ready for the World Cup in 2010 (it would be, he promised) as well as the members of the Bafana Bafana pantheon.

When in Sandton…
In the parking lot of the Town Lodge, Nelson and I negotiated a deal for a round trip to the match that night in Soweto, an acronym that stands for SOuth WEst TOwn. We high-fived again, and I carried my luggage inside. A smartly dressed black girl with a smile that could soften steel checked me into a room overlooking Grayston Drive. Two rooms down from me a party was going on, and amidst plumes of cigarette smoke one guy and two girls were laughing and carrying on. It was 8:15. Not your typical business travelers, but it did look like business was about to be conducted in some fashion.

To bring the party atmosphere into room 257, I unpacked and showered again - this time without my Crocs. Until the match, my objectives were simple: familiarize myself with the area, map my route to the Sandton Convention Centre (SCC), and be available to meet with members of Football Partnerships.

The walk to the SCC took 15 minutes, not quite ‘walking distance’ but I do have short legs. When the Soccerex 2008 signs on the lightposts came into view I knew that I was heading in the right direction. I noted the Michelangelo Tower, one of the district’s landmarks and the surest way to orient oneself if lost. There was already a buzz, as signs for the 2009 Confederations Cup draw came down and were replaced by those for Soccerex. Police had blocked off incoming traffic, and people with credentials scurried about like worker ants on a rotting tree.

I received word from Dan Wood, a UK-based member of Football Partnerships and the second guest on the podcast, that he was in the area. In addition to his business with Streets United, Dan represents Abbas Farid, one of the world’s top freestyle footballers. Abbas was to put on a show at Soccerex’s Kasigo Football Festival the following day. They were lunching at the Sandton City Centre, an enormous mall across from the SCC, along with two colleagues from Underground Soccer in Johannesburg. I met Dan at the SCC and we found our way to Nando’s Restaurant, where Abbas, Adriano and Anthony (the latter two of Underground Soccer) were waiting.

Besides Abbas feeling under the weather, we were all in high spirits and anxious to talk football. Adriano and Anthony told me of some of their plans for Underground Soccer, among them bringing freestyle events to cities around the world - the nature of which sound very exciting. In the case that some information might have been confidential, I’ll mention only that the ideas for the venues and the spontaneity with which they’ll be carried out sound highly appetizing.

I stayed at the mall for a little while longer, taking in a promotional event sponsored by Coca-Cola, featuring a lifesize foosball court with people in place of the fixed figurines. They were harnessed in to keep from moving. I found the affair rather amusing.

Orlando, You Like It?
With Abbas ill but set to perform on Sunday, the priority was getting him well. So, we parted ways and I returned to the Town Lodge to ready for the Pirates match. Nelson came for me at 7:15, fetching me in the lobby where I watched the beginning of a Wales v. New Zealand rugby match. I wonder if football would be more popular in the US if teams faced off with a pre-match haka. Personally, I think it’s awesome to watch a squad of bruisers do an intimidating version of a choreographed boy band routine.

With such limited time, this trip would not permit me to do any real touring; however, the 30-minute drive to Soweto showed me how the ‘other half’ lived. Not quite squalor or shantytowns, but certainly a different dimension than that of manicured lawns and electric fences. As we approached the stadium, the streets filled with fans and revelers blowing plastic horns and chanting. The atmosphere was one of jubilation.

The initial plan was for Nelson to drop me off and pick me up, but I invited him to join me for the match. After all, it was an historic night for the Pirates who were playing in their new stadium for the first time. He accepted.

Parking, we learned, is a dodgy affair. Men and boys wearing neon vests tempt you to follow them, as they lead you to curbside parking spots within the neighborhood. You pay them, they watch your car. You know that game. Our attendant was a fifty-something fellow, drunk as pie, and - when he had us pull into a driveway - he insisted that he wouldn’t block us in. Right.

Noting the street where we parked, Mafokeng, we hustled through the poorly lit side streets towards Orlando Stadium. Still needing much work (ie, external lights) and cleanup, the stadium was impressive with an unexpected overhang to shelter the majority of fans from the elements. Literally a mob of people stood in throngs at a security point - most of them drinking and restrained by police until they finished their bottles. Grabbing me by the elbow, Nelson followed as I cut a path. But I don’t have a ticket, Nelson worried. Don’t worry, I’ll buy you one, I assured him, although there was no ticket booth in sight.

