| Hurricane Notebook
Louisiana Footballers Don’t Let Katrina High Kick Penalty
Keep ‘Em Down
By Stephen Rea
Round One
The Storm Gathers
At 9 a.m. last Saturday, we gathered at Finn McCool's Irish bar on Banks
Street in an area of New Orleans called Mid City. It is owned by a Lurgan
couple and a crowd containing Irishmen from both sides of the border. Englishmen,
Scotsmen and a smattering of Americans met for our weekly ritual of watching
the Saturday afternoon English Premiership game, this one between Chelsea
and Tottenham Hotspurs.
Andy, an engineer from Grimsby, didn't arrive until half-time because
he had been helping to evacuate his girlfriend's horse. He said, "Six hundred
bucks! Can you believe it?" I asked him if he thought we were going to
get battered, suddenly concerned the Sunday morning friendly our newly-formed
pub football team had arranged was in danger of being postponed.
"Don't worry. If the other team cry off then we'll have a training session,"
said Paul, a banker from London.
"It won't hit us. We'll turn up okay" said Benji, a former journalist
forced to flee his native South Africa because of his opposition to apartheid.
"My wife is out of town and I'm staying no matter what. We're a whole team
of transplants. Where can we drive to — Ireland?" he laughed. After the
match I patted him on the shoulder and said I'd see them all tomorrow.
Out of our squad of 22 players I know for sure just seven are definitely
alive.
On the Saturday night, we were determined to sit it out and barely looked
at the TV news and weather. Hurricane watches, warnings and alerts are
common in Louisiana in the summer. In fact, my father, step-mother and
brother and sister were visiting in July when tropical storm Cindy tore
through the city and the falling trees and downed power lines didn't even
wake them.
Last year, we had left when Hurricane Ivan hit and spent 12 hours gridlocked
on a motorway to travel 107 miles. The storm missed completely and there
was so little rain we had to water the plants when we got back. I swore
I'd never leave again and besides, the storms always take a slight turn
to the East just before they reach the Big Easy.
The phone started ringing at 6:30 a.m. on Sunday.
My friend, Steve, a 24-year-old Dubliner in the city on a four-month
student work visa, had been wakened by his landlord urging him to leave.
My wife's parents in North Carolina screamed at her to get out. My old
school mate Richard from Portadown who runs the Ulster Carpets operation
in Atlanta called to say things looked bad and we should head for his house.
We switched on CNN and the hurricane had strengthened from a Category Three
to a Category Five. And instead of curving away from the city, it was headed
straight for us.
I drove to pick up Steve along St. Charles Avenue, the most prestigious
address in the city. Normally the wide elegant boulevard is bustling with
joggers dodging rickety streetcars which trundle between majestic mansions
in the shade of huge oak trees. But the city was a ghost town with an eerie,
portentous atmosphere like the opening scene in 28 Days Later. Steve’s
employer had told him to stop into the cafe where he worked and empty everything
he could from it, since he didn't expect it to be standing when he returned.
We rushed back to our house and I threw together a sports bag. We thought
we would be away for two days... three at the most. I tried to phone my
parents to tell them we were evacuating but everyone was out. I packed
one tee-shirt, one pair of shorts, one pair of socks and one pair of boxers.
I didn't bring a razor, my wedding ring I keep by the bed or a copy of
the novel I have spent the last year writing.
As we left, my 74-year-old next-door neighbor was helping the elderly
couple across the street — also in their 70s — board up their house. We
stopped and offered to help but they said they were almost finished. They
were all staying. We parked our car on the footpath and piled into an SUV
driven by our lodger.
As the wind picked up we took secondary roads as far east as we could
until our map ran out and we bled into the Interstate. We crawled painstakingly
slowly and after three hours hadn't even left the city outskirts. When
a bridge went out just short of the Mississippi state line, police turned
the stream of traffic around and we took stock. Atlanta is a seven-hour
drive away without any traffic — at this rate it would be a 20-hour journey.
Instead we drove north into Mississippi, still in Katrina's path but
knowing it was not due to hit until Monday. Then we had a bit of luck —
a relative of a friend of a friend said we could bed down in her house
for the night. We eventually arrived in Pennsylvania, Miss., exhausted
and hungry but safe.
