In Defense Of the World Cup

Modern journalism delivers once again. Mediocre officiating, team dissent, under performance, migraine-inducing vuvuzelas, the Jabulani, Oscar-caliber diving, poor sportsmanship, and the death of Zenani Mandela.

The World Cup is a carcass of its former self. Too many overpaid, prima donnas and jaded young men who play for club teams ways away from their own country coerced into this commercial-oriented, quadrennial tournament, people say. Patriotism is dead.

How much as the game changed since Uruguay took the inaugural cup 80 years ago? Everything, some would say. Today's football has been surgically enhanced. In the 90 minute commercial that is the World Cup, one sees two pairs of boots. The black and yellow Adidas, and the silver and orange Nikes (funnily enough, this is quite ironic. You see, in the old game, the one with the flamboyant cleats was usually the best player on the pitch and wore them to stand out. A nonconforming bad ass, if you will. But now everyone wears them, so...).

A far cry from Copas. The Jabulani ball is molded to perfection (though many players disagree). Stars from their European clubs slide smoothly on the manicured green without regard for their knees, their arms raised in narcissism. Two, four, eight scissors from Robinho while his defender is unfazed. And oh , the diving. The above are the reasons why you get such an aversion to the sport and these YouTube wars: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1F4hrnWb5IA .

But there is an alternative view, a deviation from Mean World Theory. This past month, I saw 32 nations compete. Thirty-two nations that have been waiting for the world's greatest tournament that is beyond salary, GDP, heads of state, statistics, media, Nike and Adidas.

I experience worldliness, when national anthems sung by sobered fans and awed players shush even the hornet-like clamor of the vuvuzelas, when Premier League veterans exchange jerseys with unknown first-timers from domestic leagues after a hard-fought 90-minute match.

I gasp and sigh at crossbar-rattling shots and 70-yard goal kicks and physics-defying and sine wave-emulating crosses. Do you need more? Look toward Dani Alves, after Brazil's loss to the Netherlands. Look at Diego Forlan's cutthroat style, Xavi's composure, Casillas' control, Gyan's nerve.

It is easy to be jaded. After all, do countries vie for World Cup home-field advantage to bring these emotions to their people? Probably not. The World Cup is a resource in itself, a month-long stream of revenue to stabilize economies.

It is an attraction for foreigners to leave their money there. But there is more. For us, it is moment. It is ephemeral and sublime. And the spectrum of emotions that you weather, though paler than those of the player, is reason enough to watch the World Cup unfold.
    
I am sorry if you scoff at the United States' quarterfinal run or the delicate dramatics of footballers or the implosion of France or at football. But you would not scoff if you were standing in the entrance hall of Johannesburg's Soccer City Stadium, across from Sneijder, Villa, and Xavi ten minutes before the final today.