And that’s how it was, y’all. Da big mastapimp A-Dawg came rollin’ inta town, ‘cept dem foolz at da gara done wrecked his train schedule and mista playa man had to spread some chedda on a maxi taxi. Now, I didn’t know this, so I wuz str8 playin’ that soldier until I got the 411. U kno how it goez. We be adjustmentikatin’ n shizzle. Word.

The trouble got started early because the dude shows up with this heavy sack of berii. As the first official sponsor of Campionatul Mondial de Bere, Andrew came well-armed with Sovata, Neumarkt, Dracula and Aro beers to help fill out the participant roster. It was like an alcoholic halloween! As one might guess, that means somebody has to carry all that around a while…

For realz, he be a tru playa in da sport of Bere Mondial like the rest of U only wish U wuz. U know we had to get tha Drew-Daddy to pop the top off a sticla, right? Fo’ sheezy! Next thang U kno, we be chillin’ at them gara beer-stand thingz gettin’ hassled by the gyspy beggars (and U kno we didn’t waste no paper) while tryin’ chug down a forty half-liter.

So there I was, hanging out with supercool Andrew and drinking beer with a mesmerizing young woman. The conversation flowed pretty thick and pretty fast. Well, that is, until Mr. Man essentially told us to shut up because he was sick of talking, then abruptly took off inside the gara to the ticket booth. Don’t try to deny it, fool!

N-e-waze, that boy wuz either fascinated by my celebrity status or couldn’t stop staring at tha hottie in orange, becuz Sucka came creepin’ back like a punk n’ spittin’ weak lines ’bout getting ganked by the dracu bilete woman. Yes, yes, y’all… he gonna be delayed a bit n’ hafta start reprezentin that TeeGee side.

LOLz!!!11!eleven

Hyperbole aside, it was fun. He ended up being stuck in the sparkling wonder of Braşov a couple hours longer than expected, so our little group decided it was safe to hoist another bottle of beer or two. Er, no, it was more like a mandate. A duty, in fact. Campionatul Mondial guest judging and all that. Giddyap.

At some point, we started the marathon timer to intiate a hurried quest for the best kebab in all of Romania. Our efforts were aided by the fact that I already knew how to find the place. We jumped into a cab and headed towards parcul central, yammering in English all the while expressly in order to draw the curious eyes of our taximetrist.

Weaving dangerously outside the vehicle, we stumbled the final few steps until we entered shoarma nirvana. Andrew pops off in his nearly perfect Romaneşte to place an order, which makes me look like a complete idiot as I fumble the words around and beg for help like a little girl with a skinned knee. But then I’ve absolutely no shame when it comes time to procure the world’s greatest sandwich. Mai multe ardei iute, va rog!

We managed to land another taxi and raced back to the gara, so Andrew wouldn’t miss his train. We got there with a couple minutes to spare, but the ticket line was moving slower than molasses which resulted in Andrew being told the train had already left. Plan B? Wait, let’s check that monitor. Platform 3, right? Damn, your train hasn’t left yet — it hasn’t even arrived! Back in line only to be told by the very same (incompetent and self-loathing) CFR employee that she wouldn’t sell him a ticket and he could buy one on the train.

Sound out of place? Well, it kind of is and kind of isn’t depending on who you ask and how it gets handled. In other words, it’s apparently quite subjective at the discretion of the train ‘conductor’ (aka ticketpuncher). Maybe some of y’all with deeper experience in this area can enlighten us? Basically, the idea is to get on the train before it leaves and then worry about finding a staffer who can sell you the required ticket.

Theoretically, you should be able to just pay the fare. But, then, theoretically, you didn’t buy a proper ticket and might be subject to a fine. The way I understand it is that it’s all about timing. If you get the ticket before the train actually moves or possibly immediately thereafter, you can probably pay regular price. Assuming you’re Romanian that is.

Poor guy; A-Dawg boards the train and quickly looks for the conductor. Maybe there was only one person on shift because a journey through several cars was required to find a uniformed bloke. Andrew explains the situation about how he tried twice to buy a ticket but the lady refused to sell him one. The conductor scoffs. Andrew explains how he was instructed by CFR staff to buy a ticket on the train. The conductor scoffs again. Why? Some might say the conductor was possibly doing his job, but I’m sure it’s because Andrew was an American… you know, a filthy rich idiot just waiting to have gold nuggets shaken out of his pockets because all Americans are stupid and wealthy. You knew that, right? Right.

