I just read an interesting note by Irish journalist and author Paul Howard: "You spend your life chasing the way the World Cup made you feel when you were 11". The title says it all, and as this next world cup is slowly creeping up I can completely identify.
I have some vague memories of 1982, when I was 7 years old and living in Argentina: supporting Italy in the final, Hungary winning 10-1 against a country named "El Salvador" (first time I heard about it, and later in fact becoming very important in my life), and most of all, Argentina and the unfulfilled expectations of Maradona.
But in 1986 I was 11 years old. With my parents we were coming from Argentina, and spent some months in Mexico just before the World Cup. I was gripped by the fever, also because it was Denmark's first World Cup. I watched most of the World Cup in Denmark, who played some of the best football Denmark has ever played in matches against Uruguay and West Germany, as well as the debacle against Spain, that was indeed very difficult for an 11-year old Denmark supporter. But I also remember so many magic matches: USSRs extraordinary thrashing of Hungary; Mexico's wave and Jorge Negrete's special goal against Bulgaria; Belgium's great but lucky side against USSR; France-Brazil, which to me at that time was the best match I had ever seen; and most of all I remember Argentina and Diego Maradona, bringing the trophy home to a country that I had recently left physically but not by heart.
It was magic indeed, and I have since been searching for that feeling. I have enjoyed and vividly remember every World Cup since: 1990 living in Spain but still bitter at Spain's victory against Denmark, and wholeheartedly supporting a boring Argentina; 1994, opening match Germany-Bolivia, on the very day that I got my "studenterhue" and being in Colombia when Pablo Escobar was shot; 1998, painting a kitchen with my best friends and enjoying every crazy match (1998 is the closest I have come to feeling like in 1986); 2002 while finishing my Masters' and early breakfast matches that have since been difficult to remember from the least memorable World Cup; 2006 in Ghana, loving the atmosphere of the Black Stars' first world cup and disappointed about the final; 2010, recently living in Venezuela and thinking back of my time in Africa (Ghana and Mozambique) and watching the final (and finally able to celebrate my dear Spain) with my best friends in France; 2014, when I really went hunting for the "feeling", and traveled to many countries to watch matches, starting in Liberia, and ending in Denmark, and accepting the nevertheless disappointing loss of Argentina, against a German side that I admired for the first time ever; 2018, when I went to Russia with the best friend and enjoyed the atmosphere that the tournament brings, but also saw more clearly FIFA's obvious destruction of the game; 2022, the winter World Cup where I remember my enormous happiness seeing Argentina finally win again with best friends after a Julefrokost.
A four-year diary of my life, but while I have enjoyed, nothing comes close to the footballing magic of 1986.
It is serendipitous that now, 40-years later, I am living in Mexico for the biggest World Cup in history... But I am also older, worn-out, and more cynical person than that happy and dreamy 11-year old in 1986... I have seen my favourite teams win and lose; ups and down in life, and will surely not be as emotional about winning or losing.
Behind my cynicism about FIFA and the destruction of the game I learnt to love 40 years ago, I am perhaps hoping - maybe still searching for that football romantic in my soul, like the great Uruguayan writer Eduardo Galeano once said: "Yo no soy más que un mendigo de buen fútbol. Voy por el mundo, sombrero en mano, y en los estadios suplico una linda jugadita, por amor de Dios. Y cuando el buen fútbol ocurre, agradezco el milagro..." ("I am nothing more than a beggar for good football. I wander the world, hat in hand, and in stadiums I plead for a beautiful play, for God's sake. And when good football happens, I give thanks for the miracle").
That is why, that despite it all, I am going to two matches here in Mexico. Behind all of my anger about the greed and ugly nationalism that I feel the World Cup has become, I am still pleading for the magic of a beautiful play and to feel some of the passion and beauty that made me fall in love with football and life as an 11-year old in 1986....
No comments:
Post a Comment