The next morning, the wind had increased and the rain unrelenting. We
had four hours before Katrina hit us and we headed west, back towards northern
Louisiana in an attempt to outrun her. Even here, a hundred miles from
the eye, the car was buffeted about as if we were in a washing machine.
We tuned to the emergency radio frequency which urged everyone to get
off the roads and issued alerts about the tornados which were popping up
and spinning off from the storm. The interstate, normally as choked as
Great Victoria Street at 5 p.m. on Friday, was empty. As our lodger struggled
to remain in control, the only vehicles passing us were police cars or
18-wheeler trucks. The sky was a blanket of black. It was the most frightening
car journey of my life.
We pulled off the highway at Vicksburg on the Louisiana/Mississippi
border. Driving conditions were atrociously dangerous, but we wanted to
keep heading away from Katrina. We pushed on, and by 90 miles further west
at Monroe it was 6 p.m., the wind and rain had eased, and we stopped at
a bar to watch TV.
That's when we saw the first pictures of New Orleans.
In horror, we watched water drowning the city. Never, ever, ever in
our worst nightmares did we think the levee protecting the Big Easy from
Lake Pontchartrain would fail so spectacularly. We were prepared for smashed
windows and missing roof tiles, but not for our home becoming part of a
modern-day Atlantis.
We shuffled out of the bar, looked at a map and spent an hour in the
car park trying to decide where to go and what to do. Friends checked hotel
availability but couldn't find a single room in the whole state. We asked
at nearby motels anyway and were handed sheets showing the nearest options
- Dallas, a five-hour drive or Houston, an eight-hour drive. As night fell,
we headed for Texas. Then our mobile phones with New Orleans area-code
numbers failed.
At midnight, we found a hotel in a Dallas suburb and the check-in clerk
discounted our room rate when he saw my New Orleans driving license. We
were dirty, exhausted and emotionally drained after living for two days
in the car. But even at this stage, we were ignorant of the true scale
of the tragedy.
The next morning, the lobby was full of New Orleans refugees, all of
them hungry for news. When were they letting us back in? How long did it
take for you to get here? Do you know which areas are under water?
We went back to the room and watched the TV and it was obvious we were
not going home any time soon. The city was submerged, more holes were appearing
in the levees, and the water was reclaiming the world's most famous low-lying
city. Estimates of when we could return ranged from 30 days to four months.
Gordon, an old school friend from Castlereagh but now a California-based
pilot with American Airlines, came to our rescue. He immediately arranged
a ticket from Dallas to San Diego and showed true Ulster hospitality by
insisting we stay with him indefinitely. We thought the worst was over
but the news from Louisiana just kept spiraling downwards.
First, 300 feet of the 17th Street Canal Levee crumbled into the water.
Around 80% of the city was under water, and Mayor Nagin said if your house
was not under water before then, it was now. Instead of getting better,
things got worse. He gave the order to officially abandon the city.
There were downed trees, then power lines lying in the water electrocuting
people. Then there was raw sewage in the water. Then snakes. Then alligators.
Then standing water breeding mosquitos and all kinds of disease. Then armed
gangs looting and raping, reporters watching inhabitants die and fires
breaking out at toxic chemical plants throughout the city. It breaks my
heart to watch the news, but I can't tear myself away from it.
It is so over-whelming, so gut-wrenchingly awful, so simply unbelievable.
Even the worst violence of The Troubles, like the bombs in Enniskillen
and the Shankill, didn't feel like this. The scale of the suffering, the
self-destruction, the horrendous images. I grew up in the TV age, hardened
by everything from the famine in Ethiopia to Sept. 11, but until you directly
experience this kind of tragedy on such a massive scale you can never appreciate
the full effects.
My friend's brother, Mark, is a city police officer and he finally managed
to make contact with him today. He is a veteran cop who is fighting to
cope with what he dealt with this week and intends to resign as soon as
the city is stabilized. He described the streets as being like Somalia,
far worse than the news pictures show, far worse than you can imagine.
