So, I wanted to … wait a minute … hold on …
Sorry about that. I’ve been a little distracted lately. I don’t really finish my train of … uh-oh … be right back …
It’s really become a problem because … oh, Damnitt! … talking to you people and I missed a goal. Now that’s just great!
Yes, it’s World Cup time at my house. That would be soccer for those of you who honestly could care less, and would rather watch ink in a ballpoint pen go dry. Hey, that’s your privilege.
But me, I’m becoming fanatical. I’m one of those strange Americans who is hooked on the spectacle — 32 of the world’s top teams squaring off in Germany to decide whose supporters can drink the most beer. I mean, to see whose supporters can get arrested as the worst hooligans. Actually, to see who will be crowned world champion in the beautiful game.
I love you World Cup. Why can’t you come every year?
I’m addicted. I come home at lunch and catch a game. I took off Monday afternoon so I could see the Americans get trounced by the Czech Republic. And I spent an hour Tuesday fumbling with the VCR, trying to impress upon it how it important it was to tape the Brazil game while my wife watched Oprah.
“Listen,” I told it. “You tape Oprah or Dr. Phil instead and I’ll trade you for TiVo.”
I watch soccer year round, catching as many English Premiership games as I can, ever since digital cable came into my life. But it just doesn’t measure up to this.
The World Cup is huge. We think the Super Bowl is a major deal, but if I’m not mistaken, more people watched just the draw that decided what teams played each other than the NFL’s championship game.
The World Cup has paused wars, as it did in the Ivory Coast. In Brazil, I hear the stock exchange is going to close early on days when the Brazilians play. In some nations it’s so big, the dead literally come back to life.
I grew up on soccer as a kid, playing through high school, and even once considered giving it a shot in college. I loved the game, partly because of the grace, the skill and the fact that it came complete with such wonderful injuries. Once I was fouled by a guy who stuck a knee in my thigh so hard that the bone released a calcium deposit into my muscle. It felt like a bowling ball in there, and I played on.
I broke my ankle playing indoor soccer one time, and after the lower third of my body finished swelling up like Shamu, I drove myself home. My car was a ‘65 Mustang without power brakes, and I ran a lot of red lights that night before crashing the car into the garage to avoid pressing on the pedal.
Raspberries? That was when you slid across the turf on your thigh and the friction burned the first three layers of your skin off. Try taking a shower after one of those. There are only about three things in life more painful than that, and two of them are the other injuries I described.
The World Cup brings back all those wonderful memories, and some more positive ones. The camaraderie of a team. The skill and sportsmanship. The feeling you got as you tied on your cleats, their beautiful black leather hugging your foot. Soccer jerseys and yellow cards. The brutal Tampa heat we played in, so hot it could melt the ball. The referee’s whistle and dribbling a ball between cones while a coach yells, “Thompson, are you drunk or just that bad?”
Hooked? Oh boy am I hooked. Speaking of which, that’s enough talking to you people. I’ve got to check to see if Brazil is on that tape. Heaven help you if it’s Mrs. Winfrey, little VCR.