The World Cup is Coming!

For my own mind, and for the mind of people the world over; some things need to be said. Soccer is amazing. This, this is my statement. The crux of my plan, my thesis, my reason for posting...my Juliet. That was too far. Well, was it? To many people, myself included, the World Cup is our romance. Perhaps that sounds a little over the top, but it's true. Is there any other sport where grown men have actually been filmed climbing fences, ready to tear the head off of an official for a spur of the moment decision? No. Have we all wanted to do that when we've been cheated on? Hell yes. Soccer is a love affair; complicated, selfish, filled with trepidation; always waiting for the other shoe to drop. I know how this sounds--ridiculous. It's not too far off base though.
I've been watching the World Cup since the summer of 1994. I was fourteen and spending everyday watching the World Cup go down on American soil for the first time ever. It was amazing. I wasn't in school and I had nothing a reasonable person would call a social life. Thus, my days were divided into two parts: watching the World Cup, and then waiting for the next day's games to begin. During halftimes, my brother and I would play soccer in our living room; clearing out the furniture and using a nerf ball to see who could score on who. Both of us imitated our favorite players and tried desperately to recreate our favorie goals and saves of the day. Trust me, you've never seen anything weirder, surreal and downright unapologetic.
My team for the World Cup was Italy--through and through. From the beginning, I was amazed by the Italian striker Roberto Baggio. He was one of the older players on the team and it wasn't a surprise that this was going to be his final World Cup. Man, he could play though. In fact, he led the team into the final match against Brazil. Now, if you know anything about soccer, you know that Brazil is the unofficial "Champion of Forever". They've won more World Cups than any other team and they play with more heart and flair than just about any European team has. In the final, Italy held their own. They kept the Brazilian's back and the game went into overtime. It was at this pointwhen my team needed me more than ever, that I stopped watching. You see, my brother was going to camp for a week. It was his first time ever doing it and I wanted to go with him to add whatever comfort I could. Needless to say, we were both pissed off. He was pissed he had to go and I was equally, if not more angry, at my own misguided sense of what being a big brother is all about (I was too supportive and never gave out too many wedgies). We had spent an entire month preparing for this moment, just to have it cut-off by...church camp. In hindsight, this may well be where my loathing of the world's religions comes from.
When I got home, I saw the highlights. Neither team had scored during overtime and that meant a penalty shootout. The absolute pinnacle of blood pressure boiling points being tested, and I missed it. Well, more to the point, Roberto Baggio missed it, by about 10 feet. He overshot the ball and it went soaring over the goal. It was over. My beloved Italian friends had lost. I felt betrayed, disappointed, heartbroken. All the things one feels when you have your heart broken by a woman. No joke. Same feeling.
Now, the World Cup is back. Once again, I am hooked. I've studied the teams. I've watched as many qualifying matches as I could. I even went to see one in Columbus, Ohio (we beat Mexico, another great team). I've ordered my hat and t-shirt. The treacherous Italians broke my heart once and I'll never go back to them, even though they knock on the door every four years or so. This time I've chosen Portugal. They're good. Not really good, not like Brazil or the Czech Republic, but they play a good game. It's two weeks away and I can't wait to see Luis Figo in his final World Cup. I want to hear the announcer say "Deco" the way I've been hearing it in my head. Christiano Ronaldo--that's a name you're hopefully going to hear a lot. I'm here for them. If they need a friend, hey, just call. I'm on my way. Need someone to yell at the telvision incessently and curse more than any sailor has ever even dreamed? I was going to do that anyway.
Starting June 9th, Portugal will officially be my new mistress and I'll treat her as such. They have my attention, my love, my unflinching faith and they can rest easy that I'll always have their back. But maybe this time I won't put everything I have into this; I've been hurt in the past (Damn you, Baggio), but I'll remain ever hopeful that this time I've found the one. If it doesn't work out though, I know I can always fall back into bed with the U.S., the tramp.*


There's actually no way in hell the U.S. is going anywhere. They'll be lucky to make it out of the first two games.