Butter Stories: Guess whose Back?

I'm baaaaack! After a period of prolonged silence, I've decided to start blogging again.

I've no real excuse for the prolonged absence other than I've just been lazy. It's much easier to put off writing by saying "Oh well, nothing worth writing about happened today" than it is to sit down and actually write it out. From now on, I promise to try to write more frequently, whether something interesting happens or not. Some of the stories may be boring, but they will almost always involve kimchi, and almost never involve evil goats (somewhat of a rarity in a developed country as I'm finding).

(Incidentally, this blog was started with the intention of telling uninteresting and pointless stories. For those of you unfamiliar with the noble mission of Butter Stories, click back to read the original Butter Story here.)

If three or more days pass by and I haven't told you what I ate for lunch at school on any particular day, feel free—no, please—hassle me until your curiosity is sated. I'm trying to get back into the swing of writing more often, and need all the peer pressure I can handle.

And with that, let us return to our regularly scheduled programming…

Last weekend, Devon and I headed up to Seoul to see something we had never seen before: an international soccer match. South Korea was playing Australia, and as Ian, one of our co-teachers, was Australian, he was keen on going. We tagged along to watch the game, do some shopping in Insadong—Seoul's artsy district—and eat some American food in Itaewon—Seoul's foreigner district.

An outdoor mall in Insadong

We hopped on a bus early Saturday morning and within 3 hours, set foot in one of Asia's busiest mega-cities. After checking into our hotel and a couple of hours of preliminary shopping, we headed to the World Cup stadium via a real Irish bar in Itaewon (you have no idea how exciting this was for us).

It says "Korea vs. Australia" I promise

Our seats were excellent. We were in the lower section, a few rows back, behind one of the goals. It was a great view. We were far enough from the action that we could see everything going on, but we were close enough that we could still identify the players' numbers and catch some detail.

Our view of the action

The game itself wasn't that great—Korea scored twice early, and the Aussies never really got in the game. The final score ended up being 3-1, Korea.

I'd heard that soccer's not that popular here, and the large number of empty seats in the stadium seemed to confirm that. But the fans there were every bit as passionate as fans at every GW basketball game I've been to.

We sat next to the Korean team's fan club. During their national anthem, they unfurled a huge Korean flag and everyone in the section held it over their heads, waving it around. I imagine it looked pretty cool.

Early in the game, an Australian player broke free and threatened to score. As he was dribbling into the penalty box, the front row of Korean fans raised some large flags and began waving them back and forth furiously trying to distract him like the students behind the hoop at a basketball game during a free throw. Flustered, the Aussie player's shot sailed over the goal and into the crowd of cheering Koreans.

Hanguken Fans and their Flags

For those of us who follow soccer as casually as I do (that is—we turn it on during the World Cup, and ignore it at all other times), there's a certain mysticism attached to the chants and songs that a team's supporters bellow drunkenly during a game. It's as though the sound of thousands of drunken voices singing in unison have a mysterious power to unite a team and help them reach down and find some primeval strength for that one last breakaway and shot that it takes to win the game. It's a power that makes our rhythmic repetition of "Aww! G-Dub!" seem childish and pathetic. At least that's how I imagine it to be.

I was therefore pretty excited when the Korean fans started singing and chanting for their team. At last! I would get to witness the awesome power of the soccer chant up close. I could observe and take notes that I could use to write a powerful song that would help GW get over the hump against Xavier or St. Joes next season! I could harness that power, and propel the team into the third round of the NCAA Championships! They'd erect a statue of me in University Yard, right next to George Washington himself!

I paid careful attention to the first chant I heard. Immediately, I realized I had a problem: I still couldn't speak Korean. As the stanzas wafted over the breeze, I saw my bronze statue deflate like a giant balloon.

Aussie Aussie Aussie!

Just as I had lost all hope, my ears picked up another chant on the breeze! Before I got too excited, I listened carefully. But wait, this was strange…It seemed I understood what the crowd was chanting. Could it be?

Eeh…a ee-go!

Was it possible? I turned my head towards the breeze.

Heeya meego!

Was the Korean crowd chanting…in Spanish?

Heey Amigo!

Was that the secret to the mystical chants then? Just shout something in Spanish? I wasn't sure, but it seemed plausible—they take their soccer seriously enough in Latin America to go to war over it. Why not harness that power and passion any way you can? I saw my bronze statue re-inflate on the Yard to the rhythm of ¡Vamos Amarillo! ¡Vamos Azul!

I wondered aloud about the possibility of the Korean soccer fans being way more international than I initially credited when the knowledgeable Australian sitting next to me corrected me.

Guess which one is the real Australian?

"Minguk, minguk. They're saying 'Minguk,' not 'amigo," he laughed.

"I thought minguk was 'American,'" I said, suddenly confused. "Why would the cheer for Americans?"

"Meeguk is America," he said with emphasis. "Minguk is another word for Korea."

"Well, I liked my interpretation better," I retorted, lamely. For the second time in a half hour, I saw my bronze statue slip out of my grasp.

I drank my beer sullenly, sulking about my failure to capture the power of the soccer chant when it happened.

Like a choir singing from on high, the familiar notes echoed through the stadium. Everyone around us stood up and joined in, and immediately I sensed a change on the pitch. The Korean team seemed a step faster, their passes a hair sharper, their defense a degree stingier.

But what was this song? I knew this song, but from where? It hit me like a penalty kick to the gut: Fourth grade piano class. The Korean fans were singing…Beethoven?

There was no doubt. It was Ode to Joy, the first and only song I learned how to play on the piano. It seemed I had been trying desperately to think of a word that rhymed with "amarillo," when all I needed to do was get the GW student body to sing a Romantic symphony. With my limited Spanish, I knew which task would be easier.

Satisfied that I had finally discovered the secret of the soccer chant, I was able to enjoy the rest of the game (though the $3 beers and snacks certainly helped). After the game, we shuffled out of the stadium. Our adopted team had lost, but we weren't really Australian, and so we were happy all the same. We ran into some friendly Korean fans who offered to swap team colors. We declined a jersey swap, and were satisfied with a flag and photo trade.