After some negotiation, for a small bribe plus the normal ticket price (all of which was probably pocketed by the CFR conductor), Andrew managed to get himself a very cozy spot in first class where he could enjoy his ride in peace. Though, I think the train dropped him off at his destination around 1am or 2am which may or may not have caused further adventures outside the scope of this post. Not sure.

What I do know is that we have photographic evidence that he was safely on the train loaded with loot in the form of a 2-liter of Braşov’s finest…

“Al ceva?”

“Sure, babe, gimme a box of condoms, one of those porn mags, a packet of Lucky Strike, and… and some breathmints.”

Presuming she didn’t speak Engleza, she’d probably give you a really funny look and finally say, “Doriţi un packet de Lucky?”

“Nu, glumesc.” No reaction. “Nu vreau. Atut.”

She probably couldn’t wait to get rid of you, stranger in a strange land. So, you’d walk home with too many bottles pulling down the stretched handles on your over used plastic bag that some greedy store owner charged you 10,000 lei vechi for, wondering exactly how close you’ll make it before it tears.

Don’t they sell any cloth bags that don’t break? Why are they charging you such a high price for a cheap plastic bag which you need in order for them to profit from your patronage and for which they only pay about 500 lei or less? Post-communist mentality: gouge everyone!

CBA. Carrefour bere again? You’re not even sure you want to go home and open this puppy, but it’s your duty as the ever stoic adventurer. Maybe that’s not a good description. Ah, well, it’s a working definition.

Just as the game was about to get underway, emergency rescue workers had to be rushed to the scene as Spammy was refusing to referree and had created a somewhat controversial demonstration against tasting any more Hiproma-style beer.

Once cut down, Spammy went on a bit of a tirade threatening to boycott the entire Campionatul Mondial de Bere rather than be involved with any more of Hiproma’s foul concoction misleadingly labelled as beer. After a lengthy period of tense negotiations (including demands for event-sponsored life insurance), our perky pink pig was softly eased into the idea of trying a few sips.

And so it was that CBA got the ball first, uneasily moving down the field to the jeers and insults of the snickering crowd. Amazingly, Luca’s brand of beer did not jumble things up and knock the checkered sphere into its own goal. Broadcasters even indicated that the stuff was nearly drinkable. Almost.

Spammy decided to call his inside connections in the SRI’s shadier bureaus and set up an espionage ring outside of IMEX. How in the world could these guys in Satu Mare make a relatively beer-like drink for Luca’s private label reselling, while at the same time bottling rat poison for Carrefour? The mystery needs answering. Tap the phones. Keylog the computers. Open the mail. Whatever it takes!

Otherwise, we’d be forced to conclude that it’s similar to making prison wine where one version turns out slightly drinkable whereas the other one is best used for engine degreasing.

Well, yeah, so Spammy was kind of distracted with these conversations, but ESPN highlights of Match 10 showed that Skol ended up scoring a goal based on taste. Halftime show was great party music from Manu Chao. Neither team was able to muster pricing or ABV dominance. Things ended peacefully and spectators had a relaxed good time involving some wild dancing.

Final score: CBA 0 – Skol 1

As the third foreign beer in the tournament, Tuborg Strong invaded the BraşoDome and were welcomed by the fans as conquering heros. That’s right, Timmy, the Romanian beer drinkers were actually hailing the mighty crimson and black from the frozen north of Denmark. These Danish warriors were menacing and somber with a keen eye toward revenging the loss of their sister team Tuborg Gold.

The crowds mostly ignored the yellow jerseyed brand when they entered the coliseum. Sure, the funny commercials are well liked in Romania, but to actually drink some? I’ve never seen it. Ever. At all. Leading beerontological experts believe this is a consquence of Bergenbier’s status of a cultural mutt. It’s brewed in Romania, has Belgian ownership, and the name is a mixture of Norwegian and German. And yet, flying in the face of overwhelming anecdotal evidence, some bean counters claim it was the leading beer in 2003.

At the cap-off, things got wet quickly as the eager competitors went neck in neck. That is, their bottle necks were nearly down the throats of the judges necks. As the first to be orally enclosed, Tuborg Strong has the first chance to make good on its rage. Racing down the sidelines to the deafening thunder of the expectant crowd, Tuborg Royal Export stung the thirsty palates with its patented flavored of a sugared-up sourmash. GOAL!

