ROTTERDAM, Netherlands -- There's only one thing that goes through your mind when you enter De Kuip Stadium in Rotterdam: the Netherlands can never lose here.
It's not a massive stadium like London's Wembley or the Maracana in Rio de Janeiro or even Yokohama International Stadium. On the contrary, it squeezes in 50,000 spectators. But while it is nicknamed "the tub," its atmosphere is more like a caldron, especially when the national team is playing at home.
So it really was no surprise when the Netherlands romped over Yugoslavia 6-1 in the quarterfinals of Euro 2000 on Sunday evening. The Yugoslavs never really stood a chance.
For a start, they were playing one of the host teams, the only one remaining, in fact. This has been a painful tournament for the Belgians. Having seen their mini revival halted in the first round, they now have to watch helplessly as their archrivals, cohosts and neighbors move into top gear as the tournament comes down to its final three matches.
The Yugoslavs, keen to make up for their absence in the last two European Championships due to political reasons, haven't managed to live up to their reputations. Longtime Japan resident Dragan Stojkovic has looked out of touch with his teammates, although it could be that they are just out of touch with him.
Stojkovic, of course, is the classic example of a brilliantly talented player cursed by demons that often prevent him from becoming a great player, but it is nice to know (or is it?) that his J. League volatility is less pronounced when playing for the national team. Although he was captain, Yugoslav coach Vujadin Boskov kept yanking the Nagoya Grampus Eight player off the field, seemingly to give younger, fresher legs a runout. But to his credit, Stojkovic proved a useful link in trying to hold the disparate talents within the team together. Like the country of old, the Yugoslav soccer team is a fractious and sensitive entity that can fall apart or blow its top with little or no warning.
On Sunday, it just didn't shape up and the opposition, its fans and stadium had a lot to do with it.
While the Romania-Italy game in Brussels the night before had been a relatively sedate affair with a strong police presence, the Netherlands-Yugoslavia match was full of passions and the police were only on hand to ensure the safety of the 50,000 in attendance. The police closed the roads to the stadium well before the match and the fans arrived from several different directions. Some blew loud horns, most seemed to be eating snacks and drinking beer, and all were wearing orange.
It was nice to see 50,000 people wearing orange and NOT singing "Popeye the Sailor Man" 20 times in succession. In fact, Shigeo Nagashima was just another nightmare far, far away. And besides, 50,000 people never actually wear orange at the Tokyo Dome.
At De Kuip, everyone does (well, everyone who's not a Yugoslav or a journalist). It may seem like everyone is wearing blue when the Japan national soccer team plays at home, but they're not. It could be the color, but it really doesn't stand out.
Orange does, in a big, big way. Normally, orange is not intimidating. At De Kuip, it's a real threat. And that's just the visual image. Add the noise to that equation and you get real menace. The noise is just wonderful. De Kuip is a very compact stadium with spectacular acoustics for a football crowd. And this crowd rarely stops making noise.
The Dutch do have a variety of songs that sound perilously close to "Popeye the Sailor Man," but most of the unfamiliar tunes appear to be drinking songs that have been rescued from a particularly jovial bier kellar in Bavaria. The Dutch are also quite keen on a version of Auld Lang's Ayne that also seems to turn into a drinking song halfway through.
Of course, all this drinking and singing does cause some of the spectators to overheat and within the first 15 minutes of Sunday's game, two fights broke out in the crowd in front of me. They appeared to be fights over personal space. The first was dealt with by the stewards, who threw the culprits out to the delight of the fans around them, while the second was settled by a fellow spectator who was nearly the size of Konishiki. Nobody wanted to mess with him.
But most of the crowd's energies were directed toward the field and, as Patrick Kluivert first got his hat trick and then notched his fourth goal, it was nothing but a party both on and off the field. The noise was terrific. Dutch fans with orange dreadlocks, painted faces and some with cheese or tulip hats couldn't believe how easy it was.
They celebrated like it was a final. As the bus cruised down the trafficless road away from the stadium, fans were already dancing in the street. Those who had to watch on TV were leaning out of their windows, many waving flags, shouting a lot and, naturally, drinking beer.
As I started my journey back to my hotel in Belgium, Dutch fans were already driving around in celebration, waving their flags from the windows of their cars and sounding the loud horns that are a common feature of games on the continent. As I drove out of Rotterdam on the expressway, groups of fans had gathered on bridges overhead to let everyone know how they felt.
It will need more opposition than Yugoslavia could provide to bring down the Netherlands' big orange machine. After two big wins in the last week, the machine is looking virtually unstoppable. Amsterdam may be a more sedate venue for the Dutch team's semifinal against Italy, but with the final set for Rotterdam, it will take a strong team and brave hearts to overcome the power and volume of De Kuip's "Orange Army."