A colleague of my wife needed to return to her home on the city's West
Bank to secure it and get clothes for her daughters. As she drove, her
husband leveled a shotgun out the passenger window as a deterrent to the
gangs of looters roaming the streets. Truly apocalyptic, and scary how
quickly society has broken down in the place regarded as America's playground
and renowned for its easy-going atmosphere.
We were only supposed to stay a year in New Orleans while I wrote a
light-hearted novel about a group of Ulstermen visiting the city for a
stag trip, but my wife and I fell in love with the city and the people.
It was vibrant, intoxicating and raucous, totally unique and so different
from the bland strip-mall suburbia which blights much of America.
But away from Bourbon Street and the allure of the French Quarter it
is also a desperately deprived city with two-fifths of Orleans Parish living
in poverty. Away from Mickey Mouse in Florida or the Irish bars in Manhattan,
Northern Irish tourists would be shocked to discover a swathe of disadvantaged
city dwellers making up an underclass propping up the American Dream. The
vast majority of them are black.
The city of New Orleans is broke. Schools started back two weeks ago,
and pupils were reminded to bring in their own toilet paper and soap because
the local government could not afford to provide them. When you see the
harrowing images of haunted refugees in the water clutching a plastic bag
you can be sure that is all the possessions they own. And this in the most
developed and most powerful country in the world. The dead, injured and
traumatized people you see on your TV did not decide to stay and ride out
the hurricane. They are desperately poor, and stayed because they had no
choice.
Everything we own is in our house which may be flooded, looted, or burnt
to the ground. We just don't know, and it may be weeks or months before
we find out.
But now I understand exactly what "survivor's guilt" is, because we
are so thankful to have survived and it aches inside when you see people
fighting for their lives on streets you drove down every day. We are lucky
to have survived, and that's all that matters.
Round Two
The Healing Power of Football
I was in Valencia when we beat Spain. I was at Windsor to see us defeat
Israel to qualify for the World Cup. I saw Ian Stewart's winner against
Germany in 1982, I was in Bucharest for the victory over Romania in 1985,
and I was at Wembley when we qualified for the Mexico World Cup.
And I was in Las Vegas for last week's victory over England.
It followed the worst seven days of our lives. As Katrina took aim,
we fled New Orleans at the last minute with little more than the clothes
on our backs, battling to stay ahead of the storm on a frightening rollercoaster
of a journey. Our adopted city was battered by the winds, drowned by the
flood waters, burned by the fires. The remnants then self-destructed in
an orgy of looting and lawlessness. A week after evacuating to California,
we still didn't know what we had left to return to, or — more importantly
— what had happened to friends who chose to stay behind.
After becoming increasingly depressed by the non-stop TV news coverage,
we took a road trip to the near-deserted desert states of Utah and Arizona.
But after a 1,400-mile loop, we were within an hour of Las Vegas and thoughts
turned to the game. It was on in an English bar miles from the glitzy strip
and I followed a fleet of taxis crammed with tourists to the remote British
outpost near the airport. Despite arriving at 11 a.m. - almost an hour
before kick-off - it was so busy staff were outside directing traffic away
from the congestion.
The cover charge was $20 cash. I had $21 left after our journey.
In America, pubs order a season-long package of live games and you can
either pay an entrance fee for individual matches or buy a season ticket
for unlimited access. This is what I had done in New Orleans for Finn McCool's,
our friendly football venue run by Lurgan couple Stephen and Pauline Patterson.
The night before, American bar staff had insisted on giving us free drinks
and tee-shirts when they heard we were evacuees, but when I approached
the English girl on the door and showed her my New Orleans driving license
and asked could she waive the charge as I had already bought a season pass,
she dismissed the request with a shake of her head.
At Finn McCool’s in New Orleans, we had been talking about this game
for months. I had flown back for the Old Trafford match and had taken a
load of stick from some of the English patrons. I had been eagerly anticipating
some good-natured banter with the close-knit group of ex-pats. Many had
booked the day off work so we could watch it live on a sultry Louisiana
Wednesday afternoon. My father had even sent me a brand new Northern Ireland
top to wear. But instead my small frame was engulfed by an XXL tee-shirt
donated by my 6-foot, 6-inch friend Gordon Sheals. I was marooned 1,800
miles away in an ocean of English strangers with my friends scattered to
the four corners of the United States.
