WORLD CUP USA ’94 / MEMORIES : BILL DWYRE : Nothing Mickey Mouse About This
The full moon beamed down on Church Street Station in Orlando. It was a Friday night dripping with humidity and fun. World Cup ’94 had swarmed on the central Florida city like rush hour, and this was the heart of the traffic jam.
Church Street runs along one side of the Citrus Bowl, where five of the 52 games of this international soccer event were played. About three-quarters of a mile down Church Street, in Orlando’s downtown, is Church Street Station, a train stop and, as it turned out, the best natural celebration center of any of the nine venues holding games.
The streets were blocked off, giving the soccer revelers room to revel, and the stores and restaurants encircling the area and stacked a couple of stories high on all sides served as handy filling stations for the empty tanks of eaters, drinkers and souvenir hunters. On this night, thousands became fully leaded.
The date was June 24, and the specific occasion was a postgame celebration by fans of Mexico, which had beaten Ireland that day, 2-1. And the magic foot of Luis Garcia had scored both goals. The fans waved the Mexican flag, took off their sombreros and danced around them and put a heavy strain on the supply of Corona and Tecate in the neighboring tabernas.
One man’s taberna, of course, can be another man’s pub. The Irish were reveling too. Losing is a wee bit uncomfortable, but missing a good party with the lads is even worse. So the men and women of Dublin, dressed in green for their evening of commiseration, put a heavy strain on the area’s supply of Guinness.
But there were more than the Mexicans and the Irish. On this night, the United Nations could have gotten a quorum.
The next day at the Citrus Bowl, Belgium would play Holland. That meant that the blur of greens and reds of Mexico and the sea of green of Ireland were joined by Belgium’s bright red and Holland’s orange crush.
In Viveldi’s, an expensive Italian restaurant on the edge of Church Street Station, two heavy-set Belgians sat at a table in the corner and had their pre-reveling dinner. They were easy to identify, their bright red T-shirts clearly marking them. Three or four tables away, in the middle of the restaurant, a party of well-dressed Dutch fans, identifiable by the language they spoke, also dined. Soon, the burly Belgians were singing songs to the Dutch, the Dutch were singing back, rounds of drinks were crossing like soccer balls, and a wonderful time was had by all.
Then, of course, there were Brazilians. Their team was thousands of miles away at another venue, but the yellow-shirted Brazilians, just like their team, were everywhere during this World Cup. On this night, they hung more with the Mexicans than the Irish, apparently finding greater affinity there than with ghost-white-skinned people drinking thick black beer. A wee cultural gap there.
All of this came together in a tidal wave of sights and sounds that threatened to drown the senses. Partaking of what was being sold in the bars was not essential. On its own, the scene was intoxicating.
In the middle of it all sat a black man in a motorized wheelchair. His legs rested in a distorted angle in the chair and his hands and arms twisted unnaturally when he moved them.
He was selling single roses, from a vase at his feet. On the arm of his chair was a small slot, where buyers could push in their paper money. All around him, the able-bodied celebrators sang and danced and toasted their countries and their opponents. Yet never was the space of the man in the wheelchair infringed on. Nor did the crowd drift from him, as if his handicaps, his differences, somehow made him ineligible to share in their evening, their party.
He sold his roses in no language, and in all languages. When a buyer asked, “How much?” he labored as best he could to raise his left arm into the air and make his fingers answer. Sometimes, they’d answer one dollar, sometimes three. On this special night in Orlando, there were many $20 single roses purchased.
Time seemed to stand still that night at Church Street Station. It was 10 p.m. at 2 a.m. The moon never moved, nor did the air. The beat of the drums and the rhythm of the international songs gave the surroundings a cadence that marched in the memory for weeks.
Through it all, the crowd never moved from the man in the wheelchair. Every once in a while, a man in a bright red shirt or a woman in green would slip from the crowd, jog up to him and signal him to raise his hand. Then, they would give him a high five and jog back to the party, leaving behind a huge smile.
Eventually, in little groups of three or four, the revelers of all colors and all countries drifted away from Church Street toward their cars. Dawn was only hours away, but the air stayed still and the moon still lit the way.
As they left, many of the women, and even some of the men, carried with them single roses.
