To-day, another one. Monday, mid-winter.
I rose early to watch the second half of the World Cup, a thrash-out between two spanish-speaking teams: Argentina and Spain (Argentina’s coloniser).
Along with so many others – sitting in the grandstand in New York or watching on screen – I was hoping Spain would go down screaming. Spain attempted to find the back of the net 20 times, to no avail thanks to the extreme body-throwing blocks by Argentinian goal-keeper Emiliano Martinez. What a dance!
In the cadential moments of extra time, Spain smashes the ball past Martinez. The stands erupt. It’s 1-0. Argentinians wail in despair, as if their lives are lost in the deep sea of shame and hopelessness. How will the god Messi cope, this his last World Cup game? He’s 39. How will Martinez, the sensation, be celebrated, or will the trauma of loss bury his victories?
I reflect on why I watch these games when I resist so much of this wild spectacle: men throwing themselves at each other, tripping, hitting, blocking and tricking opponents, performing for coaches and crowds. Violence towards opponents throughout the game is like how I imagine car crashes at Formula 1 races (which – I hastily qualify with a defence – I’ve never been to but accidentally catch on TV). Do people attend these things for the crashes and falls? Are humans so twisted?
I make coffee, eat breakfast, find distractions while I surge for an Argentinian goal: expectant, hopeful, my body in tremor. My resistance is the bitter taste that won’t go away. No wonder world peace is a misnomer.
Later I discover Spain (its government) supports Gaza, the Palestinians. Argentina has Israeli connections.
I fold into disarray….again.