A tournament, and a sport, like no other

When I was thirteen years old, my uncle came over to my house for some family function. About halfway through, he excused himself to watch something on TV.

Intrigued, I followed him into the living room and watched alongside him. I remember the air of tension and importance, and the pristine, inviting lawn-green of the pitch. I remember the yellow shirts, and the sound of the crowd, the way they looked on TV. And I remember the abject sorrow I felt for Roberto Baggio when he missed that final penalty, and the the joy on Dunga’s face as he lifted the World Cup Trophy.

This wasn’t my first introduction to soccer. I knew there was a World Cup on, because earlier that summer I watched the Netherlands play a warm up friendly against Canada at Varsity Stadium, not discovering until later I witnessed Marc Overmars, Dennis Bergkamp and Frank Rijkaard complete an easy 3-0 win.

Yet the final, even filtered through TV—maybe especially filtered through TV— was different. The tension. The natural inclination to root for an obvious underdog in Italy. I didn’t need a beginner’s guide or a helpful glossary or a nine part video preview series to tell me this was important. The depth of the occasion just radiated from the screen. Twenty-two players, two nets and a white ball.

While I knew the final was being held in the USA, I didn’t know where, exactly. I’m willing to bet most of you don’t know, either, because it isn’t that important.

For the vast majority of us who follow the World Cup, the games themselves are all that matter. When watching classic World Cup matches on YouTube, few viewers remember or care about the host nation unless it strongly ties in with the game narrative (Brazil 1950, West Germany 1954, England 1966). Some people still marvel that two of the greatest World Cup games of all time—the 1970 Brazil-Italy final and the 1986 Argentina-England quarterfinal—were both played at the Azteca Stadium in Mexico City. They may as well have been played on different planets.

It’s only later that we discover how Italian dictator Benito Mussolini used the 1934 World Cup as a propaganda engine, or the relationship between the 1978 tournament and the so-called ‘Dirty War’ in Argentina, or the controversy in FIFA selecting Mexico to replace Colombia as hosts for 1986, or the white elephant stadiums left in the wake of the 2010 World Cup in South Africa. We read about these things, appalled that our natural love for the game is forced to reconcile itself with the ugliness of graft and the self-interest—sometimes deadly—of politicians.

And now, on the day of the first match of the 2014 World Cup, Brazilian protesters have faced flash grenades and tear gas from police for questioning $11 billion in local spending for a four week tournament. This comes two weeks after reports the 2022 World Cup in Qatar was awarded with the help of bribery from a former ExCo member.

I’m honestly not here to ruin the party. But I also don’t have an answer for how to account for these things amid the excitement, the packed bars and pubs, the cars draped in flags, the honking, the glorious fun of a World Cup that is unlike anything else.

I can’t say that there aren’t more important matters than football in this world, yet neither can I say the joy the World Cup gives to hundreds of millions the world over isn’t meaningful because the World Cup literally changed my life. Not FIFA, though they own it. Not any politician, though they fund it (and often take a little for themselves). Not a TV station, though they broadcast it and fuel the entire enterprise.

Could the World Cup exist without these things? No. But neither are they are not consubstantial with, Grosso’s goal, Zidane’s headers (and headbutt), Gazza’s tears, the Hand of God, Tardelli’s run, Cruyff’s turn, Beckenbauer’s sling, Hurst’s hattrick, Garrincha’s legs, Pele’s debut, Puskas’ scratched off goal. They are not the same thing as football.

Something to remember over the next month. Enjoy it. You’re allowed.