Travels with Nelson: A Father-Son journey to the World Cup

By David Smith and Nelson Ruseler-Smith

Father and son make a dream come true by going to World Cup 2014 for a month together, seeing games from day one all the way to the Final. Experience the high and lows with them, as Mum's country reaches the Final; as Dad's country goes out disastrously ; as Nelson's Team USA challenges the world's best; as they have their match tickets stolen; as they drive through a flood with fans of the opposing team; as they play Soccer in the Maracana, walk out on the hallowed pitch, and meet the next Messi; as they laugh, cry, celebrate and mourn. This is a book not just for all football fans -- but for every parent and child who dream of an adventure together. All of it written by Dad, a lifelong journalist, and son Nelson, a High School freshman.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jul 31, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483533780

Book preview

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LIKE FATHER, LIKE SON

Rio de Janeiro

HARD to imagine a better Father-Son adventure than this. A month ahead of us, in Brazil, for the World Cup, and with tickets all the way to the final. Tickets for matches involving ‘our’ teams, Argentina, England, Holland. And, of course, Team USA, because all our children are US citizens, to them that’s the pride and joy. So Nelson has brought his four team jerseys. It’s called hedging your bets, right ? What makes it even more delightful is that we are here only courtesy of Sonia, Argentine-Dutch, wife, mother and breadwinner who just happens to work for one of the World Cup’s big sponsors. Nelson and I are indeed blessed, and oh, so fortunate. It’s a tough life, right, but someone’s has to do it, si?

This is my third World Cup. Spain 82, USA 94, now Brazil 2014. And my second World Cup adventure with sons. In 1994, we had some fun, the older guys, Mark, Matt and I. Team USA versus Switzerland under the roof of the Silverdome in Pontiac, Michigan, Switzerland managed in those days by the same Roy Hodgson who now leads England. Not much of a match but such an atmosphere that day. The old world meets the new. Newcastle United, Blackburn Rovers, West Bromwich Albion meets Madison Avenue, J.Walter Thompson, and Prime Time. Hollywood meets Pele, Maradona, Bobby Charlton. The game born in Britain, and so celebrated in the old British empire of Africa, not to mention in the former Spanish dominions of Latin America, given the treatment, USA style.

I saw that World Cup as the turning-point for the modern game, the moment when Soccer became a powerhouse industry of the new globalization, the market-leader of our sporting world, generating not just big bucks but major glitz, celebrity, fame. The young David Beckham did not appear that year, because England managed not to qualify, but 20 years later David was living in Hollywood Hills, and selling himself, his wife and kids in a manner that MGM management would be proud of : everything from underwear, to perfume, to UNICEF Ambassador. Not by chance did the boy from Essex end up a Hollywood celeb. It mirrored the dramatic changes in the game which spawned him, and that revolution started back in 1994, conveniently the dawn of the internet age which meant David became a household name not just in Birmingham, but Beijing, Bogota, and Brazzaville. It was in Congo that I once glimpsed the power of the David brand . I was trying to buy Nelson a Congo team-shirt in the capital Kinshasa, bold yellow and blue, and I kept being offered Beckham’s Manchester United red, with number 7 of course.

‘I’ve finally learned to accept myself for who I am – I am a beggar for good soccer,’ wrote one of my favourite Latin America writers, Eduardo Galeano. ‘I go about the world, hand outstretched, and in the stadiums I plead : A pretty move, for the love of God. And when good soccer happens, I give thanks for the miracle, and I don’t give a damn which country or team produces it.’

I belong to the Galeano School, I suppose. I’ve played the game my whole life; even in recent years I’ve managed an outing or two for the veterans team of a small pueblo in Argentina. And I dream of seeing a wondrous moment on the pitch before me, to give thanks for the miracle. Never forget that the England manager in 1986 accepted Maradona’s Hand of God goal because he judged that Maradona’s other goal that day was a move of such beauty that it was worth two.

Let’s hope, because the countdown to Brazil 2014 has been painful to watch.

Cameroon almost didn’t make it because the players refused to travel until they were paid their bonus (200,000 dollars each) for reaching the finals. Soccer, money before country.

