A L S O _T O D A Y The Cup runneth over and over By Ethan Zindler Professional scalpers and amateur partyers in Marseille World Cup From the stadium to the bar stool, watch for our ongoing reports T A B L E_T A L K How much should a plane ticket cost? Where can travelers get the best deals? Share your tips and tales in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk R E C E N T L Y Hog heaven By David Kohn At the Memphis World Championship Barbecue Cooking Contest (07/03/98) Mondo Weirdo Nude Beach of the Week Readers bare all on an isolated Maui beach -- and in the heart of Munich (07/03/98) Yankee, go home! By Michaela Griffin Being an American expatriate in Beijing was great -- until the president's visit (07/02/98) Jazz swings into Beijing By Dan Ouellette Even better than President Clinton, jazz in China is spreading a message of liberty (07/01/98) Among the hooligans By Ethan Zindler World Cup scenes: Threat and theft among the hooligans in Lens, France (06/30/98) Browse the Wanderlust Feature archives		world cup scenes _______PASSION AND INDIFFERENCE MIX IN RURAL FRANCE. BY MATTHEW McALLESTER - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - His arms raised in the air, the Yugoslavian fan turned to face the crowd behind him. "Serbian Hero. Radovan Karadzic," read the black letters on his white T-shirt. The face of the man wanted for war crimes was sandwiched between the words. "Ra-do-van Ka-ra-dzic," he chanted, along with about 300 of his fellow fans. "Ra-do-van Ka-ra-dzic." The four of us -- two Scottish men and two English women -- concealed our delight when the Dutch scored in the first half. I wondered how the two young guys near us in the orange jerseys of Holland felt. About 95 percent of the stands were dotted or flooded by the orange shirts of Dutch fans, but our little section was red, white and blue, the colors of Yugoslavia. We had bought our tickets from an American tout about 30 minutes before kickoff without knowing where we would be sitting. Perhaps the two Dutch kids had done the same. "Ser-bi-a, Ser-bi-a," chanted our section. They whistled in unison so loudly that our friends watching on television back at our rented farmhouse near Cahors could hear. Spending much of the game with his back to the pitch, a puffily overweight man in his late 20s or early 30s commanded the Yugoslavian fans in their chants. He wore an army hat. The fans, mainly young men, responded to his directions like members of a platoon. At half time Rich and I went to find some food, leaving his girlfriend, Anne-Marie, and her sister Honor behind. We bought a couple of Mars and Starburst ice creams and wandered around, people watching. Soon we were cop watching as a squad of armed riot police ran past us toward Gate 15, where we were sitting. We jogged after them. Taking the steps to our section two and three at a time, we arrived to find the lower area of the seating populated mostly by riot police. Anne-Marie and Honor were not where we had left them. Like many peaceful Yugoslavian fans, they were bunched up at the top of the section. "You missed the fight," Honor said. It was impossible to decipher exactly what sparked it. "The Serbs just turned on the Dutch guys and started beating them up," Honor said. After that, the fighting spread right up to where we had been sitting. It wasn't too serious. No knives or bottles or cracked skulls. Red-shirted stewards had arrived soon after it broke out, trying to separate the combatants, Honor said. And after a while, the police arrived. They stayed for the rest of the match. The Serbian chants continued to the end, and the longer the match went on, the more insults the Yugoslavian fans hurled at their cheery Dutch counterparts. In stoppage time, with the score at 1-1, Holland drove the ball into the back of the Yugoslavian net. Short of a miracle, the game was over. How would the Yugoslavian fans react? "Time to go," Honor said, prodding me with her elbow. I didn't want to miss a possible miracle by the Yugoslavians. We stayed until the final whistle and a corridor of riot police saw that we got out safely. "What's Radovan Karadzic got to do with football?" asked my friend Kate, a thoughtful woman who works at the BBC, after we returned to the farmhouse at three in the morning. Good question. The answer should be, "Nothing." But it's not that simple. At the World Cup, there's a thin line between nationalism and internationalism, between the Serbian fans who swap jerseys with each other to make it harder for the police to identify them and the Yugoslavian players who swap jerseys with the Dutch players in a token of friendship even after their loss to the orange masters. The World Cup has the unique ability to bring together the people of different countries in the shared love of a game that can, at least for a month, seem like the most important thing in their lives. Unfortunately, it can also be a forum for ugly nationalism. For many fans, politics are a lighthearted way of championing the national team -- but sometimes it doesn't seem so innocent. As we watched the Yugoslavian team lose, its government was again clinging onto Serbian turf by bombing ethnic Albanians in Kosovo. "Ko-so-vo," chanted the crowd at one point. I couldn't make out any of the other words. N E X T+P A G E | Are they worthy of our support? - - - - - - - - - - - - AP PHOTO/FRANCK PREVEL Top: Two USA team supporters, their faces painted with the national flag, frame a Yugoslav fan.