Inside was a heaving mass of red and white. Conference attendees from
Liverpool, gamblers from Bristol and families from Sunderland mobbed the
bar and shouted orders at the swamped barmaid. I corkscrewed my way though
a 300-strong crowd to a spot in front of the big screen — with just a single
dollar in my wallet. I didn't need to fight my way back to the bar. The
Londoner on my right asked me to watch his Prada carrier bag while he went
to the bathroom. The Brummie on my left told his mate,: "I don't know any
of their team. We'll murder this lot. Easy." The first chant of "Inger-lund"
started up.
My phone rang and it was Dave Ashton from Manchester, a physiotherapist
who had stayed in New Orleans treating patients right up until the hurricane
hit. His pregnant girlfriend's mother died in the evacuation and they had
escaped on a camping trip to New Mexico. He told me to call him with the
result.
Forty-five minutes flew by and at half-time I spotted a sliver of green
elbow his way to the bar. Samuel Gunnion, 22, is a forklift driver from
Newtownards who moved to Vegas four years ago. I waved him over and he
said, "We're doing great, mate, we could nick this you know." I gave him
the patronizing smile his youthful confidence deserved and told him that
we'd tire and then the English quality would show.
But as the game wore on, I started to believe, as well. Then King David
struck that shot just as sweetly as Gerry had done 23 years before.
For a heartbeat, the bar fell silent. You would have heard David Beckham's
diamond earring drop. Then Sam and I went nuts.
Real, honest-to-goodness, jumping-up-and-punching-the-air, stepping-on-people's-toes,
careening-into-everyone-while-yelling-at-the-top-of-our-voices and hugging-each-other-as-we-screamed
hysterically nuts. I have watched football matches for nearly 30 years
on all six inhabited continents. Never have I had such an outpouring of
emotion after a goal.
My head spun like a roulette wheel as the mood around us darkened from
mild anxiety to deep frustration. English fans kicked the ground and slammed
down pints as the mood turned menacing. "Do you want a drink, mucker?"
asked Sam.
"There's five minutes left - don't risk going to the bar," I replied,
not wanting him to miss anything but also keen not to be left alone.
"I can't take the tension — I need a drink," he said and disappeared,
thankfully returning swiftly as space opened up around us. Three Lions
supporters melted away. Whether it was because they thought there would
be glasses flying through the air in our direction, or whether they just
didn't want to stand beside the only two people in the packed pub cheering
on the boys in green, we'll never know.
When the sign went up for four minutes of injury time, we roared insults
at the screen but they were lost in the increasingly-desperate howling
from the English. But finally, beautifully, it was all over. Northern Ireland
supporters know some of our results in the last few years have been enough
to bring tears to your eyes. But 1982 was the last time I was so proud
of a performance it made me cry.
My first thought was for my old school friend Gordon, a fanatical Northern
Ireland fan, who had come to our rescue the week before. He had arranged
our flight from Texas, lent us clothes and a car and opened his home to
us. He and his wife, Dawn, had made a last minute 12,000-mile dash from
California just for the match, and I imagined him smiling now in the North
Stand. Sometimes good things do happen to good people.
The Englishmen around us grabbed our shoulders, but they only wanted
to shake our hands and offer congratulations. One looked me dead in the
eye and said: "Well done. Northern Ireland deserved it." And we did. Sam
and I hugged and I told him to come and visit when New Orleans is rebuilt.
Two exiled, out-numbered Ulstermen who came together on the edge of the
Nevada desert and will forever share the memory of the day we defeated
England.
We blinked our way into the blazing sun and 110-degree heat. After four
days in the hot arid climate after living in humid Louisiana my lips were
cracked and bleeding, my head was throbbing from the excitement and my
throat was hoarse from a mixture of the desert wind and shouting during
the match. But I looked at the sullen faces of the pasty-skinned English
fans in the taxi queue snaking its red-and-white way around the bar, and
for the first time since Katrina hit, I felt great.
