Showdown in San Salvador

Game enlivens city but U.S. State Department delivers undiplomatic blow

Thursday, June 26

Hoping for tourists

A surreal sight at the Costa Del Sol, a beach resort some 30 miles southeast of San Salvador. Seven uninterrupted miles of white sand, blue skies and sea, with scarcely a person in sight. Suddenly a herd of Brahma cattle and a rather emaciated pony march past. At the head of the procession is SA photographer Tony Quinn, who saved a calf’s life half a mile away, pulling it out of a swimming pool ù by its ears. The march past is either a bovine tribute or they are on to Quinn’s line of BS. Quinn has been to El Salvador several times and can regale you with stories of the Civil War that ended in 1992: The mass grave the U.N. excavated in the mountains; the volcano overlooking San Salvador where helicopter shells still lie, overgrown with moss and grass; and the Hotel El Presidente, where the ballot slips were counted in 1992. But El Salvador is slowly improving its image. Six months ago, the lines at Immigration were divided into Nationals and the rather dubious catch-all title of “Diplomats.” Now the latter has been superimposed with a reference to visitors at “Tourists.” However, the Costa Del Sol is a resort without tourists. Well, it is the rainy season. San Salvador sits in a valley shrouded in fog. The temperature is in the 80s with a corresponding level of humidity. It’s sticky-shirt weather, alleviated by an almost daily mid-afternoon downpour. The ride back begins with plantations, coconut groves, lush vegetation, and shacks by the side of the road. This gives way to the maize factories, police and army training facilities and the roads are filled with buses with psychedelic paintwork and pickups whose rears are filled with commuters. And then the city proper: shanties; cars chaotically pushing bumper to bumper, belching exhaust fumes that combine with the smell of rotting trash. Beggars on crutches hobble among the traffic asking for money. Fruit and papusa vendors’ stalls spill over the sidewalk, before they too give way to the hills and the big billboards. While Christopher Columbus’ statue has its eyes gouged out, and the sockets plastered with red paint in a downtown park that’s cluttered with homeless children and junkies, the new colonialists come with universal signs ù Nike, Shell, Texaco, Coca-Cola, Burger King and Pizza Hut, with its fleet of delivery scooters in the parking lot. But up in the hills, where the U.S. is billeted, all is calm. The houses are huge, the gardens capacious. They share one notable feature: the walls are adorned with barbed wire and private armed guards in ad hoc uniforms wait at the gates. To all intents and purposes San Salvador resembles any other big city and is probably no less safe. But the U.S. state department, for one, isn’t taking any chances with the U.S.-El Salvador match. It’s issued what the locals perceive as a heavy-handed edict, advising U.S. citizens not to travel to El Salvador for the match. American ambassador Anne Patterson has followed suit, banning employees from going to the game, as has the Peace Corps. The solution: The Embassy will have a fish-fry come Sunday and will watch the match at the office, lest the scenes that occurred during and after the Mexico game should be repeated. Friday, June 27

Pro league needs boost

That looks unlikely. The Mexico game has left a bad taste, bearing all the hallmarks of a party gone awry. FIFA stepped in with a $35,000 fine, threatened Cuscatlan Stadium with closure and banned El Salvador coach Milovan Djoric, a resident at the Hotel El Salvador, from the bench for this match. The buildup to the Americans’ visit is far more restrained. Hoping for a repeat of the hysteria that greeted the sale of tickets for the Mexico game ù lines forming at 3 a.m. for a 7 a.m. commencement, tickets being sold within an hour, hundreds of anguished faces, etc., etc. ù we head to the Banco Cuscatlan at 6 a.m. The line numbers about 100 fans. Tickets, priced between $5 and $60, went on sale early to credit-card holders and they’re available at more than one location. Still, Ramon Ventura, has been in line since 5 a.m. to pick up a pair of $5 seats. He predicts a 3-0 victory, lopes off to the ticket window, poses for a quick picture and then drives off in his Mazda pickup with his tickets in the glove compartment. Ventura’s optimism is shared in the papers. La Prensa Grafica runs a vox pop column. All but one of the 50-odd respondents predict a home win. The one dissenting voice has a box all to himself. Players are polled about their thoughts on the U.S. All of them point to the visitor’s strength, speed and aerial ability. Roberto Martinez refers to the playing style as a lo ingles, which should make U.S. Soccer happy. Salvadoran players keep the ball on the ground and the consensus is, a good crowd and an early goal for the home team and all will be well. By the close of business, 75 percent of tickets have been sold, which bodes well for a good turnout, and the following day’s Prensa suggests cutting down on the booze before and during the game to create the proper environment. El Salvador must be good, though, because they don’t need to practice. We arrive at Cuscatlan for the noon session and the team’s a no-show. We hang out with a three-legged dog and one that looks to be on its last legs while the beer vendors wash out their coolers and people hawk mushy watermelon in plastic bags. Two journalists call the Salvadoran federation. Practice will take place at 3 p.m., they’re told. Come at five and they’ll talk then. One works for a newspaper. The other has a hearing-aid and works for the radio. The newspaperman predicts a 2-1 win, the radio guy offers 1-0 or a tie. I opt for a 3-1 win for the U.S., which should serve as the kiss of death. “Hello,” says the newspaperman in English, shaking my hand as we part. Come 4:45, the Salvadorans still haven’t shown up. “They looked tired,” beamed Djoric that night in the hotel elevator. “So I gave them the day off.” Still, it’s not an entirely wasted journey. The Salvadoran pro league, CLIMA, and a number of clubs are based at the stadium. CLIMA general manager Jose Ramos sits at his desk in front of an old American Airlines’ poster of John Harkes. “We were formed in 19… hold on a minute, let me check,” says Ramos, picking up a phone. “Yes, 1969. We’re a 10-team league with one team going up and another going down.” Was it hard to handle soccer during the civil war? “Oh no, we just continued with smaller leagues and bigger regional emphasis,” he smiles. But Salvadoran soccer isn’t flourishing in peacetime. The 10 pro teams are all losing money at the rate of $100,000 a season. However, the country’s 300 registered pros make around $1,500 a month with perks thrown in by sponsors. Four foreigners, mostly Central and South Americans, one player from Sierra Leone, “and one from Portugal ù he’s quite good, you know,” are permitted. It doesn’t sound a million miles removed from MLS. Until you get to the attendance, which averages 2-3,000 fans a game, with the Alianza-FAS match drawing three times that figure. “At the end of 36 games the winner is the Cup winner and the top four teams compete for the title,” says Ramos. “If we qualify for France, things will stay normal and maybe even get better. If we don’t, then people will lose interest and things will go even further downhill. Soccer is an expensive business and people have to take care of the necessities of life before they can think about entertainment.” Back at the Hotel El Salvador, the lobby is transformed. When I left, a camera crew was filming a commercial, instructing a bell-hop to go back and forth with a trolleyful of suitcases. On returning, it’s full of security men from the Embassy and the local VIP protection services. As night falls, another downpour breaks out and the sound of splashing rain is broken by the piercing wail of police sirens. The U.S. team and press corps have arrived. Two security men are stationed on each floor, guns under their jackets. I ask one if he gets bored in his job. “Waiting is boring, but if nothing happens, then it’s a good thing,” he says. Saturday, June 28