We approached a turnstile where the moment of truth stared upon us in the form of a ticket agent. She collected my ticket, ripped it, and handed back the stub. Now it was Nelson’s turn. We jostled to the right towards another agent, I grumbled something like He’s with me, pretended to hand him a stub, and they let us both pass. And we were in. (I wonder what the gate receipts were!?)

With no assigned seats, we made way for the nearest and lowest, doing so in a hurry since the game was already eight minutes in. We found seats by the corner flag, 25 rows back on the visitors’ side. The stadium was packed, perhaps with 45,000 people or more. The noise was ferocious but the mood celebratory, with fans blowing horns, beating drums, waving flags, and stomping feet.

In terms of quality of play, South Africa’s Premier Soccer League doesn’t rate near the world’s top ten; however, it is an experience unlike any other. Largely due to the country’s political and racial divide, football fans are primarily black. (Whites lean towards rugby.) This was visible from my seat, as I saw only two other white faces in the entire stadium, and both were on the field, coaching. How unfortunate it is, I thought, that so many South African whites either have no interest in football or would fear for their safety if they attended a match. Perhaps it’s because I am from New York, but at no point did I ever feel my security was in jeopardy. (Although, admittedly, I am guarded by nature and cautious.) In fact, I even felt comfortable, and when the Pirates scored the first goal of the night, I was up high-fiving with everyone around us.

Here’s a peak of my night at the stadium. Feel the energy, see the stomping, and experience the celebration of a goal.

Orlando Pirates v. Red Zulu at Orlando Stadium (22/11/2008)

The game ended 4-2, but at Nelson’s suggestion we left at around the 85th minute, when it was still 3-2, to beat the crowd. Just beyond the security check the stadium erupted in cheer, as the fourth goal was scored. Upon reaching Mafokeng, much to our chagrin, we found the car blocked in. The good news was that the care was there. The bad, of course, was that we would have to wait for the three people blocking us in to move their vehicles.

Despite the foul up, our attendant still wanted money. Nelson was cheesed, and - if I were in a hurry - I would have been, too. Nelson fought with him, offering five rand - less than 50 cents US. The man refused, and pleaded with the two of us. I told him that Nelson was the boss, because were it up to me he wouldn’t see a dime. A fee of 30 was agreed upon, which I would pay, and we waited around for the game to end and the crowed to filter out. Half an hour later, we were cruising along past the F&B Stadium, the featured venue for 2010. It was little more than a shell, but supposedly on target for completion.

Back at the Town Lodge, Nelson and I high-fived a few more times, he said Exactly a few more times, and we said goodbye. He said it best. November 22, ‘08, I know where I was. Exactly, Nelson, exactly.

By Alex Kotler

The World is Coming
I must have slept, because the flight felt short. Perhaps it was the personal television screen that I could program with the movie of my choice (from a list, of course). The Dark Knight got me over Algeria. Iron Man, Ethiopia. The cuisine, more hot than haute, was certainly a step up from the Delta chow. And the English girl next to me, flying presumably with her mum, would occasionally say something amusing that kept me from counting minutes. Whatever the case, the 10-hour flight passed relatively quickly and it was Friday morning and I was in South Africa.

Stepping off the plane, I immediately felt the impact of the 2010 World Cup. The airport was undergoing rennovations, with makeshift walls and tarps masking ceilings and corridors, and every advertisement in the eye’s path referenced the tournament. The world is coming, everything seemed to say, and my first impressions suggest that South Africa believes it.

The construction leant itself to confusion, and we were funneled into customs to sort out our nationalities: Africans to the right, everyone else to the left. We Rest-of-the-Worlders started as a pack which, over the next 45 minutes, filtered into something resembling a line. Just as we seemed to be going nowhere, a central area opened and those of us who were either attentive or desperate to try a new approach grabbed our carry-ons and rushed for positions. I made it through in 20 minutes.

The beauty of the long customs line is that, provided the chaos doesn’t extend to baggage handling, the wait for luggage is reduced. I snatched my suitcase, identifiable by its colored buttons - a home-project of my father’s to make my black bag distinguishable from all other black bags. Once through, a mob of sign-holders, family members and friends greeted arriving passengers. I slid by to find the Information Desk, where I was to meet my driver who would bring me to the Ritz. The Backpacker’s Ritz.

Despite its sophisticated website, Football Partnerships runs a lean operation. To cut costs and maintain flexibilty, particularly until the situation on the ground was sussed out, my intention was to stay somewhere safe but inexpensive. The Backpacker’s Ritz is a reputable spot for low-budget travelers, and offers private rooms for about $17/night. It would suit my immediate needs well, and allow me to move elsewhere without penalty or advanced warning.