Until my dying day I'll remember being in Valencia the night we beat
Spain in 1982. And I'll always remember being in Las Vegas the morning
we beat England in 2005.
Round Three
Finn McCool's FC, New Orleans, Plays On
"How did you get on?"
In the post-Katrina footballing world of New Orleans, this is not an
inquiry about the result of the game. They are asking if the hurricane
destroyed your home.
Life in the Big Easy is surreal. The anything-goes, decadent destination,
home to Mardi Gras and Bourbon Street, is under curfew. I grew up in Belfast
in the ‘70s, but I never thought I’d see soldiers manning roadblocks and
patrolling the streets in modern-day America. The city’s population has
shrunk to a level not seen since the 1870s and vast swathes of Orleans
Parish have been decimated. Areas look like they’ve been nuked with collapsed
buildings, boats littering the road, massive trees ripped up and flung
into houses, cars and trucks scattered and abandoned. Shops employ armed
security guards for crowd control and three gun-toting policemen warily
watch the throng swamping the only open post office in the neighborhood.
It’s like living in a Mad Max movie.
But even this apocalyptic landscape caused by the most destructive storm
in U.S. history doesn’t stop a bunch of ex-pats playing football.
Last January, we formed Finn McCool’s FC, named for the Irish pub where
we watch English and Scottish league games every week. Some players hadn’t
kicked a ball in years — decades even — and our eclectic squad featured
characters like winger Benji Haswell, an ex-political journalist hounded
from South Africa for his anti-apartheid views; our Mancunian keeper Mark
Kirk, an artist who makes lamps from recycled rubbish; and Londoner Colin
Bates, a skillful midfield movie producer working with Woody Harrelson.
After an eight month pre-season and five friendlies, we finally felt
ready. We were practicing three times a week despite the oppressive heat
and humidity and had joined the eight-team Southeastern Louisiana Adult
Soccer Association second division. Kick-off was 13 days away. We signed
our 22 player at our last training session. Then Katrina struck.
Our team fled and was suddenly spread from California to New York to
Dublin to Amsterdam. Our towering Dutch center-half pot-grower Frank (The
Tank) Komduur stayed five days after the storm and had to swim to safety
through nine feet of water, passing three dead bodies and then bribing
a bus driver to evacuate him out of the city. Our coach, former Fulham
and Bolton defender Steve McAnespie, spent two days on a roof waiting to
be rescued. He had scrambled up there after being trapped by the fast-rising
water and when he was eventually choppered out, his feet were so badly
sunburned he couldn’t wear shoes.
Today, the fields where we were due to play have been turned into a
landfill site and are under 20 feet of rubbish. From a distance, it looks
like building rubble, then when you get close you realize it is not just
piled high with wrecked kitchen cabinets but also contains people’s possessions
— clothes, pictures, children’s toys. The government says it will take
a year to clear the trash, and that’s not including the waste from the
tens of thousands of homes they have not even started bulldozing.
Just five weeks after the hurricane hit, and despite the fact that our
practice pitch had been turned into a military helicopter landing pad,
six players turned up for Thursday night training. Our squad trickled back
and at the end of December our Sunday morning session had swelled to 16,
and by February we should be almost up to full strength. There is only
one player missing - all our league registration papers with contact details
were lost when the house of our captain, Paul Medhurst, was flooded by
10 feet of water. Our kit floated away as well.
But a passion for football has kept the side together. Our right-back
Dave (The Rave) Ashton lost his home. He and his seven-month pregnant girlfriend
(whose mother died in the evacuation) have stayed with three different
team members as they struggle to rebuild their lives. There are no dressing
room rivalries, hissy-fits or petty jealousies here: When your teammates
have lost their jobs and homes, then events like evening matches curtailed
by M16-wielding National Guardsmen are put into perspective.
Less than three months after the catastrophe which killed nearly 1,400
people and wiped out entire Gulf Coast communities, we resumed twice-weekly
training. Players busy rebuilding their shattered lives and homes were
still keen to get on the pitch and escape reality for an hour or so.
