Trra um pum pum. Traa pum pum pum

Blame it on the movies. Every time I approach a stadium, that’s the rhythm my memory plays. The exalted jingle of American baseball.

Tonight is no exception, even though the game is football, the teams are European and the streets are thronging with vodka, scarves and scarlet face paint instead of foam fingers and men in tight white trousers.

Traaa um pum pum pum. Traaa um pump um pum.

I’m in Warsaw, Poland, and I’m heading into the National Stadium for its inaugural game. We’re only 100 days from Euro 2012 and it’s hard not to get carried along with the cracking cold cheer of the crowd.

A young woman sweeps a stroke of white across my cheeks and the moisture traps the coolness of the air. The next stroke brings the red, the colours of Poland (and Portugal, who they’re playing, as it happens, but I don’t mention that. I don’t want to spoil the mood.)

Warsaw National Stadium

The stadium walls gleam and embrace the night sky. The spotlights shine. The punters pose. Every inch of darkness is awash with photons: spotlights, flashlights, coach queue headlights.  It’s cold but the noise brings in the heat. The rowdy, raucous, rollercoaster of belonging in a congregation that trembles with pride and overflows with anticipation.

Yet I carry a guilty secret. This is the first professional football match I’ve ever seen. I caught a regional game once in Chile, bodies scrambling over terraces and mounted policemen striking those bodies back down. There’s a rumour I once saw Brighton & Hove Albion play when I was too young to remember, but as anyone who recognises the name will tell you, that doesn’t count for much. As for the rest of you, well, that ignorance rather says the same thing.

One thing I do remember, though, was the Hillsborough Crush, my school-age eyes watching more than 90 people die because people lost all sense of reason in the heat of the beautiful game.

It put me off. And I still feel uneasy about crowds.

One thing I do remember, though, was the Hillsborough Crush

But if there’s one thing you can’t deny, it’s that football has an international appeal. It’s played in over 200 countries, by an estimated 250 million people. It’s the number one sport worldwide and requires an impressively small amount of kit.

It’s a near-universal ice-breaker, from corporate meetings to crotchety consultants, great aunts at weddings to dusty children on the street.

Say the right thing about football and you’re one step closer to finding a new friend.

Football’s also a multibillion dollar business, of course. Its players are some of the best paid in history (Messi earns over $400 000 a week) overshadowing Hollywood actors, politicians and much lesser mortals like healthcare staff, teachers, policemen and travel bloggers.

When I arrived in communist China at the turn of the century, Tiananmen Square was devoid of advertising, save for the face of one man.

And I’m not talking about Chairman Mao.

It was David Beckham whose face beamed from the buses that trawled through Beijing on that particular day.

Those two simple words, “David” and “Beckham” or those other two “Man” and “United,” have opened more doors for me around the world than any of the recited greetings I’ve gleaned from phrasebooks.

Food may be the way to a man’s heart, but football’’s the better conversation starter.

Food may be the way to a man’s heart, but football’’s the better conversation starter.

So when the invitation came through on that cold February night to catch the game in action, I knew I had to get a better look.

Warsaw, indeed the whole of Poland, had been preparing for this moment. Shoes polished, hair slicked back, timely reminders heeded to wash behind the ears. Euro 2012 takes in sixteen nations and thousands of people and Poland’s co-hosting with the Ukraine marks a watershed in eastern European sport.

The Game

Back on the terraces, the excitement pulsed through the stands. The pounding beat of the chants, the shared tomfoolery of the Mexican waves, the hats, the scarves, the swirling melee of face paint and vodka.

We took our seats, swaying in support of our host Poland, until we realised we were sat behind the Portuguese press.

It damped the mood somewhat, bringing us back to reality. For all the songs and all the fireworks, nothing that happened tonight was going to matter at all. Whatever way you looked at it, we were watching a bunch of strangers on a field, chasing a ball.

I felt the paint, cracked and dry on my cheeks; I felt a fool.

But then another illusion appeared as the players streamed on to the pitch, the grounds blazing beneath the fire of celebrity.

We weren’t watching strangers. We were watching superstars! And if football casts a spell, that’s nothing compared to celebrity.

There, in shorts and studded boots, strode Cristiano Ronaldo, one of the most famous players in the world.

There, in shorts and studded boots, strode Cristiano Ronaldo, one of the most famous players in the world.

The fascination is bizarre. Here is a man who I’ve never met but whose face I’ve seen a thousand times. Without knowing quite how, I can recognise him from afar, from the way he moves. I know he has a son. I know he lived in the UK. I know he winked when a teammate was sent off. I know how much he earns.

And he doesn’t know me at all.

And why do I know all this? Because he’s a man who’s good at kicking a ball.

Celebrity, like football, excites us, yet it’s so very difficult to justify.

As you’ve probably gathered by now, it wasn’t an exciting match and my mind was wandering freely. Nil-nil at half-time when I sought warmth in the food queues; nil-nil at the final whistle when the red and whites flowed jubilant into the streets. Vodka streamed through the bars of Warsaw and conversations came my way on account of the two stripes on my cheek.

We all need tribes, for better and for worse, and tonight I bathed in the best of my adopted tribe. I tasted vodka served with a blade of grass, ate pickled fish on dark rye bread, fended off invites to strip clubs and wandered home happy.

I was no closer to understanding football, nor celebrity, but I really didn’t mind.

I’d seen the best of a sport that had held me for too long in its shadow with the ghosts of that crush in 1989.

Today, Euro 2012 is just around the corner and will be co-hosted between Poland and the Ukraine.

Warsaw is ready. And perhaps, now, so am I.

Disclosure : I travelled to Warsaw as a guest of the Polish National Tourist Office.

Football. What do you think? Love it? Hate it? Find it helps with conversations around the world?