How I get a kick out of this football World Cup
Saturday night. Germany versus Sweden. Past my bedtime, but watching the sixth consecutive match.
“Pass, pass, pass!” I was muttering in my new-found capacity as amateur armchair strategist. I was on the edge of my sofa, with duck feathers poking out of it, and I was stuck. I couldn’t move to go fetch a bottle of water or go to the loo because Germany might score and I would miss it or Sweden might score and I would miss it. So, I just sat there and let out a series of exclamations. That Olsen! So good! Oi! Pass, pass, pass!
In the last week, thanks to a subscription of a World Cup package (Dh550 + 5 per cent VAT), I have turned into a watcher of football. This fondness is a consequence of extracting value for what’s been paid to be able to watch these games at home. But that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy it, right? Life was pelting me with lemons, and I was squeezing them into potent, vitamin-C dense, tall glasses of chilled lemonade, and feeling good about participating in something beyond a daily routine.
Calling myself a fan is a bit of a stretch. I am merely new to watching football and enjoying it. I don’t usually watch football. An entire game? Never. In fact, it occurred to me, as I trained my eyes to look at the ball, that whenever in the past I have caught a glimpse of a match, all I would see were ants scurrying. Lots of ants. A large green field and some noise. I would never focus on the ball. Nor would I wonder about how much it must have taken for those guys on the screen to reach where they are. I had not dwelt on what it takes to be world class. The discipline, the drive, the years of practice, all that training manifested in those iron calf muscles.
I hadn’t mulled over the little things, like footballers probably can’t be too beefed-up, right?
They must need to be lithe to fly across the field.
But since last
Thursday — Argentina–Croatia; belated sad-happy birthday, Messi — I have watched more matches than in any previous years. I have such few recollections of World Cups, it’s a shame. All because of the narrative I would repeat to myself: I am not interested in football. This is boring. Who wants to see some men running around? Why can’t they get jobs like the rest of us? Ignorance mixed with derision is deadly.
My memory of the 2014 World Cup is non-existent. It simmers down to some noise from the restaurants close to the house.
What was 2010 about? Ah, the word vuvuzela was cute. And, okay, Shakira’s song played at clubs long after the World Cup.
However, in 2006, I had, out of FoMo, woken up in the middle of the night, switched on the TV, and while in bed, caught the end of the finals, Italy vs France. I watched the Zidane headbutt. That was the extent of my football exposure. It felt good to imagine that I would know what my friends and colleagues would talk about the next day, and I would pipe in with a trite, “I know! Did you see that!”
Since then, I have been able to recognise Zidane. I used to consider this a mini accomplishment. Hooray for me that I can recognise one footballer! — okay, two. Also Thierry Henry from 1998. Then he/they retired, and I was back to not recognising anyone, and life was frankly, no worse.
There must be a proper psychological term for people like me (‘immature’?) who want to stay away from stuff just to be different: ‘The majority is headed there so I can’t’. Or like my mother laments: “You have to always say the ulta thing!” Contrarian for the sake of it.
What can you do to feel as passionate as the screamers with painted faces? I don’t know if I will ever hit that level of enthusiasm to put on a colourful wig, wrap a flag around my shoulders, and do a jig for the cameras, but I’m realising the importance of starting with paying attention.
—nivriti@khaleejtimes.com
What can you do to feel as passionate as the screamers with painted faces? I don’t know if I will ever hit that level of enthusiasm to put on a colourful wig, or do a jig for the cameras, but I’m realising the importance of starting with paying attention