The Final in London

It was a long game. A little too long for this American fan, who found himself in London for the final match between Spain and Holland. My colleagues and I had arrived in the UK earlier in the day after the sleepless overnight transatlantic, and had searched for the best place to take in the match. We wanted authentic, so there was the Leicester Arms in SoHo with two big screens and plenty of London Pride and Guinness.

The Spanish fans outnumbered the Dutch 2-1, or at least it was far easier to SEE the Spanish fans, with flag capes and flag skirts and the red-yellow-red headbands and facepaint, and the Barca jerseys.

So this is what World Cup fervor looks and feels like. I'd watched the matches back home, but nothing compared to what was happening in one of the football capitals of the world.

First it looked like Spain would score early. Then the Dutch got into it and the momentum swung, but not enough. Half time was nil nil. The second half brought a few close calls by both sides -- an evenly played match. The crowd inside the Leicester Arms was getting more rowdy, more impatient. The Spanish fans began to yell at the television screens, first only during times that looked as if the tension would break into a goal, and then nonstop. After regulation, we lurched into the street for fresh air. By then, the crowd at the pub was spilling into the street (you could see one of the screens through the window). For the extra time, we pushed back in and stood at the middle of the pack. Tensions were rising with all the yellow cards.

And then .... GOAL! After the ear-splitting roar, fists in the air, the pub turned into a mosh pit. Beer fell from the ceiling, drenching my shirt and hair. I was being pushed and batted around. Still the crowd roared. And then the singing started. "Yo soy España! Yo soy España!" Spain 1-0.

We left the pub and the streets began to fill up. A few blocks away you could hear a big crowd at Piccadilly Circus, so we ventured in to see the spectacle. And spectacle it was. Shirtless Spanish men had climbed right to the top of the statue in Piccadilly Circus to yell at the rooftops. Fans began converging on the area. Traffic stopped. Nervous policemen watched as ambulances and paddy wagons began lining up. And still the people poured into the streets. Honking. Singing. If this was happening in London, what was Madrid like?

Sam is the director of publishing for frog where he oversees frog's global content, editorial, and digital publishing strategy. He is also the editor of design mind, frog's print and online media platform. Sam is the author of numerous books of non fiction and has written for Dwell, Metropolis, GOOD, and other magazines.