Play On.
Although I did not think this essay to be “finished,” I felt it important to publish before the game on Sunday. In the spirit of the World Cup, onward, hopefully toward glory.
These are my final words of 2022 before an extended holiday break that I will use to spend time with family and friends, rest, catch up on reading, and work on material.
Wishing you all a wonderful holiday and a peaceful New Year ✨
The final match of the 2022 World Cup will be played on Sunday in Lusail, Qatar between Argentina and defending World Cup champions, France. A great percentage of the Earth's population will watch, including us here in New York. Inevitably, for at least 90 minutes, all will be captivated by the world's most popular sport.
This year's iteration will be remembered as one of the most ethically complicated sporting events to navigate — more than once in the last month I have wondered if my own love of the game might collapse under the weight of controversy. The drama surrounding the Qatar bid has been ongoing for nearly half of my life, and has managed to bubble over spectacularly as the start drew near. Two days before the opening match, I stumbled upon coverage of spectator accommodations reminiscent of Fyre Fest, and immediately texted a friend in exasperation: “Ugh I hate saying this / World Cup is gonna be a shitshow isn’t it.”
Yet, somehow, the play is still as good as I remember — amid fanfare and drama, upsets and controversy, soccer has managed to survive. I was raised a fan of soccer by my father, whose devotion to the sport is a cornerstone of his immigrant experience, a love that knows no borders. Interest in sports is commonly passed down in this way, through proxy, over time. In the introduction for the first essay of Atlantic's World Cup newsletter The Great Game, Clint Smith describes his current relationship with the game as a father "who is now watching my two children fall in love with the game I have loved for so much of my life." This phenomena is part of what makes World Cup soccer fandom so compelling: that our passion can be passed onto future generations and validated by those we love most.
Sunday's game will mark the eighth World Cup final to take place in my lifetime. I am stunned by this statistic, more so when I consider that a quadrennial sporting event can provide a point of reference for moments of my life. In 1994, waving to my father as he caught a ride to Foxboro Stadium to see Italy play (his friends were Italian, he was tagging along). Watching Brazil win the 2002 title, at home on the basement television, when I first learned that tears can be shed out of happiness – Brazil being my father's favorite team. Again in the basement in 2010, this time with my friends, watching vuvuzelas being played in the South African stands while we cheered for Spain, who would go on to win the cup. There are so many years in between, so much of life celebrated in the sliver of a 90 minute stretch.
On pavement, on grass, on sand, with or without shoes — soccer meets the people wherever they are, across continents and cultural divides.
Never once in all this time has being a fan of the game meant being a fan of FIFA, in spite of the latter gatekeeping a sport played and enjoyed by the common class, predominately by the poor. On pavement, on grass, on sand, with or without shoes — soccer meets the people wherever they are, across continents and cultural divides. The essence of the beautiful game is what it reminds us about the ongoing game of life: that someday, you will be called to the pitch, where you will pull a jersey over your head, reach down and touch the grass, look to the sky and mouth a prayer to your deity of choice. The whistle will blow, you will breath in deep, and despite everything — every doubt, every controversy — you will settle your mind.
You will dash forward into the future. You will play on.
— caro.
Listening to:
An album that was “now playing” at Rough Trade some many months ago that I spent at least two days finding in my library on Spotify. Did you know using the heart button no longer puts the entire album on your “Liked Songs” list? Clearly I didn’t, sucks to suck.
Reading:
Excellent discourse on the World Cup, specifically an essay comparing soccer to dance, and New Yorker features like this and this. Still SELLOUT, but also an essay collection by The Point Magazine, which makes me miss being in honors English.