Soccer City stadium in Soweto, Johannesburg, just before the World Cup was opened. I arrived at the stadium about five hours before kickoff time. This was the kickoff of the entire World Cup, the first World Cup in Africa, after all. It was cold, windy and hazy. This was Johannesburg in the winter. The stands were empty, but I met Collins. He is from the north of South Africa, Limpopo, where his first language is Sepedi, almost the same as Sesotho. He was going to work at a food stand during the game. I asked him how much they pay him, but he said it was just volunteer work. He would be working for a wage at Peter Mokaba stadium in Polokwane, where other World Cup matches would be played, but he was told to come down and work the opening match in Johannesburg just for practice.
The food stands were pretty American. They served only Coca-Cola beverages, only Budweiser beer, and the only hot food was hot dogs – except what they called a chili dog, which was a hot dog with bits of hot peppers inside. You can keep Americans off soccer, but you can't keep American businesses from making a buck off it.
I bought a chili dog and asked Collins who was going to win today's game between South Africa and Mexico. "South Africa will win 3-0," he said. "I had a dream last night, and my dreams always come true. I couldn't argue with that. Collins continued, "South Africa will also make it to the quarterfinal, definitely. My dream says that in the end there is Brazil, Portugal, Spain and Argentina who will be with the trophy, but I'm not sure which one. I will keep dreaming."I circled the stadium a few times to get a sense of the place. I heard mostly English and Spanish. And though it was still three hours before kickoff, the South Africans were already blowing their horns, called vuvuzelas, incessantly. When they blew them in the face of Mexicans, the Mexicans only smiled. Everyone was just happy to be at such a momentous event. The South Africans loved the sombreros and ponchos of the Mexicans and asked to take pictures together.
“Welcome Home World” came on the screen during the opening ceremonies. “This is Africa.” But all around me were white South Africans and a few Indians. There were sections elsewhere with mostly black South Africans, but not around me. I felt I was surrounded by rugby, not soccer, fans. I wondered if these folks had ever attended a local South African soccer match. But I didn't want to be negative, as folks were so excited about the event, and everyone in the stands cheered for kickoff in unison.
Mexico took possession from the first instant and held it for the first two minutes, at which point they almost scored. I feared a slaughter was coming and a great depression hitting the host country. A guy behind me said, “These Mexicans can play, hey?” It didn't look good for Bafana Bafana.
The Mexican fans were as organized as their players. The stadium was, I estimated by the colors people wore (green and red for Mexico, green and yellow for South Africa), 94% South African, 5% Mexican, 1% other, like me. The total attendance was said to be 84,490.The Mexicans had chants, songs and waves. But the South Africans were a bunch of random vuvuzela blowing.
When the first half ended at 0-0, a work crew marched onto the field with small pitchforks and repaired divots and rips in the grass from the players' spikes. I counted the photographers lining the field: over 200. They were all now on laptops, presumably uploading the pictures they had taken during the first half for websites and other publications around the world.
Only ten minutes into the second half, Tshabalala, number 8, scored his goal for South Africa and the energy level in the stadium multiplied by 50. Vuvuzelas were being blown and waved in concert. I considered putting in the earplugs I had been given at the gate. 
Not all South Africans like vuvuzelas.Not long after that though, Marquez scored for Mexico and a quiet descended on the stadium, save for pockets of red and green singing in Spanish.
The men behind me were drinking a lot of Budweiser, and two of them got into a little fistfight, but police were there almost instantly. Anyway, the rest of the crowd wasn't having it. They scolded the men. This was not a fighting day.
There was action on the field until the end, too. I had intended on rooting for Mexico, but I found myself rooting for Bafana Bafana. How could one want the first African team to play in the first African World Cup to lose? With the score tied when the referee blew the whistle, there was no loser, and that was as it should have been. Mexico had more technique. They were better players. They deserved a goal. But South Africa had the enthusiasm, and no one, not even Mexicans, really wanted to quell that. They deserved their goal too. Final score 1-1.
Again there were hugs between people wearing long mustaches and people wearing yellow hard hats. They took more pictures together as they exited the giant calabash-shaped Soccer City stadium. There would be no huge parties, but neither would the town burn down.
I couldn't find Collins in the mass of moving people. But Collins, keep dreaming.