Coboconk: Soccer Hotbed Of Cottage Country. Seriously
I was away at the cottage this weekend. But I wasn't about to let a snowy, three-channel reception with a rusty tower TV stop me from catching the World Cup. And I wasn't the only one. All it cost me was a breakfast for Missus Sour.
Coboconk, Ontario, sometime called Cobby-Conck or The Conck or just plain Place I Can’t Wait To Get Away From, located in the Kawartha Lakes area, home of the world's smallest jail and a crazy cult that was the inspiration for the movie Savage Messiah did not strike me as a soccer hot bed. And even though I had told Missus Sour quite clearly that nothing was to come between myself and my enjoyment of the Greatest Sporting Event In History (TM) I found myself in a car heading ... northeastish ... and in danger of missing the quarter finals.
If you're a city dweller like me than you think anyone who doesn't live in a city larger than, say, 2 million people, is probably a toothless, syphilitic hick who sleeps with his daughter and/or son, owns a small arsenal of weapons and thinks any game played with the hands is Communism. Well imagine my surprise as I entered the Pattie House, Coboconk's finest, and only, large public house. I'll tell you what I didn't find: fornicating families shooting pistols into the air watching Pat Robertson stoning adulterers on live TV. I was momentarily disappointed but quickly recovered. What I did see was a bar packed to the proverbial gills with soccer fans. I quickly peaked out the front window to see if maybe they'd been chased here by an army of incestuous inbreeds. All I saw were cars lining the street flying proudly the flags of either England or Portugal. Inside, the crowd wore either the white and red cross of Saint George to the maroon and green of Portugal.
Missus Sour only lasted the first half before she went off to busy herself with more noble pursuits, like talking the old veterans at the local legion down from 50 cents to a quarter on a used Sara Paretsky thriller. And buying a lovely new pair of earrings. And buying me a newspaper. She's a dear.
England had a number of chances in the second half but seemed slow and out of ideas. When Rooney was sent of for stomping on an opposing players gonads then shoving Manchester United teammate Ronaldo for some reason, it looked pretty bleak for the Queen's favourite team (probably, after the English National Polo team and the Red Coats). Only Owen Hargreaves (we claim him as our country even if he wont) showed 120 minutes plus of heart. Portugal won on penalties. The Portuguese cottagers went wild. The English fans shrugged. Inevitable, they might say. The English have now over taken the Dutch as the team most likely to loose a penalty shot out. The end of Erickson era ends possibly as it should. Not bad, but not great. Safe, mostly. England returns its footballing fate to the hands of an Englishman. I wonder how many Frenchmen have cottages in Coboconk?
Coboconk, Ontario, sometime called Cobby-Conck or The Conck or just plain Place I Can’t Wait To Get Away From, located in the Kawartha Lakes area, home of the world's smallest jail and a crazy cult that was the inspiration for the movie Savage Messiah did not strike me as a soccer hot bed. And even though I had told Missus Sour quite clearly that nothing was to come between myself and my enjoyment of the Greatest Sporting Event In History (TM) I found myself in a car heading ... northeastish ... and in danger of missing the quarter finals.
If you're a city dweller like me than you think anyone who doesn't live in a city larger than, say, 2 million people, is probably a toothless, syphilitic hick who sleeps with his daughter and/or son, owns a small arsenal of weapons and thinks any game played with the hands is Communism. Well imagine my surprise as I entered the Pattie House, Coboconk's finest, and only, large public house. I'll tell you what I didn't find: fornicating families shooting pistols into the air watching Pat Robertson stoning adulterers on live TV. I was momentarily disappointed but quickly recovered. What I did see was a bar packed to the proverbial gills with soccer fans. I quickly peaked out the front window to see if maybe they'd been chased here by an army of incestuous inbreeds. All I saw were cars lining the street flying proudly the flags of either England or Portugal. Inside, the crowd wore either the white and red cross of Saint George to the maroon and green of Portugal.
Missus Sour only lasted the first half before she went off to busy herself with more noble pursuits, like talking the old veterans at the local legion down from 50 cents to a quarter on a used Sara Paretsky thriller. And buying a lovely new pair of earrings. And buying me a newspaper. She's a dear.
England had a number of chances in the second half but seemed slow and out of ideas. When Rooney was sent of for stomping on an opposing players gonads then shoving Manchester United teammate Ronaldo for some reason, it looked pretty bleak for the Queen's favourite team (probably, after the English National Polo team and the Red Coats). Only Owen Hargreaves (we claim him as our country even if he wont) showed 120 minutes plus of heart. Portugal won on penalties. The Portuguese cottagers went wild. The English fans shrugged. Inevitable, they might say. The English have now over taken the Dutch as the team most likely to loose a penalty shot out. The end of Erickson era ends possibly as it should. Not bad, but not great. Safe, mostly. England returns its footballing fate to the hands of an Englishman. I wonder how many Frenchmen have cottages in Coboconk?
posted by Soft Headed Liberal at Tuesday, July 04, 2006
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