Finn McCool’s was drowned under seven feet of water, but despite having
no bar, power, water, toilets or even walls, they still threw a Christmas
party and 70 drinkers showed up. The next day, training was canceled and
10 of the hung-over team squeezed into my living room to watch Chelsea
play Arsenal on pay-per-view. The bar should be open by Mardi Gras, but
until then those of us lucky enough to have a home left take it in turn
to host the rest.
We don’t know if New Orleans will ever recover. We don’t know when —
or even if — the league will start up again. We don’t know where we will
play. We don’t know if there will be any teams left to face. But we do
know that in the City of the Dead, football keeps this Sunday league squad
sane.
POSTSCRIPT
April 11, 2006
Shell Shockers to play Hispanic All-Stars Team
The New Orleans Shell Shockers come home this weekend to play their
first game in the city for more than eight months.
The exhibition match against the New Orleans Select at Pan American
Stadium in City Park on Saturday at 5 p.m. will mark the return of top-class
soccer action to the post-Katrina city.
Head Coach Kenny Farrell said, "I am proud to be coming back to Orleans
Parish and it will be an emotional day for us all." The New Orleans Select
is comprised of the cream of the talent currently playing in the local
Latin leagues and is part of a campaign by the Shell
Shockers to reach out to the area’s Hispanic community.
Coach Kenny explained, "We have seen a huge influx of soccer-crazy Central
American workers to help us rebuild the region and it is a fan base we
are keen to cultivate. We have lots of exciting ideas for the
season ahead and this game is just the first part of our community-relations
plan."
The side will feature Hondurans, Mexicans and Guatemalans and will provide
a tough test for the Shell Shockers as they ramp up their preparations
for the start of their season just two weeks away.
Due to hurricane damage at Pan American, the Shell Shockers have relocated
to Muss Bertolino Stadium in Kenner. But Kenny is glad of the chance to
play at least once in the Crescent City.
He added, "We are excited about going to Kenner and the locals there
have been wonderful to us, but obviously Pan American has a special place
in our hearts. After the way it was ravaged by Katrina, I’m sure I’ll have
a lump in my throat when the lads walk out onto the pitch on Saturday.
"The Central Americans are soccer-crazy and as it’s a holiday weekend.
you can be sure it will be a large festive, noisy and colorful crowd. This
is a great chance for sports fans in Southern Louisiana to get a taste
of a special big-game atmosphere," he added.
The New Orleans Shell Shockers were formed in 2003 and play in the Mid-South
Division of the Southern Conference of the Premier Development League.
Head Coach Kenny Farrell was awarded the PDL’s prestigious Coach of the
Year title after a spectacular first season in which they won more games
than any other team in the country. The league features the best emerging
talent in the nation and the season runs from
March until August.
Editor’s note: Stephen Rea, formerly a newsman in Belfast, can be reached
at press@noshellshockers.com.
These
features are adapted from his stories that appeared in The Belfast Telegraph
and 442, a soccer magazine. He currently is acting as parttime public
relations director the New Orleans Shell Shockers FC.
Shell Shockers’ head coach is Dubliner Kenny Farrell, who used to play
in the League of Ireland for Shelbourne. Hiss house was flooded, as indeed
were those of his two American partners in the team who play in the Premier
Development League. One was plucked to safety by a passing Hollywood casting
director in a motorboat, the other canoed back into his house to retrieve
sentimental items.
The club’s non-swimming Scottish coach spent two days on the roof before
being heli-vaced by the Coast Guard, and his feet were so badly burned
he could not wear shoes. The club stadium, Pan American in City Park, was
inundated under 10 feet of water. Every maintenance vehicle and piece of
park equipment was lost and the salt water from the Gulf of Mexico killed
the grass, engulfed the administration offices and destroyed thousands
of centuries-old oaks.
As the locals struggle to rebuild their lives and there is frenzied
speculation over whether the professional sports teams will stay in the
city, the football clubs are keen to show the community that they are committed
to both New Orleans and Louisiana.
Their first game was early in March, yet the staff was scattered across
the the world, dressing rooms and facilities are covered in layers of slime
and mid left behind by the floodwater. The area around the playing field
littered with abandoned vehicles. There was no electricity so the team
could not cannot train at night, and its back-up practice pitch is now
a dumping ground and under 20 feet of rubble.
 
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