“Everyone remembers their firsts. The memory of my first taste of football is tangled up with shin-deep monsoon water, a drenched school uniform I refused to take off until half-time because I didn’t want to miss even a minute, and the thrill that shot through me when a gap-toothed, curly-haired young wizard kicked a ball towards goal that followed the laws of physics until it didn’t, suddenly changing direction and dipping over the head of the goalkeeper and into the net. Even as Ronaldinho Gaucho wheeled away, a big grin plastered on his face, and was instantly enveloped by ecstatic teammates, I felt time slow down, felt inexplicably rooted in place but simultaneously energised.”
If you have followed me or my writing, you’ll know that my own journey with the maddening game began with this freekick 20 years and six World Cups ago. In 2002, I wasn’t able to fully appreciate what I was witnessing with the Brazilian side—that arrived only in hindsight—but I can still recall that overwhelming, all-encompassing feeling, one that I’ve experienced only a few times since and keeps me hooked to a sport that routinely demands more than it can return.
But oh that feeling.
Over the years, and since my foray into club football, I’ve questioned whether I still feel the same pull towards the tournament that started it all; whether Arsenal captured everything I had to give. But, also, increasingly so, whether I’d ever feel the way I used to about football itself knowing all that I do now, with the game so changed and so irretrievably corrupt. With the life of a modern-day football fan embodying contradictory dichotomies—the Super League fiasco was just one example, but there are so many in a world ruled by money and vested interests (what isn’t, these days, is a discussion for another day). We’ve all had to reflect on our fandom, the price we pay for choosing not to recognise those truths, and whether it’s possible for multiple realities to co-exist in this new space we’re (hopefully) creating for ourselves.
In 2022, even more than in 2018, I couldn’t muster the excitement and anticipation that usually precedes the tournament. I hadn’t planned my schedule around the games or made plans with friends. That feeling just wasn’t there. Even though seeing Japan and, especially, Morocco shine as the games went on was a buoyant thing.
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