Scanning the area for someone looking for me, I saw a dark-skinned man holding a bright, partially-folded orange sign whose visible portion read ‘itz’. I pointed to him, and he approached. “You Alex?” “That’s me.” He reached out his hand and offered a gelatinous handshake. “I’m Frank.”

California Dreamin’
We made our way to his car, and I summoned whatever I had in the way of small-talk skills. Frank grew up in Jozi, the local nickname for Johannesburg, and has two kids. He’d never been to the US, so when I told him that Jozi reminded me of Los Angeles - spread out and pimpled with palm trees, massive expressways clogged with traffic, and gated mansions to keep people in and keep people out - it didn’t resonate. He told me that the traffic wasn’t normally this bad, but that an accident - which was verified on the local radio - was the reason now.

In some oddly Darwinian sense, natural selection appeared to breed out those who weren’t well-enough adapted to waiting in traffic, and cars began crossing the median to head for alternative routes. A moving truck had tried its best, but couldn’t negotiate the change in slope and got its rear end stuck on a hill. Its driver, kneeling on the embankment, tried with futility to push it out with his hands. We continued for half a mile, crossed at a gentler point in the median and turned back, passing the truck which showed no signs of escaping before the traffic cleared.

The Gated City
They say that Jozi is one of the biggest cities from top to bottom, because it stretches from the heads of skyscrapers to the bowels of mines. It has reaped the benefits of its resources and developed into a country - or, at least in the case of Jozi, a city - that could be mistaken for any metropolis in the west. With this dubious honor, though, comes a glarity disparity evidenced by difference in living standards between the haves and the have-nots. For instance, for every five white men that I saw on the road, three were driving BMWs. For every five black men, three were either working on it or walking on it.

This is only an impression, based not on numbers but on what I could see. And, what I could see was very little because everything appeared to be enclosed by a 10-foot gate topped with barbed wire or electrical fencing. I wondered what real value I would place on having such an estate if it meant feeling like a prisoner on my own land.

After an hour - the traffic was bad on the side streets since all drivers had fled the freeway - we pulled off onto a road and stopped at the cul de sac. There, in all of its gated-in splendor, was the regal Backpacker’s Ritz. I tipped Frank, accepted another fishy handshake, and rang the buzzer to enter. A girl named Sulu greeted me at the countered and sorted out my paperwork.

I checked into my quarters which, although rustic, were more accommodating than I’d expected. I had an armoir to hang and set my clothes, a personal sink, and even art on the walls to add dimension. The grounds were also tasteful, with a manicured lawn, walking paths, and seating areas with views of the city. I unpacked, organized, and readied for my first shower in I don’t know how long (one day, three flights, 32 hours?). This was the moment I realized what I’d forgotten: a towel.

Sparing the details of how I dried (think Rod Tidwell in Jerry McGuire), I dressed and I went for a stroll to pick up some essentials and grab a bite to eat. My walk for an electrical converter and an ATM was uneventful, and my meal nothing more complicated than an omelette with tomatoes and an espresso. Woozy, to say the least, I returned to the Ritz to stave off jet lag for as long as possible. I made it only until 8:00pm.

By Alex Kotler

Delirius. No concept of what day it is. No means of reconciling it with my body clock. A prisoner to Charles de Gaulle (the airport, not the man).

Digression
An easy flight from the US to Paris. Little was asked of me. I read and struggled through a movie with Owen Wilson, Henry Poole is Here. The movie didn’t have proper balance, swinging from ridiculous and unfortunate to hokey and predictable somewhere over the Canadian island of St. John’s. In fairness I was listening with one functioning headphone, so my equilibrium was off, too.

I sat next to a Frenchman who gave new meaning to speed reading. He blazed through a 400-page English paperback with remarkable speed. Like him, I was reading a book in my second language (Spanish). If we were to compare the speed of our respective page-flipping rates, he’d be a young Thierry Henry and I’d be just about anybody else.

We said little other than hello.

It was obvious to me from the flight that the American airline industry is in a drought. Being accustomed to drinking wine from gate to gate, I was almost distraught that the only complimentary adult beverages offered came with dinner - red wine for one, which I fell asleep on.

With an hour to go in the flight, on came the lights and the crew roused us for breakfast. I ordered tea, added milk and two sugards and gazed out the window at the British Isles below. When the attendants came by to pick up our rubbish, I checked the boarding information for my continuing flight from Paris.