Nonplussed, the sticla din Belgia surprised the complacent judges (who had been secretly fearing the worst from this heretofore unknown taste) with a full-bodied and outrageously delicious balance of light malts and hard hops that washed away all concerns with a slightly nutmeg characteristic in just an instant. GOAL!

In fact, the Bergenbier flavorings shocked both the crowd and officials alike by completely dominating the tastebudinal aspect of the game, when it was assumed that Tuborg Royal Export would win that category. Yet, for all the predictions of the betting public, the radiant Truth came shining down on the blessed referrees as they greedily relished large swigs of this Lager As Lagers Should Be. Astonishing all present with undeniable great brewmastery, Bergbier struck again before the half. GOAL!

The inter-period break featured the very talented discography of Tool, which made rock lovers of all apartments surrounding the BrasoDome. The gathered faithful played a little air guitar, took their try at singing, and even engaged in a little headbanging fun. During breaks between songs, the game caller notified alert sportsfans that some health conscious smack talkin’ was still raging on about possible side effects of Ciuc.

During the second half, Tuborg Strong evened things up with the expected superstar forwards using the devastating alcohol content to push the yellow defenders back on their heels. GOAL!

As you mostly cannot tell from the photo above, the Danish Royals (and not the royal danish, mmm yum) were a strong straw color while the Norwegermans were close in coloration but with slightly more amber hues darkening them. Either way, the image is a complete failure to capture what at the time seemed like a relatively simple scene to nail. But between the lighting, mugalogical differentiation, and general incompetence, it turned out a bit shoddy. Sorry, gents.

Ever persistent, the boys of Bergenbier took their succulent, savory time in passing the ball down the field. Eventually, their costational lownitude paid off when the far side left-wing struck gold on a flying scissor kick. GOAL!

Tensions mounted in the stadium as the lush drunkards anticipated a counterstrike from the mighty alcohol of Tuborg Royal Export. Indeed, the crimson worshippers were not disappointed when the expected attack came with the sheer brute force of seven point two percent alcohol by volume and the very breath of Tuborg Strong sent the ball sailing on a saturated wind. GOAL!

Satisfied with a draw match instead of a loss, the weary crowds shuffled towards the exits, muttering under their breaths and fumbling around for taxi money. Invariably, the louder folks were chattering about the upcoming match between CBA and Skol. Talent scouts discovered CBA was managed by the same brewer as Carrefour, so bets weren’t being made about who would win, but rather about how much nonsense the judges could suffer.

Oh, but strange things happen. With most of the beer drinking public already squabbling over who got shotgun in the 1968 Dacia taxi, everyone paused in disbelief at the sounds of a roar coming from inside the BraşoDome. While not many people had remained behind, the excitement unextinguishable as newly loyal Bergenbier fans watched them but the nail in the coffin with a late shot based on the insanely low price of only 1,39 RON. GOAL!

Fantatical supporters stormed the field and tore down the goal posts. Fire works were set off and someone opened more bottles. The party raged on into the wee hours of morning when Mirinda, the janitor tasked with preparing the BrasoDome for the next match, found a number of individuals passed out on the field… including Spammy, conspicuously absent from the game after his recent injuries, who was found wearing earrings, lipstick and a wig in what is sure to be a scandal for some time to come.

The third and final leg of Saturday’s triple-header featured the mysterious Carrefour Bere Blonda you’ve all been looking forward to learning more about as they sought to crush opaque offering from Ursus Breweries. Let’s face it; the odds were entirely unequal as Carrefour weighed in with a h-u-g-e two liter plastic bottle pitted against a couple of half liter glass bottles of Ursus Black.

With their sister team Ursus Premium having been humiliated early in the evening, Ursus Black approached the field in a somber mood. Now, when the Description Committee says “black” then you can rest assured it was indeed black. Not brown. Not dark. Nossir, truth in advertising is what you get when you crack open a portion of Ursus Black. Take a look at the difference between a full bottle and an empty one when both are backlit.

The beer sold generically at Carrefour, under the “brand name” of 1 (literally the number one), is slapped together by sadistic zombies at SC IMEX SRL (who, believe it or not, create another beer appropriately named after a coma) and then is actually provided to Hiproma (the primary Carrefour franchisee who has exclusive rights to the Romanian market).

