Thank God for the World Cup.

Let’s get the cliché out of the way. I DO remember England winning the World Cup. I was 6 years old, and my Father let me watch the game on a Saturday afternoon. He wasn’t a great Soccer fan, but realised the importance of the game in general, but especially for a boy of my age. For many quadrennial tournaments after that, the growing excitement game by game, round by round as our beloved ‘boys’ advanced to their usual quarter final exit always made me wonder what on earth was it like in 1966, when we hosted and won it all.

 In 1970, the West Germans were revenged with an extra time 3-2 win that just destroyed both my best friend and I when we inexplicably watched the entire game on a Saturday night live from Mexico. In the other two tournaments of that decade, we didn’t even qualify showing that the lazy, strike ridden workforce of other industries in pre-Thatcher days was mirrored by our national team. In Germany in 1974, Holland finally beat Brazil in a heart-stopping quarter final, before being stopped cold by a West German team in the final. Four years later, they once again failed at the final obstacle by an equally uninspiring Argentina in Buenos Aries. See? There was nothing wrong with winning at home – everyone did it. That was the Scottish decade, when the fiery blue shirts suddenly became British as a substitute for us at the World Cup.

 Even  when I outgrew everything I  the 80’s, I followed the World Cup: England robbed by a shaky tournament structure in Spain, when they never lost, but didn’t score enough to get to the semi-finals – Bloody Argentina! In 1986, the same country did for us in the quarter finals with two goals – one, the most sublime exhibition of solo skills I have ever seen, the other a blatant foul, that made us hate the Argies more than the Falkland conflict. Only my World travels, and the onset of my thirties quenched the fire for following the tourney in Italy and The States, but I still caught the semi final against Germany in a bar in Juneau Alaska, an watched the new English disease take root – the lack of penalty scoring. By 1998, I was back. Argentina again! This time we didn’t even reach the usual round-of-8. 2002, and Brazil did for us at the usual round in Japan. Four years ago, Portugal scored more than we did from the penalty spot in the quarters again.

 Now, here we are again. On public transit, the shirts of the nations surround me, and whispers of teams they were going to lose to are being passed around. For a country of immigrants, to still be able to support the flag is something like a guilty pleasure. Where and when else would I be able to pit a soccer shirt on for work and put these words into a sentence, and have it make sense: “ O.K. Boys – hammer three past Algeria”

 Eleven tournaments and counting, and another country that I’m a part of understand the significance of fleeting global competition and the hope of domination, even if they don’t get the game. A chance to get past the quarterfinals, and no Germany or Argentina in our way. Thank God it’s back.