Today I am Greek. All five of us walking down the hill towards the Indian Ocean and the Port Elizabeth stadium are Greek. Nikos is Greek because he is Greek. Dan, who is wearing a specially made makarapa in Greek colours, flying Greek flags and giving us all a lesson in the art of Greek cursing, is Greek after spending five years in Athens and finding his spiritual home there. Paul is Zimbabwean but he too is Greek today—Dan has forced him into a Greek football shirt. On the plane, Gregory and I had pondered the question aloud: are we supporting South Korea or Greece? We were told in no uncertain terms by the Greeks on board that we were supporting Greece. I settle for a scarf: all I can do to stop Dan making me put on a Greek shirt.