Ode to Football
10 minute read
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There are days when God dresses up as Martin Scorsese.
Yesterday, he directed a Greek myth in a modern world. Europe vs. South America. The king vs. his heir. The two countries with two World Cups. Cabernet vs. Malbec. Rivalries were abundant (banal or significant).
It was one of those days when you knew something was going to happen. And that everything was going to be different afterwards. More than a billion people with the same expectation. Even those who do not follow the sport knew that December 18 was not going to be a routine Sunday.
Not being Argentine or French didn’t prevent me from getting chills listening to La Marseillaise or the Argentine National Anthem. Nationalism is moving; that's why we are addicted to it.
All of this made me think: Why does football move us so much? How have we come to this point, and why am I not the only crazy one, nor the craziest for this sport?
This match gave us the answer.
The Game
The preceding games in the tournament made each team’s strengths self-evident. France, with a monopoly of talent as obscene as the monopoly on beauty that Paris has. Meanwhile, Argentina arrived at the final buoyed by their date with history and their strong hearts. They carry themselves with that pride that veers into arrogance sometimes. The rest of South America looks upon their attitude with contempt... and a lot of envy.
In the first few minutes, Argentina began with a blustering rhythm, like piranhas of the Paraná River. Pressure from Julian Alvarez, who carries Red Bull in his blood, made life impossible for defenders Upamecano and Varane. Mac Allister, Enzo, and De Paul took over the midfield. The occasion demanded Antoine Griezmann to dress up as Zidane and orchestrate the game of Les Bleus, but playing like the mythical 10 of France is a heavy burden to bear.
The offensive trident of Mbappe, Giroud, and Dembele had a ghostly first half. The first, isolated by the Argentine strategy (avoid the right side and build up play with Tagliafico on the left). The other two, so pale their performance, that they didn't even finish the first half, being replaced by Thuram and Muani. Benzema, the reigning Ballon D'Or, sitting in another continent due to managerial capriciousness.
The first goal of the night was the blessing of an Angel. Di Maria, who is a lucky charm for his penchant of being clutch in finals, slalomed his way into the box and dared Dembele to put his leg where it should not be, in the area that is least convenient. A clever play to earn a debatable penalty that is in line with the rules.
And the number 10 of Argentina appeared. Lionel, who in the 22nd minute at 22 seconds crossed Lloris with the most prodigious left foot on this planet. I'm not a fan of numerology. But I love symmetry.
Thirteen minutes later, a magical story told in four acts: Mac Allister to Messi, Messi to Alvarez, Alvarez to Mac Allister, Mac Allister to Di Maria and Pum! Golazo! An Angel appeared to save Argentina again. The counterattack is the most beautiful play in football— it's a meteor shower.
A 2-0 that rewarded the Argentine’s valor and their domination of all phases of the match. France, with an offense as powerful as Napoleon’s greatest armies, did not get a single shot on goal. In football, when a team plays exquisitely well we call it Champagne Football. But with the Argentine dominance, it became Fútbol Mate.
The expectation coming out of half-time was that France would come out to establish its hierarchy in the second half. It was logical, anticipated. The hope was that Deschamps would take a cue from his compatriot Hervé Renard, who had beaten Argentina in that same stadium a couple of weeks ago, and awaken the iconic pride of his team.
The reality is that France started the second half as sleepy as the first one. The first 20 minutes were a carbon copy of the first part. However, the rambunctiousness of the Argentine style of play was showing signs of wear and tear. Their maniacal rhythm was beginning to diminish, starting with Di Maria. El Fideo gave way to the Pitbull Acuña. Scaloni was starting to shore up the game. Deschamps saw the departure of the Argentine bishop, and decided to put two horses on the board: Coman and Camavinga.
Coman—A lethal winger that had taken the dream of the Champions League from the hands of Mbappe & Neymar’s Paris Saint Germain a couple of years ago. Camavinga—that 20-year-old kid who plays with total disregard for fear, and who is a graduate from Real Madrid’s school of comebacks.