For the opening move, Ursus Black poured itself into a pint glass and appeared strongly reminiscent of Guiness, except the foam wasn’t nearly as thick.

The taste was unlike the creamy smoothness of Guiness, however. Instead, the northern bear has a noticeably thinner mouthfeel and a distinct smoke flavor that reminded the judges (a little bit) of the glory days of Blackened Voodoo (made in the world’s last cypress tanks, before the flooding). As you might have guessed, this meant Ursus Black struck home first and lit up the scoreboard. GOAL!

When Carrefour got its turn at the gaping mouth, the world flipped upside down for a moment. The monsterous taste of this frankenstein beer nearly caused all consumers to blow their biscuits at first swallow. Seemingly undescribeable in the midst of the confusion, later survivors would recall the flavor was extremely close to how one might imagine Clin or Windex might taste.

Clearly, this disruption in the force did not go unpunished. While everyone was confused by the notion of this filth being marketed under the misleading label of “beer,” the poor saps from Carrefour actually shot the ball into the net — their own! GOAL!

The poor naseauted staff desperately clawed for a swig of Ursus Black just to wash out the aftertaste of bleach, but the Cluj players had a notion of their own. With blazing speed, the rich dark intensity flowed past lips and on toward tonsils to the delight of the tastebuds in the crowd. That stout woody pleasantry nearly blew the ball into bits and pieces when it shot yet another tasty strike. GOAL!

The halftime show broadcast live from RadioLynx. These nonconformist radicals of radio abandon all pretense of any format contraints and simply play a wide variety that’s perfect for your ADD problem. Where else can you hear Billy Ocean, Ozzy Osbourne, jazz fusion, 50s music, reggae, bizarre 70s rock bands covering Abba tunes, and then Weird Al Yankovich all in a row?

With Ursus Black getting the majority of the playtime, the two bottles learned how to use their small stature to their advantage, darting in and out of the monolithic two liter’s path. It wasn’t terribly long into the second half when so-called king of beers used its rather substantial alcoholic domination on a corner kick to bing one off the lid of a fellow bottle and into the open target. GOAL!

Normally, experts would have predicted that the IMEX creation would eventually score a goal for based on its price positioning, but that just never materialized. Instead, the marca un sticla must have drank some of its own contents because it started acting insane, pushing referree Spammy down to the ground in a tantrum.

As frightened attendees scrambled over one another to get as far away as possible from Carrefour’s deadly poison, the screams of a crushed pig went muffled under the repeated jumping a plastic bottle until all was silent. Riot police and army reserves were called into eject Hiproma from the game…

Final score: Carrefour 0 – Ursus Black 4

The Organizing Committee also wishes to inform you that Hopfen Konig has been disqualified from the competition and will, instead, be replaced by a heretofore unknown Romanian team called Postavaru in Group G. Also, Balea and Aurora will swap seats into Groups E and F, respectively. That is all.

Managed by Graffiti BBDO in Bucuresti, the de luxe beer team of 1895 Copenhagen made sure to promote it’s seasonale theme of “Tuborg, iţi elibereaza imaginaţia!” Translators on hand specified that this meant Tuborg was exceptionally clever in marketing the idea to young men that they could use Tuborg to relax the inhibitions of sexual prey, if not outright get the victim drunk altogether. Oy vey!

Timisoreana, owned by South African giangantocorp SABMiller, countered by promoting its three centuries of heritage when the brewery was founded in commemoration of the Habsburg empire’s brutal crushing of the Turks in 1718 at the experienced (and many say brilliant) hands of Eugène de Savoie-Carignan, who fought on behalf of the Roman church and was wounded 13 times during his efforts to free Hungary from Ottoman rule. God, war, and beer. Smashing!

When it came time for the opening cap-off, officials noticed that Tuborg was running a contest. “Castigi cu Tuby Cap!” So, Spammy was called in to personally oversee the removal of the old-school peel-off bottle-top (with-hyphenation) and thrillingly inspect for cadou. Ba nu!

