Some real internationals

Yesterday I met three real football internationals, the first since I came across former Wolves and England internatioal John Roberts in a hostel bar at Cape Tribulation dancing to 'Run to Paradise' with his 19 year old daughter. John offered me tickets to any Wolves game (he was the president back then) so impressed was he with my commitment to the 'You Don't Know Anyone' bits in the song.

I do, however, know anyone. I now know Robbie Slater and Frank Farina (note the use of 'know' after a conversatoon that lasted 3 minutes of determained small talk). We were on the path that led to te Dachau concentration camp just out of Munich, solemnly contemplating the internment of more than 200,000 prisoners between 1933 and 1945, and the murder of more than 43,000. I was wearing my West Ham away strip, and as we approached that terrible, solemn gate, I heard a deepish voice beside me -

'I've got one of those shirts.' It was Robbie Slater, former player for West Ham, and one of the names attached to the FFA Travel Tours over here for the World Cup.

I was surprised to see him, a little taken aback, and muttered something about him having had to work a little harder for his. Then I saw Frank Farina with him, and pulled out my tape recorder, just to say something to the great man.

'Do you think Harry will play?'

'The concentration camp was now getting closer. My focus really should be elsewhere.

'Oh he's playing. I just got off the phone. He's been cleared.'

The news spreads amongst the crowd on the Dachau path. Harry is playing! There's a happy buzz that spreads its way down the line. The skies are blue, we're a chance for the second round, and our brilliant, foul mouthed number 10 has somehow pulled off a legal miracle by escaping the sanction of FIFA.

Minutes later, I'm inside Dachau, the sun's still shining, but for the first time since arriving in Germany, the World Cup falls to one side. I stood in the gas chambers disgused as showers, stared at the machine gun towers, saw the photos of the bodies piled up in the death chamber of the crematoria and felt sick for another time when nationalism was at the forefront of everything, but death on unthinkable scales was the result.

Many opponents of football wonder whether it is a healthy part of society, for the very reason that it does excite the gland of nationalism, and have us chanting and waving and identifying with a national body perhaps more strongly then any other peacetime activity. No doubt, neo Nazi groups have used football - abused football - for the own illegitimate ends, but to be on the streets here, and enjoy the hugging, the shirt swapping, the good natured needling, the joy, the disappointment, and the thousands of smiling arm pumping conversations with people who might only share the words 'Harry Kewell', or 'Brazil 5-nil!' , is to experience a festival that is unrivalled on the plaent. The greatest show on Earth.

Last night in Stuttgart, my day of meeting internationals was made complete when I came across a former Croatian international Nenad Prelija. An Aussie fan called Tim was the one who told me who he was, and over the course of 15 minutes, he told me about the experience of listening to the national anthem on the day of his first international, in 1996 and thinking about the death of his brother in the Serbian Croatian War. Nenad played another 11 games for his country, something he called his 'great pride' and said that he would give his Croatian shirt to his son, so that he can give it to his son.

It was a solemn exchange, and it took Joe Cole's scorcher to drag us out of the quiet melancholy of the interview and back to the brilliant unreality of this month.