In less than 10 minutes, they changed the tone of the match. Coman ate the Argentine defense, which was already playing with heavy legs. France woke up. In the 79th minute, Muani hit one of those sprints that we make to beat the traffic light before it turns red. Otamendi, one of those that endured the final defeat in 2014, grabbed him where he should not have, in the area that was the least convenient. Another debatable penalty. Have I already told you that I love symmetry?
And Mbappe, the phantom menace who hadn’t appeared, shot to the right of Dibu Martinez, who only managed to caress the ball on its path to the net. 2-1. Let me nerd out a little, but at that moment, Mbappe became Super Saiyan.
Football has a lot of clichés. One of them is that 2-0 is the most treacherous score. There is a reason why clichés exist.
No more than 90 seconds had passed since the dismayed Argentine groans and the French euphoric cries. Mbappe built the perfect screen with Thuram and with one of those dream volleys that we’ve all practiced in our childhood, leveled the World Cup final.
France revived. They wanted to write their own epic story.
The Argentine semblance was worrying. The almost 80,000 Albiceleste fans in Lusail paid 20 minutes of silence while the French minority was in delirium. Matches are also played in the stands. Those Argentine chants that should be considered historic trademarks by UNESCO, stopped ringing. That's oxygen for the 11 on the pitch. But everyone was gasping for air.
A shot that tested Dibu and another that challenged Lloris, were the exclamation points to this 90-minute film that had a sequel: Extra Time. An episode of terror for the Argentines, who live with an open scar from Mario Gotze’s goal in the 113th minute that broke the hearts of more than 40 million 8 years ago.
At this point, you no longer play with the strategy drawn up in the locker room. It becomes an all out battle where everyone thinks they are William Wallace liberating Scotland. That's how big this sport feels. Both coaches moved more pieces: Fofana for Rabiot on the blue side, and DePaul and Alvarez gave way to Paredes and Lautaro for the albicelestes.
Mbappe continued to grow, causing havoc. But Messi, that protagonist Messi, found a second air defying physics and chemistry. His lead legs turned to carbon fiber. His blood became adrenaline. He is an alchemist.
A rejuvenated Messi and a fresh Lautaro, gave oxygen back to their country in the 108th minute after a short-range missile from Lautaro ran into Lloris’ face, who deflected it with every ounce of courage he had. The ball bounced into the path of the boy from Rosario, who pushed it with his right foot. Not even Kounde's feline reaction could prevent the ball from crossing the goal line by centimeters. Argentina were back on top. 3-2.
That’s it. This is the happy ending, the movie was coming to an end.
But no. A couple of cardiac scenes were missing. And this Super Saiyan Mbappe was going to be respected. In the 115th minute after a corner kick, his shot hit Montiel's forearm. Another debatable penalty (don’t fight me on this). Mbappe, rising to the occasion in a way few mortals have, did not waste his chance. 3-3. We went back to symmetry.
In the dying breaths for extra time, while millions of houses took the rosary out of the jewelry box for the penalty shootout, the last heart stopping play of the night emerged. A flashback like those that are used in movies to bring more drama to it. Muani receives a pass between the defenders. Robben gets a pass between the defenders. Muani receives and is in a 1v1 against Dibu. Robben receives and is in a 1v1 against Casillas. Muani shoots. Robben shoots. Dibu's left leg deflects it. Casillas' right leg deflects it. A near-identical sequence as one of the decisive plays of the 2010 final. Football is cruel and indulges in repetition.
We're going to the penalty shootout. Penalties are the most sadistic and beautiful ritual of sports. We always complain about how cruel it is, but we love them. It's toxic love. With rosaries in hand, and hands in a prayer position, millions called their God at that time. But He was also busy watching the game; the players were the ones who had to seal their fate.