The action was fast and furious for the first half, with a rapid exchange of sips and gulps as baffled judges sought to determine a difference between the flavor strategies of each team. With distinction being so elusive, an executive decision was made to abandon frozen mugs in favor of simple pint glasses. Once temperatures rose several degrees to a nice cool, the distance between the two teams was microscopic. Timişoreana was noted to have just a slightly hoppier after taste while Tuborg was a bit more watery. However, the big blue T was unable to capitalized on the difference and score any points.

The halftime show captivated a riveted audience with its rather enjoyable bit of Serenity. During halftime most of the crowds headed for the snack bar. So did Spammy.

Once back on the grass, each team tried to score points with their relatively clean and somewhat crisp tastes. While still unable to gain advantage over one another on taste, the two teams were considered to be acceptable light summerbeers by most of those on the sidelines. In the end it was Timişoreana who found a market advantage in cheapness and bopped one into the scorebox. GOAL!

Upset, the Danes called for an instant replay. Spammy was on hand to verify the recommended preţ and ensure no buyers were being ripped off by their local alimentara.

And that’s the way it ended folks. More or less enjoyable but without any devastating excitement.

Final score: Tuborg 0 – Timişoreana 1

The teutonic knights of Holsten came riding into Romania on a black horse from Hamburg. “Gebraut nach dem Reinheitsgebot,” was the battle cry of the jade warriors. Founded in 1879, this “premium bier” (da, in deutschglish) is produced in Pantelimon under the supervision of the German parent company for quality control purposes.

Notice the company apparently cannot spell its own name correctly. Is it a harbinger of things to come? Let’s find out. In the meantime, Holsten needs to learn how to get the details right or else consider a little modesty.

But, oh child, lest we be naive, let us not deny the strange games the golden bears play. Nearly the same age as Holsten, the boys from Ursus were founded in 1878 in Cluj. Recently, they were acquired by SABMiller and now proclaim themselves to be “King of Beers in Romania.” King of Beers, eh? That egoism sounds familiar.

Ursus felt confident about its current promotie offering 6 Ursus-branded beer glasses to 40,000 winning fans who popped a lucky cap, so it aggressively drove right now the field as soon as the top was off. The mere reputation of its liquid refreshment had the Romanian crowd standing on their seats, jumping for joy, and generally in a state of racous frenzy as they anticipated the early kill shot. Exactly when the ball should have gone into the net, Holsten’s intial sip stretched sideways and blocked the shot by the fingertips as the disbelieving fans groaned in agony.

After only a couple volleys of swallowation, Holsten broke away from flaccid Ursus in a Heineken-like move using it’s wonderfully bitter pils approach to blow away the competition and put up the first point on the board as jaws dropped. GOAL!

The halftime ceremonies consisted of nabbing a little sun before it disappeared as the BrasoDome went balcon-style. At a sufficient volume, were the vocal trance styling of Digitally Imported. The listless crowd debated the supposed strengths of Ursus and speculated about it’s potential to wage a comeback try.

Somebody somewhere blew a whistle, so the players trotted back out onto the field. In what might appear on the surface to be a mere coincident, each team presented a clear glass style of play. From all 360 degrees of the sports facility, viewers got to see the two beers had virtually difference in either color or head consistency.

In one of the many blind taste tests conducted by Romerican during Campionatul Mondial de Bere, the expert panel of judges were not confused for even one moment as to which beer clearly had a superior taste. One lone field referee predicted numerous times that the King of Bears’s taste would surely score, but on each occassion the relative merits were rebutted time and again by the black knights.

With no difference between alcoholic skills or rough price points, time came down to the wire. Ursus tried to make something of it’s slightly hoppy flavor, but was ultimately watered down. The domestic favorites tried again with a fruity aroma that got them nowhere. They lost ball control to the honey-pollen flowery nose of Holsten and then the hombres from Hamburg demonstrated their superiority vis-a-vis the red stripes of Ursus bere premium by scoring a second goal based on taste alone. GOAL!

Pissed off beer drinkers across Romania cursed their high resolution screens and started rumors about a possible conspiracy of foreign beer brands having bought off the judges. Back at the BraşoDome, the unhappy Cluj faithful began throwing tomatoes and eggs, forcing security to remove them physically. The poor officiators on the other hand had the unenviable task of recording the details of their decisions down on the field.

