Red, White, Blue - and Orange?

(Definitely not Cutest)

Unless you have been: A. Out of the country this past week; B. Have refused to watch or listen to local news; or C. Are so tired of words like pitch, match, striker, or Messi that you leave your ear plugs in, then you failed to witness Cow Town becoming an international soccer city.

To crank up the Norwegian fan base before that evening’s match at Arrowhead, a parade from the Power and Light district to Crown Center was organized for that morning. A seismic orange wave, like an over 36,000 people-strong wave, flooded Grand Boulevard from sidewalk to sidewalk.

Once again, I, Cute, chose to embrace the unknown on my own. Cutest, obviously the wiser of this blog pairing, stayed at home by her cell phone should a desperate call come from me asking for either medical aid or bond money.

Here’s how the day began. Knowing that parking anywhere near the Power and Light district would be nonexistent, I boarded the KC street car at its Plaza stop. On the walk over, others fell in step behind me, festooned in anything orange. Shorts, sport coats and ties, World Cup tee shirts and tee shirts that advertised anything from Dairy Queen to an ancient rock concert – but orange was the predominant color.

The ride into town became a close encounter with strangers, but not in a weird way. Our destination, 14th and Main saw us spilling out onto the sidewalk like tuna tossed from a tin.

From there I wobbled over to P & L to closely inspect the fishbowl of singing, chanting, dancing and hopping fans. Oversized foam orange, what else, cowboy hats sat on many a head. I still don’t get why.

To get a jump on the impending march down Grand, I began walking south. I quickly understood how salmon feel when swimming against the flow. I sought refuge inside Messenger Coffee at 16th & Grand. Here thought I, I could scurry up to their rooftop patio and observe the action below. Unfortunately, I was an hour late as every seat was taken.

Even Fox 4 KC had snared the prime roof top edge for their morning broadcast. 

But with coffee in hand, I plunged back into the masses and continued my southerly journey. Some 20 minutes later, I secured the prime observation location on the Crown Center Link spanning Grand and Pershing. The air conditioning was welcome.

At exactly 11:15 a.m., the horizon morphed into an orange, moving blob.  When this human-fed creature crept down to the Western Auto condo building, at least five blocks of celebration flowed behind. None of our St. Patrick Day, World Series or Super Bowl parades have matched this throng.

To protect the revelers, two fleets of orange, what else, heavy duty snow bladed dump trucks led and followed the mob. No crazy or drunken individual was going to rain on this parade.

And then it was over. Participants scattered like fall leaves in the wind, perhaps going to the Fan Fest, Union Station or home.

My return trip on the streetcar was another up close and personal experience, but no fouls were committed. Cutest greeted me like I was a Roman warrior returning home from a crusade. Basking in her cheerful smile, while I consumed a cold beverage, I relayed my tale.

Not once did she say she wished she had been with me.