Clapton_ The Autobiography - Eric Clapton [148]
We started the tour again in Verona and, as luck would have it, the Italians were playing France in the final. The game was played the night before our first show, and we were invited by our hotel manager to watch it on a big-screen TV in the lounge. The famous Zidane foul stole the show, reminding me a lot of Cantona’s equally infamous dropkick, a strange phenomenon, totally riveting and yet utterly repellent and horrifying at the same time. When the final whistle blew, we were smack in the middle of all the World Cup madness we had hoped to avoid, and the whole of Italy went totally berserk.
The fact that their victory was decided by a dismal penalty shootout didn’t seem to quell their enthusiasm. I felt strangely detached from it all, my attitude toward national sporting events being slightly ambivalent. I tend to support any team that I think is playing creatively and fairly, and with character, elements apparently missing through the course of this particular event. We moved on, back into Germany and up through Scandinavia, and at the end of the European leg we took another, longer break. The family and I met up in France and a few days later flew on to Columbus.
The last half of August and a good part of September were spent just lolling around the house, swimming and relaxing in the sun, my idea of heaven. Julie and Ella were now proficient swimmers, inasmuch as they were confident and comfortable in the water, and Sophie, who had been walking for quite a while, wasn’t far behind. This is exactly what I had been working for, the ability to be able to sit and play with my family in the sun, basically doing nothing, just having fun.
Our summer sojourn was broken in half by the need to take photos with J. J. for the Escondido album, and the agreement was that I would travel to LA, meet J. J. there—he hates to fly—spend a couple of days taking pictures, and meet with Tom Whalley to catch up on business while I was in town. Hanging out with J. J. is one of my favorite pastimes, as he is a great character with a brilliant sense of humor. I would say, from having got to know him, that he has been misunderstood by most people, often being referred to as a recluse when in fact he is a very sociable man, open and charismatic. He just enjoys his own company. As far as I know, J. J. has never even been nominated for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, while I have been inducted three times. In my humble opinion, he is one of the most important artists in the history of rock, quietly representing the greatest asset his country has ever had, and a lot of people in Europe have never even heard of him.
Traveling back to Columbus, because I had a one-way ticket I was therefore a prime suspect for blowing up the plane, and the security people joyfully took me apart as usual. I swore quietly to myself, for the hundredth time, that I would never come back to this country again. Of course, it’s the same everywhere now, but for some reason it just feels worse in America. When we tour, we always charter a small airplane, a common practice for people in this business for a long time, but it tends to make me forget how grim it is trying to get around these days. I used to love traveling, I’ve always felt it was in my blood, but I can’t stomach it anymore and literally dread going to an airport. The interesting thing