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”.
As my kids and I were getting ready for the Spain vs Chile match, we donned our La Roja jerseys, caps and windbreakers, and draped ourselves in the Spanish flag. My kids screamed “Viva España” at every opportunity and booed the Chilenos every time they had possession. At half-time, squeezing my way to the front of the snack bar to get drinks, I had a brief discussion with a young Argentine about David Villa’s goal – “pero que golazo,” we both marvelled.
Oh.My.God. How did I morph into a jersey-wearing, flag-waving, tactics-discussing football fanatic? The man, of course, was partly responsible. But this rabid devotion to La Seleccion, and by extension, Barça? Where did that come from?
Barça, well, there are two reasons. One, family ties. Two, Pep Guardiola. Need I say more?
During the 2006 World Cup in Germany, my GBF Luis and I would have our usual post-mortems. It went something like this:
Me: Did you watch the game?
Him: Otra vez España perdio. It’s always the same story.
Me: Great team, but they never win. The eternal underachievers.
Him: Tell me about it.
Me: But oh my god, Iker Casillas is so cute.
Him: Super hot.
Me: Would you do him?
Him: In an instant.
Me: En la cancha?
Him: Anywhere!!!
This year, our conversations are a lot more substantial.
Him: Finalmente, España se clasifica.
Me: The first half with Chile was fantastic. The second half was boring.
Him: Yes, but did you see, Chile played dirty.
Me: Pobre Torres, they were trying to trip him left and right. In the game with Switzerland, esos suizos kept trying to trip Iniesta. He just recovered from an injury!
Him: Hey but our boys play clean. If you notice, none of them so far has received a yellow card.
Me: Let me check the stats at the FIFA website. Oh my god, you’re right.
Him: Didn’t you think their uniforms were so beautiful last night? The royal blue with the white shorts?
Me: Yes, so dignified and smart. Do we still think Iker’s cute?
Him: You know what, I saw him at the airport in Madrid a few years ago. He’s not so cute anymore.
Me: I think Pique is so cute. And elegant. He’s the only one who tucks his shirt in.
He: You know who I think is cute? Xabi Alonso. Es Vasco, ¿sabes?
Me: Xabi Alonso? Really? I didn’t know that. But, yes, he’s very cute. And also Pedro. But why didn’t Del Bosque bring him in to play? I like him. Hey, Argentina is playing Mexico tomorrow. I kinda like Heinze…
Deep, huh?
And we had an equally scintillating conversation this morning, after Spain’s glorious – and historic - victory over Portugal last night ushered them into the quarterfinals. We discussed everything from del Bosque's inspired decision to substitute Llorente for Torres, the very astute analysis that appeared in El Pais, and Pique's paquet. By the way, Spain got its first yellow card of the tournament, the unlucky offender being – gasp- Xabi Alonso.
Here’s the thing about the World Cup. It’s Drama + Pain + Controversy + Deception + Hope + Glory + Failure + Devastation + Redemption = Football as the Ultimate Telenovela, with a cast of characters representing the entire universe.
Just take for example the game between Argentina and South Korea. The South Korean coach looked like a proper businessman, a CEO perhaps of a car company, dressed in a conservative, well-cut suit. He exuded propriety and dignity, as if at the smallest whiff of scandal he would rather kill himself than bring dishonor his good name.
By contrast, Diego Maradona, in his shiny Italian suit, diamond-studded earlobes and leonine salt-and-pepper mane, could have been playing the slick former drug lord whose 100th personal trainer just quit on him. The mere whiff of a scandal and he would kill you.
But, you gotta admit, the man has charisma.
And what’s with the hair? Not just Maradona’s caged lion look. There was little boy lost shaggy hair, Rasta braids, peroxide blond locks, wild curls and headbands. Forlan, Dos Santos, Sergio Ramos… it was all about men in headbands.
There’s the ball that doesn’t bounce or spin or zoom straight into the net like it’s supposed to, prompting complaints from the players. There are the dubious calls by referees, who stick to their guns even if instant replay proves them so glaringly wrong. There are the hottest players unfairly sent off, like Gourcuff and Kaka, which prompted someone on Twitter to say that the referees – predictably stern and humorless in demeanor - must have something against good-looking players. Worse offenses, so the post continued, by average-looking players went unpunished.
Oh, and one more thing about the World Cup. It made me realize football is so gay. Not just at the end when the players strip to the waist, exposing those chiselled abs and bulging pecs, then exchange their sweat-stained jerseys with the other team. Not just because of the little pats of consolation players would give each other after a failed goal or a disappointing pass. Not just when the buff goalkeeper stands, hands on hips and strikes a pose, framed by the crossbars of the goal. Not just because of their psychedelic footwear – orange and purple! black and luminescent yellow! metallic bronze! bright pink! shiny white!
No, the gayest thing about football occurs when someone scores a goal, jumps in the air in jubilation, siks to his knees or runs to the side, and all his teammates run towards him, hug him, clasp his head, lift him up… It’s even gayer when the moment is replayed in slow motion, such as when Kaka made a brilliant pass to Fabiano, who immediately catapulted the ball into the goal. There’s that brief instant of disbelief, that moment of pure joy, of eyes fixed upon each other, as one player ran towards the other, finally meeting in a triumphant embrace.
Guy-on-guy action. No wonder all my gay friends LOVE the World Cup.
Speed, agility, dazzling skill on the pitch. No wonder straight men LOVE the World Cup.
Eye candy galore. No wonder women LOVE the World Cup.
See? It's a win-win situation.
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