It’s standing room only at Ginger’s Ale House. That’s not unusual for this neighborhood pub at the corner of Ashland and Grace but for two reasons: the place is packed with singing Brits and it’s 6:30 on a Friday morning. The banner hanging outside proclaims this “Soccer World Cup Headquarters.” Inside, ten TV screens beam live from the soccer stadium in Sapporo, Japan, where England will shortly kick off against Argentina.
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A waitress pushes past holding a coffeepot above her head. It’s too early to serve alcohol, and nail-biter remarks to weight-shifter that coffee and soccer don’t seem quite the right combination. But we’re lucky to be watching the game live at the pub at all. The time difference between Chicago and Japan and South Korea means most World Cup games kick off in the middle of our night. It’s been a bit of a headache for proprietors Jamie Hale and Tony Griffin, who can’t serve alcohol between 2 and 7 AM. No alcohol, no point.
Hale, originally from Gloucester in England, and Griffin, from Dublin, have worked hard to promote Ginger’s Ale House as a “soccer pub”–their words–since taking it over 12 years ago. The English premier league, the Scottish first division, and European cup games are all shown live, as are Chicago Fire games when they’re televised. The pub also provides bus service to all Fire home games and sponsors 16 local soccer teams.
Kickoff! One flag-draped fan at the bar puts his hands together, palm to palm, and closes his eyes in prayer. It’s his ritual as any England game begins, he’ll tell me later. The singing starts–Ing-el-end, Ing-el-end, Ing-el-end–but is rudely interrupted as England immediately gives the ball away. Tossers! someone cries from the back. “Come on, England!” weight-shifter intones in front of me. The singing resumes.
The second half seems to go on forever, though it helps that beer is being served now. A one-goal lead against one of the best teams in the world is terrifying to endure. Loud swearing crescendos. One fan later will tell me that he spent the last 20 minutes in the toilet, unable to watch. Many rooted to the spot bury their eyes in their hands. But England hangs on for a one-nil win, and the singing doesn’t stop for ten minutes.
