Is FIFA My Friend?

By Duda Kovarsky Rotta and Nnema Épée-Bounya

Illustration by Ines Alto

Affirmative 

I am not ashamed to admit that I came into this World Cup not knowing much about the sport. I could maybe pick Messi and Ronaldo out of a lineup on the third try, but other than that, I was in completely unknown territory. Terms like ‘offsides,’ ‘handball’ (isn’t that a different sport?) and ‘high press’ were tirelessly explained to me by my worldly friends who generously let me accompany them to watch parties, but their explanations fell on deaf ears. I wasn’t there to learn tactical strategies or even the rules; I was there to join the global kumbaya that is the FIFA World Cup. The first time I heard Shakira and Burna Boy’s “Dai Dai” playing as the players lined up with little children by their sides and a flurry of flags waving above their heads, a solitary tear streamed down my cheek. This is world peace, I thought; this will heal the world. 

Guided by the Pitbull maxim, show the world that we are one! I ventured forth in New York City, home of the final match, to pick a team. Apparently, it's not very hip to support the U.S. No problem. I chose Uruguay! Argued by many to be the true founders of socc—ah, fútbol! They won two trophies, the last one being in 1950… Talk about football coming home. I painted my face blue and white, adding a shining yellow sun squarely upon my forehead. First lesson learned: whatever you do, do NOT lead others to believe you are supporting Argentina. Back to those guys later. I was almost finished watching the Suarez biting compilation (yes, it happened more than once) when I suffered my first heartbreak—Uruguay did not make it past the group stages. Alas, imbued with the spirit of a united world, I picked a new favorite. It was due time for an African team to win the Cup. Here we go: Curaçao! 

Alright. Curaçao is not in Africa. But… the World Cup is for LEARNING. I listened to Waka Waka and got a bit confused. Congo DR, I meant. I had already bought the blue face paint anyway, and now it was time for Les Léopards. This was only their second qualification to the WC, and valiantly they fought. Past the group stages, they faced the English. Second lesson learned: do not hum along to Wonderwall. I thought everything would be fine after Congo was ahead for 70 minutes. But no, no. I kept my hope even in the face of a balding Harry Kane approaching the net. On y va. 

Time to support an Asian nation. Japan! So exciting. They were to play Brazil, the historic 5-time winners now reduced to a whiskey-drinking, knee-replacing, sports-betting Neymar with his cronies. Their only hope, Vini Júnior, could not stand a chance against the mighty Japanese. Ah! Even losing, I felt the joy of the beautiful game. Apparently, a 2-1 against Brazil is still a valiant effort. At least that's what they told me. I had only just learned Ronaldo and Ronaldinho were different people when we got to the Vikings. Erling Haaland of Norway is three pounds of raw meat, and sometimes a hair tie. The man just stood there and scored twice. Poor Brazilians! Though I’m sure this bears no weight in their self-worth as a nation. After all, this is just a game. 

France and England fell: viva la revolución! I have learned my lesson: we don't support colonizers here. ¡Vamos, Argentina! I figured that any Latin American bar would be supporting the continent's last representative against the imperialists. Simón Bolívar's dream. Imagine my shock when Ferrán scored the first Spanish goal: the streets of New York erupted! The cry of a united world rippled throughout the nations. Guns were put down. All fans held together in an impassioned embrace. Tears rolled down face-painted cheeks. At last, evil was defeated. I quickly discarded my shameful white and blue garb, and joined the ranks. World peace. 

Negative

I don’t want to disappoint the many newcomers that have just started following football (I categorically refuse to call it soccer), but I have noticed a concerning optimism in these new fans, a glint in their eyes, that must be stamped out before they get any ideas. A fun trick I learned throughout this World Cup is how to spot a new fan—when your team is up one-nil at half, look for the fans with a smile on their face. Those are the ones that haven’t experienced the stomach-dropping late-match equalizer, and the fury-inducing stoppage-time loss. Better yet, they haven’t witnessed the stages of grief that an entire nation goes through after being eliminated. They are the ones who will pat your shoulder as you let the tears fall and say “There’s always next time.” I am proud to say that I haven’t punched one of these novices in the face. Yet. So, to the newcomers, welcome, but I will say it plainly: the FIFA World Cup brings out the worst in us. You may have been charmed by the multilingual anthems or the little kids that walk out alongside the players, but that is all to distract you from the seedy underbelly of this sport. Allow me to take you through it.

My World Cup began long before the opening game’s kickoff in the Azteca. It started by watching the national news weeks earlier, when my nation’s coach announced which players would be travelling to North America one by one, like soldiers being called up to combat. These men are off to war. Thus began the nationwide rituals—the manager being hounded with questions and accusations by paparazzi, grandmothers praying for each and every player, and hopes steadily being brought up just to inevitably be crushed in a few weeks' time. For football, at the end of the day, is a game of disappointment, cruelly interspersed with moments of pure elation and adrenaline. Sure, bicycle kicks are cool, but have you ever watched your favorite player miss a penalty kick and ruin the rest of your year? Have you ever seen your father, a man of few words, berate the TV, convinced that the more saliva spewed at the screen will make his team play better? Have you seen racial, ethnic, and religious tensions reawaken based on the performance of eleven grown men and a round ball?

A friend of mine urged me to stop giving new, helplessly naive fans icy cold looks “now that the World Cup is over.” First off, the World Cup will only end for me when I take my last breath, wrapped in my favorite vintage jersey and gripping a plastic replica of the golden trophy, per the instructions I have given my loved ones. Second of all, these new fans need to be inducted into the miserable yet passionate real world of football fandom—that is to say, denial and obsession! Though I knew deep down that my country would end up disappointing me as they always do, I still need answers. Each of the 26 players is yet to reply to my indignations via Instagram DM. 

Cowards! This “friend” of mine insists that I could learn a thing or two from these happy-go-lucky spectators; he claims that they “enjoy the sport in a healthy and balanced way” and that “I have lost the true meaning of being a fan.” But I refuse to accept that I could have just been singing along to Shakira this whole time. If I hadn’t bared my soul to the TV and personally insulted these men, do you really think they could play football well?