The Countdown or Fever

Well it is that time of year, I mean every four years, where the Main girls (Cara and I) get all excited and silly over 11 guys. No I am not talking about my infamous harem (that is dwindling slowly by the way). I am talking the sweaty, dirty, but somehow classy 11 men on a grassy field called a pitch, running about, zagging this way and that into my heart for the next month or so. It is world cup time again, and that means all sorts of things.

1. SIBLING RIVALRY Sibling clashes over which team will (or should) win. Cara (the rock) and I (the hard place) always disagree over this issue. I always back Catholic countries. Maybe it is the years I spent at Roberts under the tutelage of Dr. Scott Caton, the music that makes you just want to dance, or maybe it is the beautiful art they make, but Catholic countries like Portugal, Italy, and Spain always have have me staring at the tube with a glowing heart and tense-jawed determination that they will win, despite any indication that losing is creeping up on me. Cara on the other hand is devoted heart, soul, and screaming mouth to the Protestant nations of Germany, England, and the Netherlands. I can't understand how she can't love the flair, passion, skill, and heart warming joy of seeing 11 men cheer, smile, laugh, jump, backflip, nearly have a carnival, etc. when that last whistle sounds initiating the party romping on the field. She cannot understand how I can't appreciate the quiet, humble, understated quasi-celebrations of the stiff-lipped, Protestant players.

2. Reminders of how I fell in love with the game. In 2006, my heart went out to Spain. I loved Spain. They were all fresh-faced and seemed as if they had stars in their eyes when they went into the tournament. I remember the minute that I became obsessed with this sport. It was during the round of 32: Spain vs. Tunisia. For 71 minutes, Spain had been one goal down. Red and white painted Tunisian faces showed little pleasure when in the 71st, Raul scored, bringing the score 1:1. Spain had hope. There was a fury of red and gold faces, freaky hats, old men painted up wearing nothing but their red/goldie tighties, shouting, waving, acting as if it was Christmas in the stands. In the 76th minute, I fell in love with the game. Fernando Torres had a breakaway run and scored. Gliding to his knees in the corner of the field, his teammates belted to his side hugging, cheering, smiling, laughing, and looking as if they were having the best time in their life at that very moment. It was monumental for me. At that moment I had a very startling inner monologue, "Ok. This is weird. Am I smiling? Am I really enjoying this? What is happening to me? I might actually enjoy watching a sport? I am not going to demand that we change the channel and watch something that isn't a 'waste of my time'?"

3. LOVE IS BLIND AND SOMETIMES ANGRY 2006 was a clear disappointment for me. My team, Espana, was out after the round of 16. France, mon petit ennemi détesté, sent my heroes home. At this point, a clear villain was forged in the heat of my disappointment or rage. France, I thorn you. Everything about France at this point was just not good. I was out to get France. They were going to loose, my sheer will would make it so, those arrogant jerks.

I had to switch my team. Who am I going to root for now that Spain was gone? Well I went for England at this point. I had heard of all the glory that is Gary Neville and Wayne Rooney from Cara. I like England. Knights are pretty cool, I guess. England it was. So, I was off to paint my face to resemble the flag of England and shout my heart out for the three lions. Enter Portugal. At this point, present tense, I love Portugal. I struggle to say I like Cristiano Ronaldo, but I love to watch him. I love Simao, Deco, Quaresma, Figo (Figo is past tense), but I love them now. At that point in time, they were dead to me. They weren't going to destroy my new team. Beckham would defeat them singlehandedly, right? Something to that effect. Well, to say the least, any Englishman that is worth his salt could tell you what happened that game. Oh Rooney. I heart you, but temper that temper. Ronaldo, you stinker. Rooney (England) and Ronaldo (Portugal)teammates for Manchester United got into a little tussle, and Rooney got himself red-carded. Ronaldo winked as if he had suckered the ref. Not a good day for Ronaldo, who quickly became the most hated man in Angleterra. Way to go there Ronaldo, smart, real smart. Anyway England, a man down and clearly at a loss, lost. Aaagh.

Admitting defeat, no matter how cheap it was, I now had to find a new backup team for the rest of the tournament. My choices were not that attractive in my mind. I had a bad taste in my mouth. I had to choose between France (boohiss), Italy (who had knocked out USA and Australia with some pretty low moves) Germany (who I think are pretty low energy and statuesque AKA boring) or Portugal. Now I have a love/hate thing for Ronaldo. I liked Simao and Figo, so I now named Portugal the less of four evils. Figo my hopes fall onto your captain's shoulders. Do not let me down. Do not let me down. Well, no surprise here, Figo let me down. Zinedane Zidane scored a goal early on in the game that turned out to be the game clincher.

Oh what is a girl to do? ....Pick another team to pin my hopes on for the remainder of this relentlessly depressing tournament. Who to cheer on...France or Italy? France (boohiss) or Italy? Decidely, without question Italy. Yuck, Italy. I was still pretty mad about the methods they used to defeat the US and Australia. But, what can a girl do? I did appreciate the light-hearted fun that exuded from Gianluigi Buffon's laughter and pats on the back to fellow teammates and competitors alike. Del Piero was promising. I appreciated that even with the lack of skills that he did not have, Gattuso had so much heart to make up for it. Dang it. I hated to say it, but Italy must be my new savior. France will not win...no way will France win.

Enter Marco Materazzi, racist jerk. The use of flustering your opponents by insulting them or getting their anger to take their focus away was a very useful tactic used by Materazzi. He infuriated the always classy and Michael Jordanish Zinedane Zidane. What a shocker that was. I was horrified. At that point, I nearly rooted against Italy. But no. France cannot win. France ousted Spain. They cannot win. Through a stressful rest of the game, overtime, and penalty shots. Italy prevailed.

It was no success. Spain and my backup teams were eliminated every round, but I had a new love. Soccer despite all the disappointment was a new fever for me.

4. ISOLATION What drove me nuts about WC 2006 was the lack of interest in Americans. I finally liked a sport, and no one cared to talk about it with me. I am so sarcastically looking forward to the comments about grass fairies and how soccer isn't even a sport. Blah. Blah Blah Blah... It is Joga Bonito people, the beautiful game. It has grace. It is a fast paced, chess game. It is hearts playing out around the world. It is class. It is strategy. Please catch my fever people.