Pbeidy
The World Cup is and always has been more than a mere sporting event. Most likely driven through the sheer universality of the sport, it seems to be the one thing that transcends the strictures and moats of language and culture. To some extent it is, to appropriate a legendary Pacinoism, “like God’s own cosmic gag reel” that we as a species have carved untold diverse, beautiful civilizations from the hostile, uncaring stuff of the universe, yet the most basic universal language we have found is “kick ball with feet into net”.
Yet beyond it’s capacity to inspire, terrify and delight, (for me the group stages of the World Cup have an almost ephemeral feel of floating in space, where the air itself is laden with the possibility of Côte d’Ivoire upsetting Spain), its the tournaments ability to mark time that preoccupies me in the moment.
Yesterday Germany rather rudely defeated Curaçao 7-1. There isn’t much to say about the game itself, other than Germany’s defensive woes have reached a decided middle and that the island nation can rightfully proclaim the entire tournament a smashing success for having exposed the aforementioned vulnerability and scored their very first goal ever in a World Cup against one of the footballing super powers. After the game, the internet (by which I mean Reddit, because that literally is all it is these days) was awash with memes referencing the 2014 World Cup semi-final where Germany dismantled Brazil with all the tenderness of a plundering horde of Visigoths. In general the sentiment was that Curaçao came out the better of the comparison, but that is besides the point.
The mystical power that has been invested in that score line, (which truly has no inherent meaning) sent me on another deep dive into YouTube to watch recaps and to listen to the BBC5 radio commentary of the entire game. I do this on occasion, because I, like every other shaved ape that wears clothes, am susceptible to nostalgia.
I was a younger man back in 2014. Considerably younger, though I often don’t feel like it. It has been 12 years since I stood in a friends apartment in Frankfurt am Main along with a dozen others, periodically grabbing my friend Remi by the shoulders and shaking him in frenzied anxiety (he gave as good as he got). The elation and then awe we felt as the game unfolded seared itself into my memory and I return to the footage often to get another hit. Curiously, it is the only sporting event I do this with. I almost never rewatch the Germany Argentina final that occurred just after.
Despite the rampant corruption of FIFA and its caricature of a president, the venality and cruelty of the Trump administration and the unfortunate schedule, there is something comforting about acknowledging that the World Cup can still make you feel. Whether it is the excitement of Japan drawing with the Netherlands in the last minutes of overtime, Australia beating Turkey or the trip down memory lane inspired by a completely overmatched team managing to get one in before it is unceremoniously swept away. Unadulterated joy is in short supply these days, and it pays to drink deeply from the cup when it happens to pass before you.