I enjoyed the World Cup. Not because it was always pretty. Not because my team always performed as I would have liked nor whether they remained or left the competition. Not because referees always made the correct call or decision. Not because of the endless droning of the commentators who bring with them their need to fill dead air and banter in the middle of a game while one is trying to really focus on what’s going on in the field. In the beginning of a Miami summer, I was invited to feel those feelings that one is not always able to bring up all in one place, all at one time, all in one event. The golden trophy was not on my mind. That came at the end.
I enjoyed the passion and the skill, those human emotions evident in every single player and in the people who train them, prepare them, take care of them and of course, the fans who ultimately watch them represent their country.
The World Cup is all of those things and many more to millions around the planet. As I watched each team, I was reminded of trips I’ve taken to many of their countries and of places I’ve actually lived in. Many times it was hard for me to take sides. When Japan (where I lived for 12 years and 3 of my 4 kids were born) played Colombia a country where I’ve also lived and which welcomed me when I was a bride I was hardly able to look at the screen on my TV. When I marveled at the US team or watched Brasil. When I rooted for Costa Rica, a spunky team to which I have no connection. When I saw the Mexican fans or the Nigerian fans with their painted faces and big smiles filled with hope of glory, when I saw that Brazilian kid crying mournfully for their loss, it was just as if I was there, in Rio, taking it all in.
I was born in Buenos Aires and learned how to kick a soccer ball as soon as I learned how to walk. While I was not yet a fan, my best friend Pepito kept me kicking a ball on the street in front of my house every day. As a kid I also played other popular Argentine sports like Polo and Pato on my bike with a broomstick. The sound of GOOOOOOOOOOOL was as familiar to me as the smell of my father’s parrilla and the siesta that my parents took after the gigantic meal. Kids playing futbol (like it is called in Argentina) were everywhere. You could find them in backyards, in empty lots, on the street and in parks. An Argentine boy is not complete without his ball either at his feet or under his arm going to play outside. Babies are given a foot ball at birth together with their parents’ favorite team’s jersey. They speak football echoing Dad’s opinions on the heavy matter of yesterday’s game and while they may not watch the whole game Dad and his chums are watching on TV, they certainly know how to stop their play to celebrate a goal with the rest of the family.
My own Dad was British and lived in Argentina for most of his life. When a British team came to play with ours he would root for England, which infuriated all of us. His reasoning was “it’s not that I prefer the British team, it’s that I have to live here if Argentina wins!” I found this excuse to be rather lame at the time. Of course we (and by “we” I mean every country) can be somewhat obnoxious in terms of sportsmanship. I had trouble speaking to my Spanish friends last World Cup because of their incessant boasting.
Sports and fitness in general are a very important part of Argentine life. If you drive past the parks of Palermo in Buenos Aires, and you look on one side of the beautiful avenue you’ll see the many sports clubs with people playing tennis, football, basketball and all sorts of other sporty activities. If you look on the park side, you see the joggers, a little Tai Chi perhaps or people warming up to do something athletic in one way or another. You also see older men with their beer bellies walking briskly in hopes of getting fitter and women and their friends speed walking around the park under the many beautiful trees as traffic passes them by. That has always impressed me. It is not a “fashion” or a trend. It is a way of life for so many.
At Northlands, the British school that I attended, we had an English curriculum in the morning where all that was spoken was English and a Spanish curriculum in the afternoon. The only thing that the two parts of the day had in common was what we called “gym” which was PE twice a day every day. We were taught every sport and could choose to play and join the team of the ones that we were adept at. My sisters were both field hockey stars, which left me the youngest, rebel against the sport and choose tennis instead. I also chose tennis because the courts were far away from the school buildings and us tennis girls could take a break and sunbathe and chitchat on the grass adjacent to the courts. It was a very strict school and I still don’t know how we got away with it.
One of the most important things that I learned at Northlands was sportsmanship. After a hockey game with another school’s team we would convene at the school or club or wherever we were playing after the game to have tea with out rivals regardless of who had won. We were meant to socialize with them and mingle, no more rivalry, just camaraderie. We learned to see our rivals as girls just like we were. Never speak an ill word, or gripe about a call or a play. Just hang out as a reminder that it was “just a game” after all. I will be forever grateful to my school for teaching me that and for learning to be a good winner and a good loser.
When I was growing up in Argentina, I had no idea what the rest of the world was up to soccer-wise. There were no televised foreign games. Television was in its infancy and nobody imagined that one day we would be able to see ALL soccer games wherever they were played while we checked our Iphones and our Facebook page and record the game, just in case someone missed it.
Then I was more aware of what was happening between rivals River Plate and Boca Juniors. As a River fan, I was vociferously against Boca and couldn’t believe anyone would favor them. I got excited every time my parents drove past the River stadium. I have never been inside it but it was my temple of perfection. When I visit Buenos Aires and drive by it now I still get the same feeling. Next time I go, I’ll try to get in and actually see the inside of the structure.
I married Esteban, a wonderful Argentine man who encompassed everything that a sportsman or a man for that matter, should be. A gentle man, a very fit man who was a Puma and represented Argentina in Rugby but whose heart was in football and taught me and his son and daughters everything one could ever possibly want to know about the sport and then some. We lived in 7 cities in 4 continents together and he brought his interest in sports to all. In England he even watched Cricket on TV which I consider to be the most boring sport on earth to watch – hopefully it is entertaining to play! He played Golf and watched endless hours of the sport on TV and found it thrilling as the commentators whispered their impressions of a complicated shot. In Colombia he dragged me to my first soccer match in a stadium and convinced me that it was OK, that I would not be uncomfortable and I wasn’t. He followed all football games wherever they were played and was fiercely supportive of so many teams.
In 1970 when Brasil won the World Cup we watched and cheered for them living in London. At the end of the game a group of us expatriate Argentines, walked over to the Brazilian ambassador's house and offered our congratulations. He not only thanked us but also invited us in to celebrate with champagne with his family and friends. I will never forget the joy of that day nor his graciousness.
In 1994 we flew from Tokyo to the US with the hope of attending at least one game of the World Cup hosted here. We saw Italy vs Nigeria with our four kids. It was thrilling for all of us. The connection that my children continue to have with soccer is due to his passion and his ability to convey that knowledge and enthusiasm to his kids. My son has inherited his father’s passion and is as athletic and sports minded and knowledgeable about sports as he was and my grandchildren wear the Argentine jersey proudly although they have yet to visit Argentina.
My husband died in April 2002 just a couple of months before the Japan/Korea World Cup. In mourning and still feeling shell-shocked, we watched the games with his best friend Rudy with whom he had seen a thousand games before, with his family all appropriately draped in Argentine flags and eating all the right foods. For those two weeks we could feel his presence with us . We have watched the subsequent championships together or closely connected through computers and phones. My son is now our football guru and my little grandchildren do what we did as kids, they run around and play while the grownups watch the game and acknowledge our excitement trying not to stand in front of the TV.
A mixture of joy and nostalgia accompanied this World Cup for me. I know that my husband would have been very proud of Argentina for reaching the final. I know the emotions that he would have had during each and every game. He was with us in spirit in Miami as he was with his son and daughter in Singapore and also in New York with his best friend Rudy. Like our friend Peter remarked, “he has the best seat in the house.” He managed to be with us all.
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