The World Cup is not what Jules Rimet envisioned it as anymore: a picture of peace and togetherness. In the inflated club ecosystem, international tournaments have faded in importance too. For the fans, however, it is still a grand fiesta.
“At times football is a joy that hurts, and the music played to celebrate a victory that would make the dead dance sounds very close to the clamorous silence of the empty stadium, where night has fallen, and one of those defeated is still sitting, unable to move, alone in the vast sea of steps.” – Eduardo Galeano
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.
A week later, on the big screen at a hotel near the airport, my sister and I joined the celebrations with our father and uncle, as Brazil made up a little for their 1998 debacle. And then, just like that, it was over, and I felt hopelessly bereft of something I had only known for seven days. If I could go back in time, I would tell 12-year-old Anu that there would be plenty of the same over the next sixteen years. That same mix of headiness and despondency; the indelible moments of magic and the sharp memories of a pain that you merely get used to in time.