Yes, my friends, one has to wonder if I can really keep up with the pace of all this research and documentation. O sa vedem noi. Now that the knight has slain the bear, let’s find that bottle opener for the next round…

Final score: Holsten 2 – Ursus 0

Things started out pleasant enough here in the BraşoDome. Freezable mugs were freshly washed and aching to be filled with a refreshing liquid amber. Nectar of the gods. That sort of thing. The judges were admittedly in need of some relaxation after the first match earlier in the day, but The People were demanding a double header. Weren’t you, comrade?

Yes, my friends, there’s been a new beer introducted in Romania last year. In fact, I believe it’s the only new beer I’ve seen from Romania during this period of consolidation which has caused many brands to disappear. Its name is Stejar and it hails from the land of Cluj, where its owners Ursus (aka SABMiller) mimic Budweiser claims about being brewing royalty. Have you tried it yet?

Standing tall on the other side of the field was the green and aur squade of Golden Brau, winners of the 2003 Gold Medal from Bruxelles. Clearly no slouch, this team is owned by bitter rival Brau Union and can be found throughout most of Romania at grovery stores or street vendors.

Once the whistle blew, the game erupted into a shoving match between the two brands as each tried to muscle the ball away from their defensive zones. People in the stadium thrilled to a electrifying contest of competitors with completely different styles battling it out for the adoration of the crowd. Early in the event, Stejar punched in a fiercesome fireball of deliciously sourmash characteristics of its bite. GOAL!

Romanians from the northern regions of Transylvania roared with delight upon first-strike against their southern foes… dancing for joy in a rainbow of gold, black and red. Granted, it didn’t take long for distinctly crisp flavor of Golden Brau to counterpunch with it’s own (and opposite) malti yumminess and deliver a return volley right between the goalposts. GOAL!

All tied up with nowhere to go, the teams headed back into the locker-room for a pep talk from the coaches while the enthralled onlookers took a pit-stop for kebabs and sarmale. An announcer came on the public address system during halftime to inform the crowds about the recent incident of an unidentified person talking smack about Ciuc. She also shared the tipsy details of the triple-header scheduled for Sambata night. Those assembled for the game next turned their gaze upon the jumbotron for a special humorous halftime film entitled Call Center (presented by Cheezy Cheeky) which, in the vein of Office Space, tells the truth about life in a particular work environment.

It took a while for the laughter to subside (euphemism for occassional fits of snickering), but eventually the second half got underway. Apparently, something definitely happened in the locker-room for Stejar during the break, because the team came out on fire with a new price-point strategy of only 1,6 RON that earned them another ball in the net. GOAL!

Cheerleaders on the other side of the BraşoDome were toiling away to work up enthusiasm among the gold and emerald faithful in order to provide a pivotal morale booster to the bottles of Golden Brau. As if the fans were divining the ball through telekinesis, Golden Brau passed the ball around fancier than the Harlem Globetrotters. When they went for the killshot based on the power of flavor, it appears that Stejar had a Stadium Saint looking out for them because the ball went wide after it reverberated off an errant elbow, sending that player out of the game with an injury.

The Brau Union managers were absolutely livid and began harassing the referrees, but it was clear that while the dynamic duo had radically different skill sets the guys from Golden Brau just weren’t able to deliver a second time at this point. Frustration began to set in and once Stejar had the ball again, the roughhousing rekindled in earnest. Stejar hadn’t done too much with the ball when they caused a turnover that allowed Golden Brau a high kick down the center of the field setting up what should have been a perfect killshot, but that pungent flavor worked a little defensive magic and a defensive back slipped in between a pass play and nicked the ball, dribbling up field like someone had slipped a little tabasco into his jockstrap. From out of nowhere, a Golden Brau halfback enacted the peak of aggression with an ill-advised attempt to slidetackle that sent the Stejar player somersaulting through time and space before landing on earth again, losing his cap and enduring a concussion.

Seeing that this was not a mere accident but actually a malicious foul on the part of Golden Brau’s frustrated team, Spammy confiscated the illegal bottle cap remover from the field and issued a yellow card to the offending assailant.

Although time was running out, the Stejar team felt a little revenge was in order but felt compelled to keep their collective noses clean. They decided to use their superior alcohol talent to immediately punish Golden Brau and deliver a message. The boys in green were utterly dejected as they saw (in slow-motion, no doubt) the ball go sailing into the net. GOAL!

