It’s been almost three weeks since the World Cup started, and I cannot believe how riveted I am by this tournament. My daughters and I went to the opening at Soccer City, cheered ourselves hoarse for Mexico and cursed every single vuvuzela-blowing moron.
Last Friday we were at Loftus Stadium in Pretoria to watch our team, Spain, trounce the Chileans. In between those two matches, I was in Europe, marooned indoors, thanks to the rainy midsummer weather, all the more conducive to watching the World Cup on TV. In Italian at that, which made football much sexier – calcio d’angulo, for instance, sounds infinitely more alluring than the mundane “corner kick”.