World Cup runneth over
Today France supporters hang their heads in shame.
Oh how I have veered from my sport-free life in South Africa! I will now even offer you my socio-political theory. See, both countries were looking to win for a symbol of unification to take back to their unsettled motherlands. Italy and its soccer scandal and other corruptions, France and it racism and social upheaval.
I’m sure you could draw this inference about many a country that played in the world cup. But the prosaicness of these two European greats meeting in the final at a time where the ideal of Europa seems to move further down the horizon of a flat Earth, was too hard to resist.
Ultimately Italy repeated their 1982 victory, uniting despite outside criticism, being fuelled by strife [you know you can’t believe that sentence just came out of my mouth]. Some have claimed this is the only way Italy can win a game.
But possibly on a greater cosmological scale, Italy was ready for a symbol of unification, whereas France was not. Possibly it would still have been an empty symbol for France, possibly the thirst wasn’t strong enough, possibly there hasn’t been enough reform to validate a success.
Still, I wonder what could have provoked such a reaction from Zidane?
So, with a cloying sense of disappointment, you’ll be far more pleased that my subsequent behavior was far more in line with character: We went to a bar and drank tequila and draft.
Yet another scrubbed, air-conditioned and smoky sports bar with hordes of whores and a cover band. This cover band was actually pretty good besides their falsetto version of Bon Jovi. They’re billed as more alternative and rock than the others and did some pretty convincing renditions of Offspring and Limp Bizkit. The beer kicked in, the mood softened and eventually I was even persuaded to unleash my booty on the dance floor. Yes, the secret’s out: My ass-shaking has been seen in Bahrain.
What killed the social voyeur in me last night was all the GI’s passionately miming out, singing along as though their hearts were on fire, the slow songs to their whores. Especially after reading Palahniuk’s story about guys who got rich by dressing up in drag, singing Celine Dion and charging $50 a punch. They also got brain damage.
Besides, some perspective again on the silly pointlessness of sport: Two wall-sized screens mutely displaying the good ol’ Supersport commentators sitting in their polar fleece tops drinking coffee from a canteen and eating koeksisters, running through every high point in the French team’s lead up to the final (one would swear they misunderstood who the winner was, trust South Africa to glorify the underdog).
And on the way home I quipped, “So, what do people do in Bahrain when there’s no soccer?”. Cos that’s all I’ve done since I’ve been here – gone to watch the soccer with people. They laughed, then looked around at each other for assistance, but didn’t find an answer for me.
Oh how I have veered from my sport-free life in South Africa! I will now even offer you my socio-political theory. See, both countries were looking to win for a symbol of unification to take back to their unsettled motherlands. Italy and its soccer scandal and other corruptions, France and it racism and social upheaval.
I’m sure you could draw this inference about many a country that played in the world cup. But the prosaicness of these two European greats meeting in the final at a time where the ideal of Europa seems to move further down the horizon of a flat Earth, was too hard to resist.
Ultimately Italy repeated their 1982 victory, uniting despite outside criticism, being fuelled by strife [you know you can’t believe that sentence just came out of my mouth]. Some have claimed this is the only way Italy can win a game.
But possibly on a greater cosmological scale, Italy was ready for a symbol of unification, whereas France was not. Possibly it would still have been an empty symbol for France, possibly the thirst wasn’t strong enough, possibly there hasn’t been enough reform to validate a success.
Still, I wonder what could have provoked such a reaction from Zidane?
So, with a cloying sense of disappointment, you’ll be far more pleased that my subsequent behavior was far more in line with character: We went to a bar and drank tequila and draft.
Yet another scrubbed, air-conditioned and smoky sports bar with hordes of whores and a cover band. This cover band was actually pretty good besides their falsetto version of Bon Jovi. They’re billed as more alternative and rock than the others and did some pretty convincing renditions of Offspring and Limp Bizkit. The beer kicked in, the mood softened and eventually I was even persuaded to unleash my booty on the dance floor. Yes, the secret’s out: My ass-shaking has been seen in Bahrain.
What killed the social voyeur in me last night was all the GI’s passionately miming out, singing along as though their hearts were on fire, the slow songs to their whores. Especially after reading Palahniuk’s story about guys who got rich by dressing up in drag, singing Celine Dion and charging $50 a punch. They also got brain damage.
Besides, some perspective again on the silly pointlessness of sport: Two wall-sized screens mutely displaying the good ol’ Supersport commentators sitting in their polar fleece tops drinking coffee from a canteen and eating koeksisters, running through every high point in the French team’s lead up to the final (one would swear they misunderstood who the winner was, trust South Africa to glorify the underdog).
And on the way home I quipped, “So, what do people do in Bahrain when there’s no soccer?”. Cos that’s all I’ve done since I’ve been here – gone to watch the soccer with people. They laughed, then looked around at each other for assistance, but didn’t find an answer for me.
posted by Nadine at 8:51 AM
2 Comments:
Nadine?
Football?
I am reminded of the Paul Coelho novel where the spanish kid travels the world, only to discover that what he really needed was at home all along..
Go spanish kid, go!
Yes, all right Onree. At least I haven't started following Gwyneth Paltrow's reading list!
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