WORLD CUP I am in constant fear for my World Cup prospects

I was running a bit late yesterday morning so I had to take the direct route to work, which means cutting through the Tenderloin.  As much as I try to listen to those who redeem San Francisco's Tenderloin for it's raw, urban vibe and "diversity," I can't get past the feeling that its streets are a prison yard that's open to the public.  Early in the morning, the inmates are released from their cells in the shelters and single room occupancy hotels and are left to mill about the street corners.  They search for cigarette butts, walk out into traffic illogically and without warning and make a general nuisance of themselves to common pedestrians like myself.  The place depresses me.  I know, I know, it's home to working class families that can't afford to live elsewhere in San Francisco as well as many eclectic bars and eateries and it probably looks downright regal when compared to areas in Chicago, Baltimore and D.C…. but I simply don't care.  I hate it.  I'm allowed to hate it.  I'm allowed to find displeasure in having to wonder if someone is alive or not.  I'm allowed to be disgusted by fresh streams of urine and lumps of feces that don't look canine in origin.

All of that being said, I've never really avoided the Tenderloin as a matter of personal safety.  If I have to walk through there to save time, I will.  Most of the area's street dwellers area  a benign form of crazy rather than a violent one, or so I've always thought.  Yesterday dared to challenge that perception… if only for a fleeting moment.  As I was walking down Market just past Sixth St. with my hood up and my headphones in, a short black man with an unreasonable amount of layers on took a swing at me just as he passed.  I was in my own world at the moment, still reveling in Arsenal's win over Liverpool on the weekend, I'm sure.  And suddenly, this lunge.  I panicked.  And yes, I momentarily feared for my life.

You know what I thought of in that instant?  "Oh no, what about the World Cup?!?"  I probably should have been focussed on family or loved ones… or at least my future prospects as a whole if I was to be selfish right then.  But no.  I thought: "What if he has a knife?  What if he blinds me in one eye and I'm forced to watch the finals through blurred and uneven depth perception?  What if I need to have an expensive surgery that will require that I scalp off some of my tickets?  What if?"  I ducked.  He missed (or he was just psyching me out, testing my reflexes, I don't know) and kept right on walking, not even shooting back a glance at me.  I stood for a moment, relieved and examining myself, for maybe the adrenaline was concealing a shiv wound to my kidneys.

This incident concerns me greatly.  Not because I feel vulnerable or my city feels less safe but because it emphasizes the irrational depths of my emotional investment in the World Cup.  I had considered doing either a safari or climbing Kilimanjaro before arriving in Cape Town but classified them as potential hazards that might prevent me from making it to the promise land.  I also won't be doing any of the "extreme sports" this time around when I'm in Interlaken, Switzerland this May.  I went canyoning and paragliding in 2006 but that was, crucially, after the World Cup and at that point could put my life in jeopardy at my leisure.  But right now?  Only six months away?  I'm playing not to lose.  I have a 1-0 lead on life and have decided to pack 10 men in my own penalty area; I've got six safeties in my secondary and am playing a soft prevent; I'm running down the shot clock in the back court each time I get the ball.

God help us all when that final whistle blows on match 64 in Johannesburg come July 11.  There will be a wild Asian man on the loose celebrating his private triumph, no longer concerned with his own safety or well-being.  Until then, I'll be avoiding the Tenderloin.