WORLD CUP USA 1994 : SOCCER / GRAHAME L. JONES : Life on the Trail: Paralysis to Paradise

There comes a point in many a journey when the traveler has to decide whether it is better to go on or simply curl up and die by the side of the road.

In Dallas, that monument to bad taste that lies shimmering in the heat and haze of the Texas wasteland, it occurred to me that the curling-up option seemed the best bet.

The clock on the bedside table said 4:20 a.m. The congealed remains of last night’s room service pizza, most of it uneaten, lay nearby, testimony to yet another unfortunate choice in meals.

Sleep was something desperately needed but not likely to be achieved. At 4:30 a.m., the telephone rang.

“Good morning. This is your wake-up call.”

Wake-up, hell. I hadn’t been to sleep for fear that the call would not arrive, as had happened several weeks--or was it lifetimes?--ago in Pontiac, Mich.

By 5:15 a.m., with the sky still an inky black and the temperature already approaching 80 degrees, I stumbled out of the hotel, into a cab and took off for Dallas-Ft. Worth International Airport.

But as bleak as the day was starting out, all was not lost. The cabdriver turned out to be Nigerian and had very definite opinions on the Super Eagles’ chances against Italy in the next day’s game 1,552 miles away in Foxboro, Mass., which is where I was going.

He also had some interesting thoughts about the previous day’s game between Sweden and Saudi Arabia at the Cotton Bowl, which is where I had been.

Welcome to life on the World Cup ’94 trail.

This is not about teams or players. Nor is it about coaches or referees, or even games. Rather, it is a gathering of personal impressions on the impact World Cup ’94 has had on America in the last three weeks.

It is a collection of postcards hurriedly scribbled and sent home from various stops during a 13,480-mile odyssey on the road to the Rose Bowl.

In another week, that journey will be over and so will the tournament. The national teams of 24 countries will have played 52 matches in nine U.S. cities over the course of 31 days. Those are the bare statistics.

But the postcards tell a different story.

LOS ANGELES: The flags and banners that adorn downtown streets and the roads around LAX will soon become a familiar sight. The same decorations, hundreds of them, have been draped on poles from Palo Alto to Orlando. What is going to happen to them once the World Cup is over? Will they be discarded, given to the volunteers, sold for charity, sold for profit? Who knows? And by the way, how long are those World Cup murals alongside the freeways going to last?

CHICAGO: This is a real city, probably the finest in America after San Francisco. And it has caught World Cup fever. Almost every store and restaurant along classy Michigan Avenue sports some sort of tournament-related paraphernalia, even if it’s only a soccer ball or two in the window. The Chicago Tribune plays the World Cup big every day. Newsstands and bookstores are bulging with international newspapers and magazines filled with soccer news.

FIFA’s brass has installed itself in a waterfront hotel, but the interest is not so much in the political wrangling among soccer’s leaders as it is in the fight going on for the World Cup 2002 bid.

Japan and South Korea have set up adjoining hospitality suites and are going toe to toe in an effort to win support for their respective bids. Both countries are seeking to stage the tournament and the intense rivalry will continue until a decision is announced in 1996. Japan has the edge, but not by much.

Highlight of the opening ceremony at Soldier Field: Singer Diana Ross trying to hit an open net from 10 yards and missing completely. She could play for Greece.

PONTIAC, Mich.: It’s difficult to know what’s more impressive, the incredibly enormous Swiss flag hanging from two construction cranes outside the Silverdome or the Silverdome itself.

Inside, amid sauna-like conditions, Teofilo Cubillas is hurrying through the crowd. Only in the United States can a legitimate World Cup star--he played striker for Peru in Mexico in 1970 and in Argentina in 1978--pass unnoticed and unheralded. You want to shout, “Do you know who this is?” But Cubillas is not concerned. He came to see the United States play Switzerland, not to sign autographs.

Later, the Moose Preserve Bar and Grill in nearby Bloomfield has promised to show the day’s second game, between Colombia and Romania, on its big-screen TV. Its menu bids us welcome:

“The featured wines this month are inspired by the World Cup Soccer Games (sic). They will draw people from all over the world to our city. We hope that this will be just one of many events that we will host in the years to come.”

That’s unlikely unless the Moose Preserve folk move their tables farther away from the big screen. That astonishing free kick goal by Romania’s Gheorghe Hagi had to elude not only the Colombian defense and goalkeeper but three or four diners, several beer bottles and a salt and pepper set before hitting the back of the net.

And the picture was fuzzy too.

