(Re-posting email sent to family and friends from South Africa in 2010).

Sunday, June 13, 2010:

Can't figure our where to start, or end, so this may be long. Here we go...

It’s fun to sit at breakfast and listen to the seven of us discuss what we’re going to write to friends and family or blog. You see, for as good a time as we’re having out here together, we all have others we want to share our experiences with.

Saturday: we wake up feeling GREAT and have an awesome breakfast.

Before we arrived in SA we were searching for public transportation options from Petroria to Rustenburg for the USA v England game, but had no luck. As we waited for others at the airport on Friday, a couple of us stopped at one of the info booths and found out there was a bus that could take the seven of us for about $30 each, roundtrip.

Things are done differently here than what we may be used to, but we’re open to it. The lady at the bus info booth had given us her cell number to call her for a ride. This was already somewhat iffy. We called her around 11 am on Saturday, she took our names, said she’d get back to us on how to get our bus tickets, but told us to be at the Pretoria City Hall for the 3 pm bus. We left the lodge at 2:15 on two taxis.

At city hall, there was a trailer that was clearly brought in for this, and inside the trailer the man we're looking for, Andrew, and a couple of other process the info needed. We gave them our names, they hand-wrote receipts, and we paid him cash, with the register being his pockets for change. No computers or machines or internet. Interesting.

We’re also told the bus is now leaving at 3:40, not 3, so we had time to kill in an area we just weren’t too sure about. We walk down the street to an ATM, and couldn’t get over the rubber necking from all the people that walked by us. Imagine getting stared at by everyone. Was it because we were white? Was it cause we were tourists?

We find a small convenience store and stock up on water and snacks and then walk back to the bus area. At this point, there are a few more people clearly there waiting for the bus.

Soon we all board. As I’m walking into the bus, behind our crew, I hear what I think is my name. It couldn’t be, so I keep walking. I hear it again and turn around. You’ve got to be kidding me – the parents of my good friend, Steve, are on this bus. They had arrived from St. Louis. There were maybe 20 people on the bus, and I know eight of them. Incredibly small world!

We’re soon told the bus will not be leaving right way, but rather at 4:30. We’re all a little anxious now because we were told it’s a two hour trip, but were also told the roads will be bad and congested. The guy assures the group that the driver “Will fly and get us there two hours before kickoff (6:30).” Funny to hear it, but somewhat disturbing.

We’re on our way.

Some time into the trip, which is on a two lane highway – meaning one lane west and one lane coming east – we hit traffic. It's crawling. While still calm, we start looking at our watches. No chance in hell we’re going to make it by 6:30.

Thinking that in Columbus for Buckeye games the traffic control will make it so that all lanes go in one direction, I’m hoping this happens here. No. Instead, cars are going off the shoulder and even into the grass areas to fly by us. It’s a somewhat helpless feeling because you realize that the more cars that bottleneck in front, the longer you’ll be without moving.

We can see the stadium but it appears we’re going around it – in traffic. We start discussing getting off and walking, but not only is the stadium some distance away, we also wouldn’t know where to find the bus after the game. And it looked like we were in the middle of nowhere. The entire drive just felt like all you could see what grass, and everyone once in a while a factory of some sort.

We hit a security road block, where it seem like they randomly stopped certain cars while others literally drove right by. Our driver approaches, and it feels like he’s turning right where we all could see he needed to go straight. The bus starts chanting…”go, go, go, go, go”…so he straightens the bus and drives through. We love it and cheer him. The police just let us go, it seemed.

We’re now in front of the stadium and he’s gotta make this turn into a fenced in area that there’s absolutely no chance he’s making. We're nervous we're going to miss the start so we get up and ask him to let us out. 'We’ll find you,' we tell him. We take a photo of license plate and begin our speed walk to the stadium. It’s now 7:50 pm. We are calmer, but the bus ride drained our spirit.

We walk in past a couple of security points and since we all had tickets in different sections we decide on a place to meet outside after the game.

I’m on my own, three rows from the field behind one goal in the corner. It's the best spot - too low to see the full field and I had this big track keeping me from being real close. There were American fans nearby, but in front and behind me are English fans, who had been drinking. It’s lonely, so I look over to where I knew some of our crew was.

There are English flags everywhere. It’s seems like 80 percent to 20 percent, just because they have so many flags draped around the stadium. It’s loud, but you can’t really hear chants – you hear the vuvuzelas! The scoreboard doesn’t work, so not only do we not get replays, but no game clock – though that is not as necessary.

England scores first and I have to listen to these two idiots in front of me swearing up the USA. We score 35 minutes later when Clint Dempsey's shot is muffed by the England goalkeeper. I turn around to find myself with no one immediately behind me to even high five. To add to it, no one stands – the entire section is sitting for the entire half.

Halftime comes and I decide to go find our crew. The way the stadium is set up, you can’t walk to other sections from the concourse without a ticket for those sections. But, you can walk across the rows – so I walk through five sections, excusing myself cause I made like 150 people get up to let me by. I go to the upper deck and find Brett, Curtis, and Clint and another guy that has come to the last few World Cups and even to Azteca Stadium (Mike). Ryan, also sitting elsewhere on his own, spots me walking over and soon five of us are all watching together.

Night and day difference. The common USA chants were strong, but the new ones were awesome.

To the tune of London Bridges Falling Down:

“Mrs. Bridge is going down, going down, going down. Mrs. Bridge is going down, on John Terry.”

(For those that don’t know, Wayne Bridge was a member of England's team, until news broke that his wife had an affair with England captain John Terry.)

“1776, 1776, 1776!"

The game ends and the English fans clear out quickly. We look around and realize how many American fans there were – we had the stadium to ourselves, jumping around and celebrating, singing, chanting. The players walk around to acknowledge the love.

We walk under the concourse and see a seen reminiscent of Argentina fans. The concourse is full of Americans jumping around. We join in when the chant becomes: “USA aint nothing to fuck with. USA aint nothing to fuck with.”

Outside, the chants turn into (to the tune of Stand Up, for the Champions): “One nil, and you fucked it up. One nil, and you fucked it up. One nil, and you Fucked it up, one nil, and you FUCKED it up.”

Among the thousands walking out, I get tapped on the shoulder – it’s my buddy Brian who had been on the Kickabout Africa project, driving from northern Africa all the way to South Africa for the past three months. Timing, small world, everything can be thrown in to answer how we met up at this particular moment. He has an amazing story of their travels, as one can imagine.

We find our bus, which never did make the turn - so it was still on the side of the street. We get a call from Steve's parents, who are confused on how to find the bus. Brett and I walk back to the stadium, find them, and we all walk back. Soon we’re on our way – after a stop at what we’re told is a bar, but looks more like someone’s house. Two guys get out and buy celebratory beers.

We make it back to Petroria around 1:45 am, and our taxis are not there. We wait, and one shows. It’s cold, and we’re told the other is on it’s way. After 15 minutes, we pile all of us into the little cab. Squished, we stop at a McDonalds, realizing we had not eaten since breakfast. We’re back at our place close to 3 am. We walk in quietly as to not awaken the security guard. Really.