Every four years, the most-watched event on Earth returns. Dozens of nations send their best to wear a flag and chase a prize, while crowds watch with equal parts dread and joy.
FIFA, the global governing body of the sport, seems determined to spoil it. Awarding the tournament to the wealthiest bidder—North America now, Qatar and Russia before—clashes with the older idea of a host: a country that opens itself to celebrate sport, culture, and the strangers who arrive to share in them. The organizers apparently dream of a flawless, profitable broadcast with empty stands and no one left to cheer. It is vile and depressing, but it will pass. And so will they.
Yet the moment the ball begins to roll, all of it falls away, and the feeling remains untouched. Grown men become children again—cheering, laughing, weeping over the feats of strangers we somehow call our own. For some weeks, we will win as nations and lose as crowds.
From this post, I’ll turn toward football. Not to report on the matches, but to set down the feelings of someone who has played and watched the game for thirty-five years, and been fed by it the whole time.
Long live football. Long live the World Cup.
Credit: Photo by Ali Soleimani on Unsplash
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