Around this time four years ago I was coming home from a short trip to England. During my time abroad I encountered here and there the fanaticism of football enthusiasts. It was towards the end of the World Cup, and though I did not understand the intense fervor it nevertheless attracted me as a fascinating phenomenon. I recall hearing talk of Brazil’s humiliating defeat to Germany in tones expressing the wonderment and excitement that are virtues of youth, and often lost before one reaches maturity. Despite my ignorance of the sport, and indifference to sports in general, I was infected by the spores of hysteria. But before the sickness–as my father calls it–could overtake me completely, Germany won the tournament and for four years I gave no thought to football.
Time, as it does, passed quicker in hindsight than the present suggests. The distance separating what may be the most enthralling and most watched sporting event in the world now seems a moment rather than so many days. It was on the first day after Ramadan this year that I came home from a long walk, and as we ate the celebratory meal Spain and Portugal were nearing the end of their match. It was exactly a month ago when those spores I had forgotten awoke from their latency and took hold of me.
I still cannot understand the fervor to which I’ve succumbed. Its source is in more than one aspect of the tournament: the enthusiasm of the fans, the implication of national teams competing against each other, the incredible skill of the players, the gripping, entertaining nature of the sport itself, the joy of seeing the passionate achieve the object of their hopes, the fun of cheering for a team and predicting outcomes, the duration between tournaments (it is easier to justify giving one month out of forty-eight rather than twelve to fandom), and the peace it inspires, for in that month the world is held together by a single interest, beautiful because mutual. Differences come second to the shared passion.
Within a few days of the tournament’s start I was completely engrossed, and possessed by the desire to see a certain team progress to victory. This desire had hitherto been incomprehensible to me: without personal ties to the members of a team, why care how they fare; just because they are from the same region does not make them any less strangers than the players of a different team. But no sooner did I see Christiano Ronaldo’s flying header in Portugal’s match against Morocco than I understood everything. The man’s amazing ability and all but superhuman charisma and charm taught me exactly how a person is made into a devoted fan. Before I knew it I was spellbound: I wanted him to win–thus my support for Portugal was born.
Happily I joined the ranks of millions of Ronaldo fans and longed for his success despite his total ignorance of my existence. With those ranks I groaned when Uruguay defeated Portugal in the knockout round. So great was my unreasonable disappointment that I was resolved to stop watching; to leave the tournament with my beloved Ronaldo.
The fact that I would have to wait another four years broke my determination almost as soon as it had formed, and the torch was passed from my fallen hero to Edinson Cavani of Uruguay. As though my support is a curse, the man was injured before the start of their next game, and the team lost against France. The torch of my fanaticism was then picked up by Luka Modric of Croatia, who admirably held it firm while defeating Russia and England, both in overtime after overcoming Denmark in their first of three consecutive 120 minute games. It was held against all odds and expectations until just a few minutes ago, when the underdogs finally suffered defeat to the hands of the French.
Too restless to sit at home, I rode my bike to this sports bar where I slowly watched the momentum become interrupted by an own goal, stifled by a penalty kick resulting from an absurd handball call (It is maddening for a spectator to see their preferred team punished for the uncontrollable trajectory of the ball–how much worse must it be for the players?), and completely halted by two additional goals that must be acknowledged as impressive in spite of partisanship. But surely I am not the only one to wonder how the game would have ended if it were not for the messy start. The 4-2 score at the end must be disappointing to many, especially considering how the others featuring Croatia ended. However, it is difficult to be disappointed for long.
Watching the young French team celebrate is too moving for one to dwell on petty preferences. A group of hardworking men have fulfilled their dreams; have earned a victory coveted by numerous athletes and countless more fans. Few sights are so beautiful to behold as the rejoicing of man. After innumerable hours of tremendous suffering, sacrifices beyond measure, devotion is rewarded and the irrepressible happiness that ensues is infectious. One cannot help but smile and say ‘Good for you’ to those fellow beings who celebrate the harvest of the fruits of their labors.
In the end it is of course utterly insignificant who wins and loses–sobriety quickly follows the end of intoxicating zeal. What matters is the unity inspired by the game, which suggests that people are at least capable of it.
A downpour in Moscow drenches winners, losers, fans, presidents, referees, cameramen, French, Croatians, Russians, men, women, and children alike. It is moments like these when one cannot avoid the consciousness of humanity’s oneness. For at least this moment we come together in spite of all ostensible and actual differences. The wars, the poverty, the disparities, the bigotry and hatred in this moment do not divide mankind more than the World Cup brings us together.
One can only hope that the feeling will not soon be forgotten; that divisions will not reign supreme for another four years before the next tournament comes to once again remind us that we are all the same. Regardless of whence one hails, victory is celebrated with arms raised high. The joyous smile of the Nigerian touches the heart like that of the Swede, the Peruvian, or the South Korean. We all want happiness and love, and deserve no less.
Four years seem so distant, as this year did at the end of the previous World Cup. But I’ve come to know better. It will not take longer for the coming for years to pass than it will for me to finish writing this sentence. Yet our tendency to scurry and skitter can make even a single moment interesting. I have filled many pages with oddities since the last tournament, and cannot help wondering where and what I will be once I close my eyes to blink, and open them again.
aerochameleon 