The penalty shootout started with the superlative figures of this World Cup; Messi and Mbappe. They didn't disappoint. How incredible it is to have Atlas' responsibility and not hesitate. It was Coman's turn. The one who brought France back to life with his rebellion, but who found the most fearsome and unpleasant version of the Argentine goalkeeper: PK Mode Dibu. He’s a cerebral parasite. Rude, cunning, arrogant... brilliant. Coman's shot was saved.
It was for La Joya (the jewel) Dybala. The Peter Pan-faced wonder who was subbed in in the final minutes of extra time with the sole job of hitting the biggest shot of his life. He didn’t miss.
The pressure was increasing for Tchouaméni. Another youngster who has been forced to grow on the field by leaps and bounds. First, to fill Casemiro's void at Real Madrid, and in the national team to replace Kanté. What he has in talent, he lacks in experience. PK Mode Dibu intimidated him enough to send his shot out wide of the goal. Every hero (Messi) has a despicable ally (Martinez) that is crucial in their path to victory.
Paredes scored his goal and Muani too—although it didn’t have the same weight as the one he could have scored in the dying moments of extra time had Dibu not saved it.
It was Montiel's time. The one who with his forearm had given the agonizing tie to France, had the opportunity to turn that agony into euphoria, into a cry of glory that 45 million Argentinians dreamed of and that hundreds of millions more were clamoring for. They all wanted justice for the sport’s biggest athlete (Messi).
Right footed shot towards the left crossing Lloris. Goal. Goal. GOOOOOL! Argentina world champion.
Decíme, decíme lo que se siente
Decíme Argentino cómo es ser campeón.
Lionel the sun
Football gives us days like this. A coronation after an epic battle. These are the days that validate why we love this sport—why the cheers of victory and the tears of defeat are multigenerational and omnipresent. Football at its best is a microcosm of what we live in. The pitch is our Milky Way—spectacular—but largely insignificant in the context of our infinite universe. But it's our galaxy. And all galaxies have a star that defines it. Our star is Lionel Messi.
Him. The one who does not want to be deified, but who has millions from Argentina to Bangladesh at his feet. The one that created a shortage of the color Celeste Azul Pantone 7688 C. The one that with a smile becomes the mirror of our fantasies. The one who even had Mario Gotze, his 2014 executioner, celebrating divine justice. The one that this Real Madrid fan reluctantly smiled at whenever we faced off against him in El Clásico. Life is too short to ignore greatness.
The magic of the mundane
Recently, someone told me this: The magic of life is ensuring the mundane never ceases to be interesting.
This is the mundane: 22 men on a 105 x 68m pitch, kicking a 450g ball made of polyurethane and polyester from Indonesia, running for more than 90 minutes, with the sole objective of putting it in a rectangle of 7.3 x 2.44m with a drawn line that instills in all of us that life is a game of millimeters.
This is the interesting: 22 men who have given more than 20,000 hours of their lives, away from their villages and families, in a constant turbulence of whistles, insults, and racist chants, surviving surgeries that would rob many of the desire to live. These men who draw curves and straight lines with their feet, who with their legs keep the entire profession of cardiologists employed. 22 men whose goals generate a global butterfly effect. Emotions can be teleported.
Football moves us because it is a microcosm of humanity. It's beauty and bestiality. A magical game, but also full of dark arts and blood on its cleats.
Yes. The World Cup was bought with petrodollars. Yes. Thousands of workers died (far more than reported) and thousands of others with kidnapped passports so that they can’t leave. Yes. We have to be aware that Amir Nasr'Azadani is going to die because of a regime that prohibits women from dancing like Brazilians. Yes. We have an unequal and sexist game that forgets that the art of eliciting these incredible emotions has no gender (see Brazil vs. the United States in 2011).
This should hurt us like when Mbappe drew, or when Montiel scored the winning penalty (if you were pro-France). But of all the lessons of football, this is the one I embrace the most: Living accepting the duality of life, feeling everything, making the mundane interesting, and never forgetting that glory is due to the sacrifices more so than the achievement.
Long live football!