The new military rulers of Thailand ordered TV stations to show games free, so as to increase the ‘happiness index’ of their people in the midst of curfews, crackdowns and arrests. Soccer, panacea for the masses.

And Brazil echoed to the sound of protest, we were flying into an airport paralysed by strikes, to a city where violent street demonstrations had been the norm for months, to a country where the President dare not show her face at a stadium for fear of being booed off the park. Soccer, the catalyst for discontent.

Yet we can hope. Each match over the next month will have a narrative all of its own, with winners, losers and countless tales. A pretty move, for the love of God. We hope to share some with you.

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WHEN the words came out of my mom’s mouth I was ecstatic. You’re going to the World Cup. Just six simple words that made me want to do a jig and have my own victory lap. The next sentence was the one that was a tad more trying. Closely following my moment of joy was a sentence that gave me mixed emotions. It’ll be just you and your father. I now felt a little, how can I put this, worried.

Don’t get me wrong, my Dad and I have a good relationship. We’re both Arsenal and England fans, we both enjoy The Who (the band) and we both have a rather dry sense of humor that we both seem to get. But, out of our family, we’re both the ‘klutzes’. And by this I mean that I lose things weekly, if not daily and it’s hardly a family vacation if my dad doesn’t leave his blackberry, kindle, bag, or computer on the plane. In order for you to get a little perspective on how bad our mess-ups are, I’m going to recount one or two of them.

I was nine years old and my father, my sister and I went on a trip to Spain and France. My Dad had the bright idea of renting a car and crossing the Alps from France to Spain, while my Mom had the even brighter idea of taking full insurance for any kind of damage to the car. Knowing my Dad would wreck it. In the course of this trip, my Dad managed to put his foot through the windscreen, causing it to crack and almost break, crash into a rather large gold ball while trying to park,and inflicted so many dents, bumps and scratches that ….when we talk about the trip, we don’t talk about the beauty of Spain or the Alps but instead of that poor, poor car. It is also important to note that when my father crashed into the gold ball he insulted the poor French people telling him that he shouldn’t park there because of the gold ball. He said Bloody Frenchmen trying to stop me from getting my parking spot!

My Dad not only crashed and insulted the locals on this trip, he also got lost time after time. It didn’t matter whether we were in the Alps, Barcelona or Bordeaux, my Dad managed, somehow, never to know where we were or where we needed to go. Even with my ultra-responsible sister telling him exactly where he needed to go and when, he managed to miss the turn offs. So you may be able to imagine why I wasn’t exactly jumping at the prospect of him and me on a solo trip.

But, don’t get me wrong. My Dad isn’t the only one who messes up. I myself have quite a long history of being irresponsible and losing things and myself. In my time I’ve broken and lost so many items you wouldn’t even begin to understand. I’ve lost my DS (a handheld gaming system) on a plane, lost or broken basically every watch I’ve had within three months except for my current one, and ruined so many kindles it’s really quite embarrassing.

Perhaps my greatest snafu occurred during a trip to South Africa. We were in Cape Town, a city of 3.75 million people and not a very safe city at that, when I broke my Kindle. It was the most bizarre thing. I dropped it on the carpeted floor of a hotel room and when I picked it up the screen was horribly cracked. At this point, I’m panicking, my Kindle is broken and it was a new one too. My Mom had gone for a walk on the beach. So, I decided that I’ll go see her and she can tell me what to do and how to fix it.

So, I leave our hotel, make for the beach and there she is. She and I have a nice chat about it and she doesn’t even seem angry. I then decide to join her for a happy walk on the beach. Good two hours later, when we’re coming back, I see my sister run towards me in tears swearing at me from a distance. I then see my Dad with a look of utter relief on his face that quickly turns to anger. I then realize that I failed to tell my Dad or my sister where I had gone and what I was doing. They’ve been looking for me for two hours. So, I’m thinking that if my sister couldn’t even keep my Dad from messing up in Spain, I highly doubt that I, Mr. Irresponsible, can keep him from messing up. In fact, I think I’ll only aid him in his mistakes and him in mine.

Now that you have some background on all this I really hope you can appreciate how hard this trip is going to be for us both ! I’m sure it will be great fun, such an adventure, but I think it will be the most challenging thing I’ve