The World Cup Turned Me Into A Soccer Fan

On the 12th of June I was in New York. After having spent a few days touring my son around the big city I had put him on a plane to Maryland so he could spend some time with his dad while I stayed a little longer.  That afternoon I had arranged to meet up with a friend who claimed to be happily anticipating my visit, “but that is the day we play England in the World Cup,” he said.  “Would it be okay if we watched that?”

At the time that he had asked I remember thinking that no, it really wasn’t okay.  I hadn’t been to New York in four years and I didn’t want to spend my first child-free afternoon in the city watching TV.  But it was clearly something he was really looking forward to doing and I didn’t want to cut our visit short by arranging to meet him after it was over so I agreed without protest.  Of course I didn’t really watch the World Cup that day.  I may have glanced over at the television a few times and I’m sure I smiled and nodded my head when he told me how amazing it  was that Team USA was holding their own against the all-mighty England but to be fair I couldn’t have cared less.  I was just glad it didn’t last very long so we could get out and explore the East Village.  

And then on June 22nd, when I had been back in CA (after having been in Maryland and  Virginia) for less than 24 hours, I watched Mexico play Uruguay.  I don’t really know why I watched these two teams.  Blame it on exhaustion and jet lag I suppose. I figured Mexico should win because...well, they’re our neighbors and everybody likes living next door to winners (presuming you’re not the one they’re trying to defeat). So I got comfy on the couch with the assumption that I’d fall asleep before half time.

I didn’t.  I was too caught up in the game.  Despite the lack of scoring it was high intensity with lots of action.  I quickly figured out that no one was going to stop the clock no matter WHAT happened and it was anybody’s guess how many minutes the referee was going to tack on at the end to compensate for the various fouls and whatnot (which is a totally illogical way of doing things but it does make the game all the more exciting).  The players were extraordinarily talented...and HOT. I mean these soccer guys seriously have it going on!  Mexico lost that game but still, I was beginning to suspect that I was going to become a soccer fan.

June 23rd clinched the deal.  Seeing the USA win against Algeria in the last few minutes of the game was quite literally breathtaking.  I was totally and absolutely hooked.  My son happily joined me in my new obsession. Three days after that victory the two of us were eating hot dogs and sipping homemade lemonade as we watched America compete against the formidable Ghana.  Even though we lost he and I had an enormous amount of fun. I Facebooked throughout that match which allowed me to also watch the game with my readers in real time.  That just made it all the more enjoyable.  

And then came the final.  On that day I had to bring my son to the airport yet again, this time so he could fly to Northern California to visit his grandparents.  As we we waited for his flight we watched the game on the televisions that were at his gate.  Everyone was watching.  Strangers started talking to us as we discussed what we were seeing and our predictions for a winner. My son boarded the plane about 80 minutes into the game and we agreed that he would call me as soon as he landed so I could give him the name of the victorious team.  The flight attendant who was about to take him aboard told me, in a rather abrupt manner, that I wasn’t allowed to leave the airport until the plane carrying my unaccompanied minor was actually off the ground.

“I won’t,” I promised.  “Actually, I’m not leaving here until the World Cup is over regardless of how quickly you take off so you know, take your time.”  I’m not sure the flight attendant caught that but some guy who had stepped in from the loading dock did and started cracking up.  I waited at the gate until my son’s plane moved down the runway and then I headed for the airport bar.  I ordered a Corona Light even though I knew I wouldn’t drink half of it.  I just needed to order something in order to have rights to the last remaining bar stool with a good view of the big screen TVs. And here’s the thing, the bar was packed.  All eyes were on those television screens.  People who were arriving from their flights didn’t bother to head for ground transportation.  Instead they just stopped walking when they saw that the game was still playing and since there were no seats left and many of these passengers didn’t seem to want a drink they simply stood right outside the bar and watched as the events unfolded.  The passengers were quickly joined by pilots and crew members from various different airlines.  I even noticed one police officer (who really should have been patrolling for the purposes of airport security) stop to see the final fifteen minutes.  There were some people who had travel companions but more were traveling by themselves.  And yet we were all together, cheering, exclaiming and groaning as goals were almost made and as the ball was lost and gained by one team or another.  Most of us had little or no connection to the countries whose teams were playing and yet we all wanted to see one of them make World Cup history.

And that’s when I knew that not only was I a soccer fan but I would always be a soccer fan.  I loved being with that group of strangers.  I loved being part of something that had, for unfathomable reasons, captured all of our imaginations.  

It was the World Cup and it felt as if, for the first time, we Americans had actually caught the soccer bug.

I know I did.

 But of course I still won't call it Football. 

 

Kyra Davis 

Bestselling Author of:

The Sophie Katz Mystery Series
and
So Much For My Happy Ending
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