Memories in life represent who we are, and where we’ve come from. Some of my deepest memories are as clear to me now as the day they occurred. It is amazing for me to talk about one of the most memorable moments of my life.
Sport, something that can mean different things to all of us, to me, sports is life. I love the anticipation, the excitement, the pressure, the mystery, the heroes, and the villains. But most of all, I love the memories.
Being 20-years-old from Toronto (and a hometown supporter) I had never experienced a championship for the team I rooted for (Other than Canadian Olympic hockey gold in '02 of course). In ‘93 I was five, and although I do remember waking up in front of the TV after Joe Carter did his thing, the memory is too vague to truly appreciate.
Fast forward.
June 9, 2006. One of the best memories of my life.
It was a warm summer afternoon in southern Ontario, that part I knew. What I didn’t know, was that my “fan” life was about to change forever.
It was five minutes after the start of the World Cup final and I was in a car on my way to a buddy’s house, man was I pissed. Missing the beginning of an important game is like missing the playoffs three consecutive years in a row (Leafs, cough, cough). It sucks, and is something no true sports fan should ever have to endure.
Practically ripping off my seat belt, I grabbed my bottle of rum and ran for the front door. Throwing my shoes to the corner I ran downstairs where the others were gathered. The look on my Italian friend’s face said it all.
But, how? The game was five minutes old, how could Italy be losing? I sat down to see the replay of Zinidine Zidane’s casual penalty goal, that was awarded after Florent Malouda’s blatant dive.
My heart sank.
The other non-Italian supporters in the room couldn’t have been happier. Of course, none of them were French, but that didn’t matter. Italy’s soccer team is what the Yankees are to baseball, either you love them or hate them.
So in total, there were two Italian supporters in a room of ten. Although we are all friends, on that afternoon we were deeply divided. Watching the game in enemy territory made the fear of losing even worse. The constant barrage of jeers we faced only made me more hungry to watch Italy win it all. Settling in to my chair, I realized the only way to deal with these pack of wolves was to ignore them and talk the high road.
I cracked open my bottle of Bacardi and poured a drink for the Azzurri supporters. Settling in to my chair the nerves began to set in.
Those same nerves began to subside as Italy went fiercely onto the attack. Andrea Pirlo and Gennaro Gattuso began to set the tone for the Italians. The pressure had soon resulted in a corner kick at the 18 minute mark of the first half.
Pirlo, possibly the team’s best player all tournament (and dead ball specialist) walked over to take the corner kick. Placing the ball on his mark and taking a glance at the field he had to work with, the Italian took aim.
At first, the ball reached its apex and from my view it appeared as if the cross was too strong. Passing over nearly everyone, the ball found the head of central defender Marco Matterazzi—and then the back of the net.
Italy 1 France 1.
Leaping to our feet my friend and I celebrated and embraced each other in this moment of ecstasy. Flailing around like two children, we screamed and yelled in support of our team.
Taking the high road? Well, we may have wondered off that path a bit.
Trash talking our way through the next several minutes made everything seem okay again. We were back on level footing. The game had finally begun.
With this newly found momentum, the Italians really began putting pressure on the French. Moments after Matterazzi’s goal, Pirlo again had a chance to etch his name in to World Cup history.
Almost an exact replica of his initial corner, Pirlo sent the ball gracefully through the German air. Striker Luca Toni fought his way through a maze of French defenders and jumped.
Meeting head to ball, the Italian sent a dangerous shot towards the net. Almost in slow motion the ball struck the bar and went out of play. In unison, every France supporter worldwide breathed a sigh of relief.
Half-time.
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