By Theo Ochrym

Every four years, European football fans are privileged to witness the events of the Euro Cup. Many say the competition is superior to that of the World Cup. Fans flood in from all over Europe to make a new home in the host country. The host country comes to life with all sorts of colours from all the countries of Europe. Different cultures pool together on the streets and pack into pubs and restaurants. The Euro Cup brings different countries together by the wars ensuing on the pitches of many world-class stadiums. The Euro Cup is the most beautiful form of war.

In 2016, France was the host country of the multinational football tournament. It was to my delight that I was going. I was 12 and I was going to see the best in Europe.  Back in November, I was sitting anxiously in the local Irish pub with my family. On the big screen was my ticket to the Euro. Ukraine was playing Slovenia for a place in the grand tournament. My dad had said that if Ukraine qualified we would go. Ukraine was our team. My grandparents had emigrated from Ukraine during the Second World War and settled in Canada. The match was in Slovenia, but Ukraine had the upper hand. They won the first game in Ukraine 2-0. All they had to do was prevent two goals from penetrating their net. In the 11th minute, the game became too close, and my worst fears had begun to construct a wall between me and my chance to see France. Slovenia had scored. Making it  2-1 on aggregate. As per usual the team ahead would park the bus in front of their net. It was the same case for the Ukrainian national team. They fought off attack after attack, and the Slovenians came wave after wave with the support of their crowd. The half ended, and it was still just 1-0, there was still more hope than not. The second half began like the first had ended. The Slovenians came close, but they could not get a second goal through Ukraine’s goalkeeper, Andriy Pyatov. In the final moments of stoppage time, Ukraine had a counter-attack, and Yarmolenko shot it past the keeper. I was overjoyed, and my family rose from their seats. The plates clanged as we knocked the table close to falling. Yarmolenko had secured mine and Ukraine’s ticket to the Euro. I was going to France.

 I had never been to Europe. In fact, I had never even left the continent. The one daunting thing about the trip was the flight. I have never really feared flying, but 8 hours of sitting in a chair in a cylindrical cabin filled with hundreds of people was not something I was looking forward to. I guess that was the price to pay to see the sporting event of a lifetime. The flight was not glamorous. The constant hum of the plane and the recirculated air prevented me from sleeping. The cure was watching movies through the night on the tiny screen that is barely visible and is often interrupted by announcements from the flight stewards. Once we touched down at Paris Charles de Gaulle airport the effect of constant sitting had become evident to me. My legs felt stiff and my back ached from the upright chair.

From the airport, we took a train to Lyon, where Ukraine was set to play Northern Ireland. Once seated on the train I observed how much more money the French put into their trains than we do. They were clean, fast, electric and most importantly, they weren’t delayed. The view of the countryside was magnificent. The crops were as green as emeralds and the sky was the brightest of blues. The crops were being kissed by a bright, early summer sun. French villages were scattered across the landscape. It was a painting that moved. The train stopped in Lyon and I was exhausted. Luckily the hotel was meters from the tracks. When we got into the room I collapsed onto the bed. Never had I felt anything so soft. I finally got a chance to rest.

A few short hours later I awoke. It was time. We were actually going to the match. I put on my jersey that was as blue as the sky and had accents of vibrant yellow. The lobby below was crowded. The thick Northern Irish accents had control of the room. Our hotel was mostly full of Northern Irish supporters, and the streets still had remnants of the Swedish and Icelandic fans from the match before. We crammed into a tiny streetcar full of fans already a few beers in. It was loud, hot and it reeked of sweat, but yet somehow it was beautiful. The stadium, being located in the suburbs, stook out like a mountain. It was truly world-class. Outside, fans gathered around the stadium and the Northern Irish invaded the pubs. The battle had begun.

The time came for kickoff and the fans inundated the stadium. The stands were a green and yellow flag that sang in the wind. It was beautiful. The national anthems echoed through the stadium as the players stood in a line. The two teams formed into battle positions and the referee signaled the beginning of a battle that was part of a bigger war. The burst of the whistle was sharp, and it pierced thousands of ears. Ukraine, a more conservative team, tried to control the play with possession. The Northern Irish were the exact opposite. They relied on the counter-attack to strike their blows. Ukraine dominated the possession, but they made one mistake and the Northern Irish had a free-kick. Oliver Norwood delivered a cross that soared across the Ukrainian defense and collided with Gareth McAuley who knocked it in. Just after the hail began.

The sun that once beamed onto the pitch was replaced by ice pellets that bombarded the field. In the stands, we were protected by the grand steel roof above, but the players were forced off the pitch.

Two minutes later the bombardment had ended and play resumed. Ukraine now had the task of catching up. They could not do so before the half, and they were forced to regroup in the dressing room.

The anxious fifteen minutes between the halves was spent in a lineup that stretched across the better part of the stadium. Thousands of fans poured into the washrooms. The sound echoed off the metal pipes. It was even louder than the stands. Thankfully, I managed to escape the loud echo that flooded the bathroom. I was relieved to know that half time had not yet ended. Missing a single moment of the match would feel as if I had missed a decade. 

The players came running back onto the field like keen warriors eager for battle. The battle ensued. The entire half appeared as if Ukraine had possession. The ball to them was like a paintbrush to Da Vinci, the field being the most beautiful portrait of all. Ukraine’s vibrant yellow jerseys clashed with the dark green of  Northern Ireland. The clock ticked on. By the time the fourth official announced that there were going to be six minutes of added time, Ukraine still trailed behind. They could not penetrate the wall of green. Ukraine made a second mistake and the Northern Irish began their deadly counter-attack. The players darted towards the Ukrainian keeper, and Stuart Dallas had a shot from outside the box. It was saved by a diving Andriy Pyatov, and the ball was knocked into the centre of the box. Standing there was Nial McGinn. He had a strike, and it went in the bottom right corner. The blue and yellow jerseys that occupied the western half of the stadium, were swallowed by the sea of green. The match ended in a loss, and I knew that I was going home without seeing my team score.

We headed back in the crowded streetcars that reeked more than before, and the Northern Irish supporters inside sang their songs. We had lost the battle and they had won. In the evening we sat in a French restaurant that was filled with fans from all over. There was no tension between us. In fact, the different fans talked and laughed together. They came together to enjoy an exquisite French meal. We were enemies in the stadium, but in the streets, we were friends.

This experience is one of my most memorable. The sports and cultures that united in the summer of 2016 enlightened my understanding of the cohesion of nations to create something bigger.  I was one of many millions of fans who came together. Together we had created something bigger than ourselves. A tournament like this could not have been created by individuals. This journey took me from a pub in the west end of  Toronto all the way to the world stage in France. This war unified rather than divided. It brought out the best in people, not the worst. It was all done through the love of the beautiful game. The Euro was an experience I will never forget.