A coach among the people

This time the Salvadorans are at the stadium on time. But they’re a little miffed. First, because Eric Wynalda is injured, then because of the U.S. advisories and also because of Djoric’s touchline ban. “They’re going to miss [Wynalda] a bit, but they’ve got plenty of players to replace him like Cobi Jones,” says forward Elias Montes. “But we wanted to play the best team.” “I guess [the U.S. State Department and the Embassy] got confused,” says Mauricio Cienfuegos. “It’s not political, it’s a soccer game. Nobody’s died here. I don’t know why they did it.” As for the touchline ban, FIFA official Anthony James says that “[Djoric] can sit in the stands and he can use a cellular phone if he likes. And if he says he’s calling his mother, then FIFA has to believe him.” Djoric is more brazen. “It’s not difficult,” he says. “I’ll be in the stands and I’ll have a walkie-talkie, but it’s not as if the players don’t know what to do. We’re playing better than the Americans at the moment … I’m very upset about [the advisories], though. El Salvador plays good soccer and we’re not dirty or anything. People don’t understand that Mexico won the last game because of the referee. Trouble will happen anywhere with a ref like that, I don’t care if it’s China or Europe.” With that, Djoric briskly shakes hands and heads off to a group of waiting fans, who are chanting “Milovan, Milovan.” He poses for photos, kisses a few babies, hugs some female fans, puts on his trademark black shades and hops into his Volkswagen. The people’s coach in the people’s car. Sunday, June 29

Fans in disguise

Cuscatlan’s main tribune, lovingly christened “Vietnam” begins filling up at 7 a.m., about the same time the radio stations begin broadcasting from the stadium. We arrive under police escort at the slightly more reasonable hour of 9:30, in plenty of time for a noon kickoff. The U.S. players arrive 30 minutes later. A small crowd gathers at the entrance to witness their arrival. The bus can’t quite get past, so a riot policeman kicks a vendor’s wares to one side, and the bus drives past to a chorus of boos, thumbs-downs and the odd extended middle finger. “F*** USA, F*** gringoes!” shouts a demure woman next to me as the team bus crawls uphill to the players’ entrance, where a phalanx of riot policemen are waiting to escort them inside. A young man draped in a Salvadoran flag walks past and whispers, “Go USA. I’m rooting for you today!” Then why’s he dressed up like a home fan? “Because I don’t want t get my a** kicked, man,” he laughs. “I’m a hypocrite for the day.” Other U.S. fans are similarly attired. Matt, from Tucson, says, “I don’t feel threatened. I find a smile goes a long way.” But the consensus is: Don’t wear red. Inside the stadium, it’s a sea of royal blue. The two fans wearing red are booed and doused with water. “Yankees, welcome to Vietnam!” says one sign. Another thanks President Clinton for his continued to support. A third casts Oedipal aspersions ù in blunt Anglo-Saxon ù on the U.S. team. I do a couple of radio interviews ù one inside a urinal ù and give my expert analysis on everything from the U.S. team to the weather and Salvadoran women (If you missed it, I can’t tell you my answer) and then rush back to my seat as a massive roar comes from inside the stadium. The teams appear for practice and we’re showered with ù confetti. There’s another papelito attack when the match proper begins and a third when El Salvador equalizes ù empty cartons this time. But it’s all tame fare and the crowd applauds the U.S. at the final whistle. “I had a few bags of what I hope was water and some mangoes thrown at me at corners,” says John Harkes. “But I don’t understand it: Costa Rica throws stuff and here they applaud us.” “Nothing doing at Cuscatlan,” is one headline in the following day’s Prensa, which also bemoans the lack of Salvadoran firepower. But the real trouble occurred in an event that took place in a city where no travel advisories are issued: Las Vegas. Should Iron Mike Tyson ever read the Salvadoran press, he’ll discover that he has a new nickname: “Dracula.” by Soccer America Senior Editor Duncan Irving