I have but a few regrets in my life. Taking true love for granted. Losing track of that 1985-86 Chicago Bulls autographed team poster. And, not making the choice to play futbol instead of football as a 13 year old. Many boys entering high school are forced to choose between sports that conflict for reasons of commitment or season, and I, too, was forced to choose between the two sports with the same name that I had had a great deal of success in up until that point. The choice seemed fairly obvious back then. Wear a school football jersey every Friday to school and watch the sea of students part in respect as I walked the halls or wear a school futbol jersey and sit next to the girl’s junior varsity badminton team at pep rallies. Play football and have 250 pound defensive tackles as buddies or play futbol and have Dieter, the Norwegian exchange student, as a partner-in-crime. Play football to packed stadiums at primetime or play futbol at 8 a.m. on Saturdays to moms, dads, and kid sisters. A no-brainer for an eighth grader. The choice was pretty clear.
Over time, however, tackling runaway fullbacks and fielding poorly blocked punt returns took their toll. The passion for the game of football that I had in eighth grade waned as a twelfth grader, and, as an adult looking back, I wish I had stuck to the sport that Americans marginalize, but I felt deep in my bones as a player. A sport that is unlike any other to play and plays second string to no other outside America’s physical and psychological borders. To this day, I am still a fan of the sport I didn’t respect enough. Like a lover apologetic after an act of infidelity, I try to make up for my lack of faithfulness with pleasure for the sport. I still get excited when I see the pros play in the British Premier League or little tykes at the park. And, as the 2006 FIFA World Cup quickly approaches, I have an excitement born of the rue of an unwise decision as a kid and the adoration of a game of low scores but high intensity.
For the futbol fan, World Cups are like some kind of psychedelic-fantasy orgy. The sheer magnitude and peculiarity of it, first of all, is extraordinary. A month long event of 32 teams from six continents, well over half of the world’s population is represented. Billions of fans around the world tune in daily to watch their teams compete, and Germany, the host country this time around, will be filled with thousands of rabid, face-painted fans from as far away as Trinidad and Saudi Arabia. The color and excitement of each game is enthralling. There is no single event in modern human civilization, Olympics included, followed with such marvel.
Also, since the event only occurs every four years, it takes on an air of incredible exceptionalism. Adding to this air is the fact that many of the teams are more like wet dream teams than dream teams. Look at Brazil, no doubt the favorites to take home the Jules Rimet Cup again, is a side like no other. Ronaldo, Ronaldinho, Cafu, Roberto Carlos, Ze Roberto, Kaka. This team is stuffed to the gills with freakish talent. Individuals who can win a game (or six) on their own. There is also an elevated star quality to the event; individual stars of the sport who take on extra shine when the world competes. The most popular (and overrated) athlete in the world, David Beckham, for instance, will represent England. And, maybe the illest player in the game, Henry Thierry, will suit up for the 1998 championship team, France.
Lastly, as an African American, I love watching the African (and Caribbean) teams compete. Chock full of strong, fast, and mean players, African teams can play with anyone but always seem to lack the defensive discipline to beat the Europeans or South Americans. Who cares though? I just love seeing them check the chins of the pampered Japanese or the pretty boy Italians. And, with first time qualifiers like Angola and Toga, we should see some hungry African teams looking for respect.
It’s tough for me to see why most Americans wouldn’t get all geared up for the World Cup. It only happens every four years. It’s colorful and passionate. It’s competitive as hell. It’s got some big time talent and noteworthy personalities. It’s nationalistic, ethnocentric, and jingoistic, all things Americans hate to love. It’s got Iranians, French, and Saudis, all things Americans love to hate. And, it’s got a world’s fifth ranked American team looking to do even better than their quarterfinals showing in 2002. What more does anyone need? It’s drama that needs no script. But, like the futbol team relegated to the back of the gym and the back of people’s minds during high school pep rallies, Americans can’t seem to get up for the sport. Even I fell victim to this American obliviousness as a 13 year old. However, on June 9 th, my love of the game will shine as I check out the Germans and the Costa Ricans take sides.
Seattle based Chris Davis is a writer, teacher and sports fanatic. This summer you can catch him in Hong Kong scouting hand ball players in Kowloon.