The international language of football

I love sports and I love travel. My favourite sport to play and coach is actually American Football, but Football is my social hobby and I regard it as the best sport in the world. It has brought me many friends and happy memories, and got me into some ridiculous circumstances and situations. This is an example of why Football is the best, the barriers it can break down:

Around six years ago, my father was in Brazil for a few days on a business trip, São Paulo specifically. Left to his own devices for a couple of hours on the second evening, he went out to the huge waterfront restaurant near his hotel. The restaurant is massive…one of those open-air places where the main meals are carried around the place on trolleys, and when you want something you just call the trolley-bearer/waiter over and take a piece. Apparently it’s not unusual to see a boar or other large mammal being carted around.

I should mention that my father speaks virtually no Portuguese. In fact he speaks very little of any language, and those few words he does know he pronounces all of them with a French accent, regardless of the language he is attempting. It seems that São Paulo is not a regular tourist destination for people from Scotland, and English is not widely spoken there (at least that was the impression he got).

My father is however one of those irritating people with a bowel that must be platinum-coated…he will taste, try and devour just about anything from anywhere. He ate chicken feet in China. Fish eye in Malaysia. A right weirdo, not afraid to cut a piece of flesh from a still-hairy beast, lather it in gravy and wash it down with the local drink of choice.

So here he is on this late evening, sitting on his lonesome in a sprawling, bustling, open-air restaurant. He speaks to nobody, other than when approached by the waiter. When this altercation does takes place, it consists of a variety of grunts, gestures, pointing at other people’s tables etc. Awaiting something he fancies to wheel by, my father tries to order a drink. “Here, Manuel, what’s the specialty? “Qué?” “What’s that there - that picture on that poster?” (he points to the pillar and the poster shown) “Caipirinha?” “Ok China, one of them…..Grandé….Gracias”

For over an hour, and 4 or 5 drinks, similar exchanges take place, with barely a common word shared between the two of them. Then, as my father decides on a main dish, the waiter comes to assist, and attempts to properly break down the impossible barrier. “Usted es de Inglaterra?” [You are from England? --rough translation probably...my spanish isn't great either] “Englaterre?!!!….ENGLAND?! **** no, I’m from Scotland…William Wallace…erm, Sean Connery….the Crankies?……..EN ECOSSE… …ECOSSAISE?!!” He tries vainly to get his point across, but the waiter appears slightly confused (I’m guessing the Crankies never made it to the favelas). The waiter leaves to pick up some side salad etc from the kitchen.

But on his return…….it appears my father’s combination of Pidgin English and butchered French has hit home somehow. As the waiter approaches the table, he feigns a sidestep to the left..”Ugh!”He steps to the right “Hu-ugh” He flicks his right foot, and as he puts the salad plate down on the table he pretends to chip a football forwards.”Gol Gol Gol Gol Gol Gol Gol Goooooooolllll……..Arrrrrcchhiiiiiieeeee Gemmmmiiilllllll!!!!!!

My father drank with this man until 8am, talking football all night, watching the games from the previous weekend on TV, and they still to this day probably only share a couple of words in language, but also the same brilliant memory of a great World Cup goal from 1978.