Watching
We’re not supposed to watch. Or so they say. A world cup built on the backs of a caste system. On the backs and lives of thousands of migrant workers. A disgrace. Ridiculous. Qatar, a country the size of Connecticut with a population of two and a half million, currently hosts another million fans along with billions more watching the first World Cup hosted in an Arab nation. My friend James, a writer, isn’t watching. His piece in The Atlantic encourages us not to either. His usual playful music and entertainment beat turning humanitarian in this moment.
We’re not supposed to watch, in protest, but I can’t help it. I’m watching and reading all about this iteration of a game I grew up playing. I’m reading about the match-ups, the strategy, and the despicable conditions workers suffered after FIFA chose Qatar as host.
“A mistake,” Sepp Blatter later declared, after he and fifteen others were fired for bribery and corruption. He once the untouchable head of the organization sitting atop of the richest, most popular sport in the world. A king pin. A dictator. A symbol of corruption and opulence. “A bad choice,” he would admit.
Many Qataris and Arabs want the west to shut up and take a good look in the mirror. “You love Dubai. You love coming to gawk at the Burj Khalifa in Dubai, but no mention of how it came to be,” Asma, a Qatari, reports in a New Yorker piece I’m reading about the many contradictions. She need not mention how our own country came to be on the backs of a slave trade. Confusing and hypocritical for sure.
For so many reasons, I should turn the TV off, but can’t. Wont. Not only am I watching, I’ve never watched more. Never followed teams through the group stage and into the knock-out rounds as I have this time. Peacock providing me with live Telemundo coverage. And while I don’t speak Spanish, I do speak enthusiasm, and these commentators sing and dance their way through a broadcast, punctuating play with the clarion call of celebration heard around the world.
“Goooooooaaaaaaal! Gooooooooaaaaal!”
If you haven’t experienced a Telemundo goal, you haven’t lived. No matter the team. No matter the situation. Each and every goal a celebration equal to any sporting event I’ve experienced. Mary and I laughing and cheering on each occasion, whether USA, Argentina or Morocco. Yes Morocco, the first African nation to advance into the semis, one of the many surprises of the tournament. Morocco parked the bus in front of their goal, and shut out nearly all comers. I haven’t been rooting for them this week, but maybe should have been.
This World Cup like no other. Where Saudi Arabia can beat Argentina in the first round. Where Iran and the United States can play a do-or-die game to advance. Where France and Morocco play to decide who meets Argentina in the final. France, the occupier. USA the imperialist superpower. Games representing an impossibly complex landscape of competing interests. National pride like you don’t often find displayed on such a global stage. And then there’s the football. The beautiful game. A game to bring us all together, if only for a couple of weeks. The game we don’t understand, don’t have the patience for. The most popular game in the world, and this the most watched sporting event. Try watching an NFL game after watching a World Cup tilt? You can’t. Too many commercials. Too long. Too much. A bit like us.
When Argentina finally vanquishes the Netherlands on penalty kicks, it dawns on me just how huge the win means to a South American country living with economic challenges I’ve not seen. On game days, I’m guessing everything stops—many people taking the day off to park themselves in front of the nearest TV. When Messi scores, a wave of euphoria sweeps over all in its path. Messi and Goal, two of the few words in Spanish I understand, chant and echo in chorus. Often interchangeable. The king. Only Mbappe his equal. Sunday the two of them vying for Ballon D’Or. Golden Boot. The best of the best.
When he was still with us, our close friend Ignacio used to watch every game of the World Cup he could. A Venezuelan who lived and breathed the game. Who took two weeks off from work to watch. Who brought his young family to this country when ours melted into chaos. Whose family Mary and I fell in love with, played with, sang with, and shouted gooooooooaaaaaaal with. We miss Ignacio, but feel his spirit and love for the game with every completed pass of this most recent iteration of a game we too love.
We can’t predict who will be the eventual winner, the final game scheduled for the same time as our regular church service.
“We will have to drive home blindfolded,” I say, afraid of the enthusiasm sure to pour out into the streets after the final whistle is blown.
“You can make an announcement at church,” Mary suggests. “Tell people that you’re recording the final to watch later, so no spoilers, please.”
“Can I do that?” I ask Mary. “My mom would be horrified.”
“You have your priorities mixed up,” my mom would say.
Yes I do, have my priorities mixed up. And isn’t that the point. I shouldn’t be watching. I shouldn’t mix sport with worship. I should care about gross injustices. And yet, at the ripe age of sixty-four, I watch, and suspect I’m not alone in carrying these contradictions.
Vive la France!
Go Messi!
Morocco forever!
I will be sad when it’s over. Sad not to be looking forward to the next match.
“Don’t worry Dad,” each of my kids have said at one time or another over these past weeks. “The next one’s in North America.”
We just might have to travel to Mexico City for one of the games.
Goooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaaal!
