The Morning After

The

majestic new stadium on the South Korean isle of Cheju basks in the noon sun, just like the crater volcanoes that dot this tropical wonderland and inspired the arena's form. Meanwhile, in Miyagi, Japan, a $585 million marvel of a stadium sits in the rolling countryside like a gleaming samurai helmet, designed to hold nearly 50,000 spectators. "The World Cup gave us the perfect opportunity to develop a real infrastructure," crows Junji Ogura, vice president of the Japan Football Association. There's just one problem: neither the Cheju nor Miyagi stadiums is home to a football team.

		LATEST COVER STORY Understanding Anxiety July 8, 2002 Past Issues Being Tom Cruise Jul. 1, 2002 ----------------- Asia's World Cup Jun. 24, 2002 ----------------- China's Labor Lost Jun. 17, 2002 ----------------- Asian Medicine Jun. 10, 2002 ----------------- A Bombshell Memo Jun. 3, 2002 ----------------- World Cup 2002 May 27, 2002 ----------------- China's Dope May 20, 2002 ----------------- Saddam's World May 13, 2002 ----------------- Star Wars May 6, 2002 ----------------- Asian Heroes Apr. 29, 2002   ASIA  Vietnam: Settling Old Scores  Japan: Cult Shock  Malaysia: Mahathir's Exit Plan  Hong Kong: Five Years On WORLD CUP 2002  The Ultimate Samba  Asia's Morning After  Moving up the Rankings  Essay: The Final Tally ARTS  Movies: Dark Water  Books: Gold Rush TRAVEL  The Dai's Homecoming Queen NOTEBOOK  Person of the week CNN.com: Top Headlines

The flags and face paint have been packed away, but East Asia is waking up to a land changed by the largest sporting event on earth. On a purely athletic level, both co-host nations proved that Asia had finally earned its place on the world pitch, especially South Korea, which became the first Asian side ever to make it to the semifinals. The teams' bold performances filled Asians with a pride that football has never before afforded them, and did much to distract them from their countries' stuttering economies and tiresome politics. Yet many of the World Cup's promised boons—not least, millions of extra tourist dollars—have failed to materialize. Now, Koreans and Japanese alike are beginning to ask if the psychological rewards of hosting the Cup were worth the cost of footing the bill.

The most tangible legacy of Asia's first Cup are the 20 new or refurbished stadiums scattered across the co-host nations. Neither country needed so many venues, considering that France held the tournament with only half as many arenas. Yet, each co-host was determined to outdo the other, every architectural wonder spurring on its long-standing rivalry. South Korea and Japan spent $2.7 billion and $4.6 billion on infrastructure, respectively. The Korean city of Daegu blew its entire annual budget in the lead-up to the tourney, constructing Korea's largest Cup stadium even though this town, too, has no football club. "It's a nice place, but there's no real reason to ever come back again," says sales clerk Nam Soo Ri, standing in the 65,857-capacity arena. "It feels like such a waste."

Earlier this year, Japan cheerily predicted a $25 billion boost to its economy from the Cup. Yes, sales of televisions are up, as are hair-dye sales, inspired by the footballers' technicolor 'dos. But otherwise, few industries are reporting windfalls, and the $25 billion figure looks about as wishful as Japan's recent claims that its recession has finally bottomed out. In South Korea, tourism is actually down compared with last year's, due to Sept. 11 jitters and because thousands of Japanese visitors stayed home—all counter to inflated estimates from the Tourism Ministry just a month ago. Other predictions seem equally shaky: although South Korea may now be registering in minds around the world as a wired wonder, could it really be true, as in-house analysts contend, that KT, Korea's largest telecom company, gained $4.2 billion in global media exposure from the Cup?

The nations' ailing domestic football leagues may also have been expecting too much from the event. Despite big promotion campaigns, Japan's J-League has seen attendance figures drop from highs of about 20,000 per game in 1994 to just 16,000 earlier this year, leading critics to warn that if the league couldn't even shore up attendance on the eve of the World Cup, it might not get a boost after it. Korea's league continues to hemorrhage cash, and sports officials worry that the nation's insta-football fans will soon abandon the game, especially because many of Korea's heroes will likely to be playing overseas afterward. "Football is fun during the World Cup, but baseball is what I'll watch when it's all over," says Yoon Choo, a Seoul stock analyst.

But sport, of course, is not only about being commercially successful. The Cup's greatest power is its ability to bring people closer. Korea, where China made its World Cup debut, played host to the largest ever influx of mainland tourists, and some hospitable chefs responded by learning how to steam dim sum so that the visitors could feel at home. In a rare show of unity, North Korea broadcast the South's win over Italy, raising hopes that a divided peninsula could still share in athletic triumph. Eastward, South Korean President Kim Dae Jung plans to renew his invitation to Japan's Emperor Akihito to visit, just a few months after the monarch said the nations shared not only the World Cup but common blood—admitting the long-taboo fact that the Japanese imperial family has Korean ancestry. "The World Cup has brought us together," says Hitoshi Takaoka, a Japanese fan who donned a "Korea Team Fighting" shirt after his own team was eliminated.

Who would have thought, moreover, that a pair of homogenous countries known more for xenophobic impulses would genuinely welcome thousands of strangers, simply because they shared an affection for football? At first Japan, in particular, was worried that hooligans would invade it, a thinly veiled prejudice that assumed outsiders would bring crime to this cloistered land. But the foreigners came and the trouble didn't. Young Japanese realized that the visitors were simply there for a good party, so they joined in. Some wrapped themselves in the Union Jack, while others sambaed along with the Brazilians. Across the sea, South Korea spent some $800,000 to form homegrown cheering squads for nations like Senegal and Turkey, whose fans typically couldn't afford the journey to Asia.

Most of all, the tourists left impressed with the co-hosts' organization and sense of collective volunteerism. Despite a ticketing snafu that left some stadiums half-empty, fans with tickets found themselves embraced by communities that yearned to make their stay ever more comfortable. Blue-haired ladies who learned English soon after World War II were wheeled out to meet groggy football supporters at the airport. Train conductors helped Mexicans stow their oversized sombreros, and stadium attendants showed visitors how to use their cell phones to access the Internet. "Not once did I feel lost," says Juan Pablo Mollina, an architect from Mexico City. "I was surprised—there were so many guides who spoke Spanish—and always people ready to help, and to talk football."

Indeed, despite the tribalism inherent in the World Cup, Asia has succeeded in showcasing a sport that is growing ever more global. East Asia's three World Cup teams all profited from overseas coaches, who could restructure their teams precisely because they were foreigners unbound by Confucian traditions. And just as Europe's coaches are traveling East, Asia's top players are heading West: several of Japan's and Korea's national squad members already play in Europe, and another handful from Korea's newly ascendant team are now being courted by Western clubs. "Football promotes diversity," says South Korea's national coach, Guus Hiddink, a Dutchman. "That is the mission of the World Cup." More than most, Asia's tournament has lived up to that ideal.