At the point, the Stejar fans were stomping their feet and making helicopters with their shirts in celebration. On the other side, the entire situation was completely falling apart as devotees headed for the exits. But before the cars had even left the parking lots, Stejar followed its same tactic of 7% alcohol dominance to sling another nugget in the pot for a back-to-back score, so far unseen in the tournament. GOAL!

Let’s just agree that after this match, the scene was a little… dizzying.

Final score: Golden Brau 1 – Stejar 4

One of the first to qualify was the much-snubbed Skol, first brewed in 1959, which joined Group H in the set’s season opener against lauded Silva, a bere blonda which proudly proclaims itself to be “Genuine Traditional Beer” (da, in Engleza, surprisingly). The favored domestic beer showed up in its trademark white uniform with black & red highlights and brandishing two gold medals it won from a dubious small town near Targu Mureş waaaaay back in 1848 and 1934. Meanwhile, Skol showed up in red and gold outfits boldly offering fans the chance to win “9999$” which we can only assume means a buck shy of USD$10K. Of course, derisive fans waving Silva flags were quick to jibe that folks only buy Skol in hopes of winning enough money so they can “afford a better beer!”

What may not be known to many beer aficionados is that Team Skol is owned by The Carlsberg Group and managed by international powerhouse Saatchi & Saatchi (uh huh, they’re twins). Interestingly, Skol’s freshness is supposed to be valid for 6 months, but in Romania the bottles are clearly labelled for 12 months validity. No doubt some of the hostility for this so-called “Value for Money” brand derives from the disrepectful way in which Romanians are expected to suffer with older beer than other nations who sell Skol with more freshness.

Alright, people, let’s drop the sportsradio chatter about factoids and statistics: it’s game time!

Once again, the well-respected referee Spammy was on hand to oversee the opening kick-off inside the closed-roof of the BraşoDome as the rain fell by the bucketfull outside. After an initial scuffle, Silva controlled the ball for majority of the first 10 minutes of play passing back and forth, frustrating the Skol team. Silva masterfully set the pace for domination with it’s slightly-hoppy tones that lingered just after swallows to drill the black and white into the net. GOAL!

The enthusiasm of the Romanian witnesses was overwhelming; they erupted into a chanting session. “Pa pa, Skol! Pa pa, bere rau! Pa pa, Skol!” The Silva mascot on the sidelines worked the audience into a furor and got most of the entire stadium doing the wave. But things got a little borderline obscene when the jumbotron focused on five rather portly fans who proceded to lift their shirts up and reveal the Silva letters painted on their ample guts in an around matted fur.

And then it happened.

Just before the half, Skol took the wind out of Bucureşti’s sails with an fairly decent use of a relatively good earthy flavoring to pound in a score, silencing the crowds. It was immediately challenged by the Silva staff, but after instant reply the judges upheld the decision down on the field. GOAL!

The halftime performance was an unusual hiphop-inspired breakbeat jam session from the normally wonderful mix of house and chill on Beat Blender, broadcast by groovy online streaming specialist SomaFM. The slammin’ vibes kept the crowd entertained without disturbing the entire neighborhood. Event organizers decided that with the subsiding rain (and despite cool weather) that the BraşoDome should partially open up into a balcon-style arrangement.

During the second half, each team worked the tasting fields back and forth in a gallant display of determination while encased in frozen beer mugs much to the delight of the judges who tilted their heads back a goodly number of times as part of their due diligence to determine the intricate specialness of each team. Spammy noticed that the officials were getting a little sloppy as they were increasingly unable to find substantial differences between the two competitors whom each had an interesting flavor to bring to the table.

With the crowd on the edge of their seats, resting on pins and needles, and clinging to a faint sense of hope for a miracle, Silva suddenly broke down field to shoot on goal with their fruity nose, but the ball went just wide of the mark. After only a minute, Silva whizzed across the grass yet again, this time trying to score a point based on superior alcohol content, but it just wasn’t quite enough to overpower the defense. Just seconds before the end of the session, the gold and red uniforms blazed a beeline for the opposing net and confused their domestic opponents with a cost differential move and planted some leather in the corner pocket. GOAL!

Stunned by the last minute upset, angry fans stormed the officiating booth and tried to start a riot but the jandarmeria put down their gogoaşi and came to the rescue, flailing the people with batons like a scene straight out of a WTO meeting.

Final score: Skol 2 – Silva 1