WASHINGTON: The media shuttle has not appeared. The volunteer is more interested in her novel than the bus schedule. The Metro is the only option. It’s a good one. Overflowing with fans from Mexico and Norway, it’s an E-ticket ride, complete with sound effects. “Ole! Ole! Ole! Ole!”

CHICAGO: You can’t see it as you drive into the city from O’Hare, but it’s in plain sight when you drive back to the airport: An unknown business has painted an enormous Brazilian flag on one of its exterior walls. It is at least three stories tall. And Brazil’s not even playing here.

At night, another sight catches the eye. An insurance company has kept the lights on in 118 strategically selected windows over 20 floors of its skyscraper to beam a corporate World Cup welcome message to the world.

EAST RUTHERFORD, N.J.: New Jersey has been the butt of jokes since time immemorial. Newark Airport proves to be a good indication why. Construction chaos. Delayed flights. Nonexistent manners.

Never mind, it is soon left behind as I head for my hotel at 1:30 a.m. Unfortunately, the hotel, too, is soon left behind. Turns out I went to the wrong one. The World Cup road is beginning to wear exceeding thin. Another cab, another hotel, another night with very little sleep.

Giants Stadium cheers me up. The Meadowlands has done the tournament proud, as have each of the other eight stadiums being used. All have been boldly and colorfully decorated with World Cup designs and logos. A job well done.

ORLANDO, Fla.: A two-hour delay on the runway at Newark (where else?) makes Florida seem like paradise when I finally arrive sometime after midnight. It isn’t, but it seems like it.

The police presence here is more evident than anywhere else and the cops are not smiling. It’s a bit disconcerting to enter the media work area and be greeted by a snarling police dog and its handler, both of them ugly. Or to be searched not only on the way in but also on the way out of the Florida Citrus Bowl.

All of this doesn’t quite jibe with the Mickey Mouse postcards on sale at the hotel, featuring the round-eared rodent kicking a soccer ball. Then again, perhaps it does.

DALLAS: The taxi ride from DFW into the city takes you past an unattractive dome on the right side of the road.

“That’s where the Cowboys play,” the American cabbie beams proudly.

But the constant travel has left me in a sour mood.

“I’ll go see them when they start playing soccer,” I reply.

He doesn’t say another word the rest of the journey.

By the way, if the World Cup had to use Dallas as a venue, wouldn’t it have been better to play in a stadium where pillars don’t block the view?

EAST RUTHERFORD: Newark is even worse the second time around. Even the postcards are boring.

CHICAGO: If Major League Soccer really wants to build a mailing list of potential fans, it could do worse than to contact every cabbie in the country (except the guy in Dallas).

Today, the one taking me to Soldier Field is from Ethiopia, and he tells me that although he can’t afford the time or money to actually attend any of the games, he is taping them all on his VCR at home and enjoying them at night.

DALLAS: Before the kickoff of the Sweden-Saudi Arabia game, I bump into another former star making his way anonymously through the crowd. Carlos Alberto was captain of Brazil’s 1970 World Cup-winning team and later played for the New York Cosmos and the California Surf.

The Cotton Bowl pillars are in his way too.

Something nice about Dallas: One bright teacher has had his or her grade-school pupils paint World Cup pictures. The watercolors adorn one section of the International Broadcast Center. They are far more appealing than any of the souvenirs on sale nearby, including the boxed set of 24 World Cup team metal badges at $125.

BOSTON: The sports bar and restaurant in the lobby of my hotel has the Netherlands-Ireland game showing on its two big screens and on every other TV set in the place. The bar is not full, but everyone is watching intently, including the maitre d’.

He turns out to be from Ireland and has a vested interest in the result. But he takes the loss in good stride and makes an interesting observation.

“The Welsh, the Scottish and even the English have been backing our lads,” he says, surprised and pleased at the thought that stereotypes are being broken. Soccer can do that.

Later, the same bar is packed for the USA-Brazil game.

Foxboro Stadium is about a 45-minute drive from civilization as we know it, and once near the stadium the freeway signs begin displaying the soccer ball logo that is a feature in all nine World Cup cities.

In the press tent, a familiar figure looms. Diego Lucero is a living legend. Now 93, the Argentine-born Lucero is the only person on earth to have been to every World Cup tournament, starting in Uruguay in 1930. A former journalist, he now is one of FIFA’s honored guests.

We exchange a few words and I move on. Later, at Logan International Airport, I buy a unique cap. Manufactured before the qualifying rounds were completed, it celebrates France’s participation in World Cup ’94. France didn’t make it and I have a collector’s item.

But France will be the World Cup host in 1998. I wonder if Lucero will be there. I hope he is.

His World Cup odyssey has been a great deal longer than mine and surely the Rose Bowl will not be its final destination.