Scheduled departure: 10:30
Local time at destination: 9:40
Estimated time of arrival: 9:59

I rang for the attendant to enquire about how much time was necessary to make a connection. Her expression told me that I had a better chance of bedding Heidi Klum than catching the flight. She humored me though, and brought me forward to sit with a group of passengers in a similar predicament en route to Mumbai. Like sprinters, we crouched in ready positions with the unfasten seatbelts indicator as our race starter.

Go! I stood, shuffled forward, and hit Business Class traffic. It was like rush hour on the BQE at the exit off the Brooklyn Bridge towards downtown brooklyn: one lane, everybody merging and nobody moving. A Roumanian girl with a 10:30 to Bucharest shared my frustration. If she missed her flight, she’d have to wait two hours for the next flight. So would her sister, picking her up on the other end, who had a two-hour drive to the airport. At 10:10, the cabin door opened, she became my relay partner in the mad dash.

Off. Running. Bags cluncking into other passengers as we overtook them on moving walkways. Her suitcase wobbled with each turn, tipping to two wheels, slowing our progress. From behind her I steadied her baggage as she swore in frustration. At then end of the corridor a line of television screens with flight rosters. Our eyes scrolled down from top left, I to the Js and she to the Rs. Me, Gate E72. She, Gate D14. We divorced as suddenly as we’d married, bidding farewells that captured our time together - brief but tender. “Good luck,” she cried. “Safe trip,” I replied. And we were gone.

Up the stairs, on the tram. Waiting. 10:19. “Close doors,” I cry within, but they taunt me and my troubles and wait a minute before they comply. There. Out. Up the escalators. Through the glass doors to security. “I’m sorry sir, we’ve closed the flight.” 10:21. And she ushers me to a counter where a French girl named Stephanie rebooks me on a flight 12 hours later.

Do I go to Paris? I know only one person well enough to contact, Football Partnerships’ columnist Jérôme Osselaer, who texts me back that he’s in the south of France. My two bags are a burden, and Stephanie tells me that there are no lockers available for rental. So I’m stuck. I pass through customs and get some air to ponder my options, find none, and so I look for places to access the internet. The WiFi comes with a fee, and so do the stations at the airport Sheraton - each high as pirates’ ransom off the coast of Somalia.

With only the restaurant Paul in the ticketing area, I check back through to the E gates, where I will spend the next 11 hours. I read. I wander. I snooze on a specialized lounge chair that perfectly cradles a sleeping body. I do yoga. I redeem a voucher for a free baguette and drink. I wander some more. I talk to a friend in Madrid who’s sour because we’re two hours aways from one another and helpless to do anything about it. I watch other travelers depart. I admire the terminal’s glasswork. I play FIFA Street Pro on a Sony Playstation 3 by Gate E73. And I lose to England’s street team with a Brazilian side that includes Ronaldinho, Robinho, Kaka, Cicinho, Adriano and Julio Caesar - which shows my lack of video game prowess.

Finally, the day fades and the scene outdoors is decribed by blinking moving lights. There are only three flights on the board: Johannesburg, Santiago and Sao Paolo, and the terminal is nigh empty in both directions. Where once there was commotion, I am alone and can whisper aloud and hear myself. But I have nothing to say.

Present
Hunched on a seat in the gate, I am knackered. Catatonic almost. Is it Wednesday or Thursday? Two middle-aged French couples sit next to me chattering away, unaware. I’m slouching, fighting a battle against my eyelids to stay awake. In and out of consciousness. A group of Norweigan or South African or Dutch or from-somewhere teens laugh boistrously and play a hand of cards. I hear them, but I’m too tired to place their accents.

At half ten boarding is called. I am awake. Happy. Sort of. Now another 10 hours of limbo. But South Africa is on the other side, and that’s where Soccerex and the world are waiting for me. I get in line. I reach the ticketing agent. She stops me. “What now,” I wonder. She gives me a piece of paper and wishes me a good flight. I open it. It’s from Stephanie, the girl who rebooked my flight, and she’s given me her email address. Inside I have a small celebration to recognize my occasional charm. The other part of me wonders what I could have done to have earned an upgrade from a food voucher to passage to the Air France VIP Lounge. I guess I can ask her when I email her. Off to Jozi.

Football Partnerships podcast

Football Partnerships welcomes Laith Al-Janabi, CEO of LAJ Sports Advisory Services, to the latest installment of the Football Partnerships podcast.

Listen here on Football Partnerships, or subscribe to the show via iTunes by searching the podcast directory for ‘Football Partnerships’.

 

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