A transexual prostitute saunters into a seedy bar in San Jose, Costa Rica’s buzzing capital. She has a Joel Campbell badge fashionably pinned to her knock-off Louis Vuitton handbag.
No, this isn’t a bit. There’s no priest or Irishman or a horse with a long face. This is happening, right here, right now, through the foamy bottom of my empty beer glass. I put the glass down to sneak a double take. Yep. It’s happening.
She is strikingly beautiful, doubly so as she plonks herself onto a stool at the end of the bar and skols an Imperial, San Jose’s local beer of choice. She stands, about faces and exits. All within a minute. Man, what a show!
I shake myself off and order another Imperial. Behind the bar is a Bryan Ruiz poster, autographed. Next to the poster is a Costa Rican football shirt, adorned of course with Joel Campbell’s and Bryan Ruiz’ autographs. I glance to the left of the bar where the main door is. I can’t help but smirk satisfactorily at the giant Italian flag strategically placed to the left of the exit sign. This is Latino humour at its witty best. So blissfully dry in its deliberate irony.
The bartender catches me in mid-smirk and gives me a knowing nod. He seems happy in a nonchalant sort of way, that a gringo such as myself understands his otherwise vague flag reference. The fact that I’m smiling only serves to make him smile too. “Un dia muy importante.” A very important day. I understood his inference and at that moment I understood just how much Costa Rica’s perceived success in the 2014 FIFA World Cup means to the beautiful people of this tiny nation.
At the time of writing this article it has been 70 glorious days of celebration for Costa Ricans since they watched their beloved “Los Ticos” clinically frustrate and defeat the Italians 1-0, a result that all but sent the football giants home much earlier than planned from the great tournament. History will forever show that it was a particularly toothy Uruguay (sorry) who delivered Italy their final knockout blow, but it was an aggressive, counter-attacking Costa Rica who set it all up.
In primary school playground antics terms, Costa Rica were the equivalent of your best mate sneaking up behind that really annoying kid who thinks he’s hot shit and positioning himself on all fours while you (Uruguay) casually stroll up and nudge him in the chest causing him to trip over and fall backwards (something the Italians need no help in doing), resulting in mocking hand over mouth chuckles and finger pointing all across the playground. The perfect tag team ambush.
Still smiling, the bartender reaches for the TV remote control. I am desperately hoping that he doesn’t change channels. The most amazing 1960s Latin music concert special is on and I have become quite fixated on the hypnotically busty dancing girls dressed in costumes that I’m pretty certain are made up of at least one feather from every single tropical bird on the planet. The TV goes blank. I make no effort to hide my disappointment.
As I turn away in disgust a giant cheer goes up from the drunks, tradesmen, geriatrics and prostitutes that make up the majority of patrons in this Latino Bukowski bar scene. I turn back toward the TV. The bartender gives me a wink and gestures toward the screen, a dated Rank Arena cinder block monstrosity.
Of course! He’s replaying the game. “Todos los dias.” Every day. He shows the game every day.
The next 90 minutes were filled with that re-living yet predictable joy that comes only through watching the replay of a sporting event where you already know the result. Referees were roundly criticised and implored to alter their decisions, Italian players were booed and urged to “Go home!” and when Bryan Ruiz made that run into the box to receive that perfectly placed, swinging cross from Junior Diaz and head the winner, well let’s just say that I’ve left Motorhead concerts with my eardrums in better condition. Grown men were in tears, hugging and jumping with unabashed joy, passers-by on the street crowded the doorway, smiling and nodding knowingly to each other. Our friend the transsexual prostitute was there too. She looked so happy. This was fantastic! I too found myself caught up in the moment.
Five Imperials later, with the now infamous match completed again for another day, the hideous eyesore that is the dated Rank Arena TV went back to doing what it does best, displaying scantily clad 1960s Latinas dancing and bouncing in way over the top feather costumes.
Then the post-match reality hit. “This was a fucking replay!” I could only begin to imagine the drunken craziness that would’ve hit this bar when the actual goal was scored 70 days ago. That would’ve been cool.
So what does all this mean for football-mad Costa Rica?
It means this: for a tiny nation with very little past sporting success, a population of only 5 million and a struggling economy that relies heavily on tourism and not much else, it mean recognition. It means bragging rights over neighbouring nations Panama and Nicaragua. It mean unity. It provides a welcome distraction from everyday life. More importantly it means respect, identity, momentum and a whole new list of heroes to worship in a country that has been seriously lacking in that aspect. It means that every second child now proudly wears a Joel Campbell or Bryan Ruiz shirt or a Keylor Navas badge.
Yes, they were eliminated in the quarter finals but the locals care not. Since the nation’s round of 16 win over Greece on penalties it has meant a massive influx of children registering to play competition football. Which in turn has meant a much needed cash injection into struggling football clubs. Which in turn now means more jobs for coaches, trainers, ground staff, caterers, it goes on.
The trickle-down effect means better ground conditions, better equipment, better training standards and who knows, perhaps one day in the not-too-distant future, even better World Cup success. All this in just over two months. Witnessing all this first hand makes me smile.
And to the travelling group of hippie Italian musicians staying at the same hostel as me, who claim not to care about the World Cup, in the words of Jorge the hostel owner, “Oh they care, they care.”
