Never Forget World Cup 2010
Uno
July 11th. If there is one day I could never forget, it would be July 11th.
What had brought together nations across the globe in festivity and national spirit was coming to a close- and when it did, one country would go home clutching gold and sobbing tears of pride and joy while everyone else would go home exhausted and let down- yet still happy they could be part of something so beautiful. They played for the title of ‘Word Cup Champions’. Yes, the Word Cup was coming to an end, and although it brought tears to my eyes, I could not help but impatiently watch the clock, praying for one thirty to come faster.
The two countries left standing were Spain and Holland, and although Spain was the favorite, the Dutch were on a roll. Wesley Sneijder had scored five goals so far. Holland made it to two other World Cup finals yet never won, but third time’s the charm. Nonetheless, I was still rooting for Spain. There was no doubt in my mind they would win- I could just feel it.
The game starts, small figures darting around the screen, commentators’ words ringing in my head, “Maybe they (Holland) can pull off another goal.”
Green grass, shining from the lighting, fans roared over the sounds of the game, the commentators never stop talking.
Spain pushes forward, getting caught with a quick offside courtesy of David Villa, the Spanish Wesley Sneijder.
Free kick, almost a goal, the commentators are still talking nonsense.
“Netherlands 2, Spain 0." They predict, but I know they’ll be wrong.
My heart beats at an unsteady pace, the room spins, the players run, and nothing ever changes.
They run, I watch intently, Spain almost scores and then- it doesn’t go in.
And still the commentators talk. I wonder if they would ever say something positive.
"I'm picking the Dutch 3-2." The second commentator inputs and I speculate if he knew how wrong he was at that moment.
Holland starts to find their feet on a free kick, taken by none other than Sneijder.
My eyes have no room for anything other than the small figures on my screen.
A vicious kick aimed at the goal, and I can’t bear to look, can’t stand the clutching of my heart at the thought of the ball bouncing behind the line, cannot stomach the image of Holland celebrating their first goal- one that puts them one ahead, that much closer to the shining golden ball reserved for champion- but fortunately Iker Casillas saves the ball, and I realize why exactly we call him San Iker.
In less than seven minutes, four yellow cards have been dished out, two for Holland two for Spain.
During the ref’s scoldings I take time to think.
Think about the commentators- who are actually making sense now- thinking about the team; speculate about what this win would do for Spain.
I also take time to scan the crowd and eye the fans, national support heavy in the air.
There are shirts, face paint, glasses, hats, banners- everything, and I notice the difference in the people.
Color, hair, age, ethnicity- it’s all jumbled together for the beautiful game, and I smile.
But of course nothing lasts longs, because I tune back into reality just as a flying cleat is connected with the chest of Spanish midfielder Xabi Alonso- who flies backwards as the ref rushed forward, hopefully for a red card.
Yet this ref seems to hold only yellows as he simply throws a bright lemon colored card in the air and stomps away as Alonso is escorted off the field.
Everyone is angry now- the Dutch at the Spanish’s harsh words and the Spanish for the deadly foot that aimed it’s self nowhere near the ball, resulting in one of the best midfielders in Spain going down and out, the fans at the ref, the ref at the boos- no one is cheering anymore.
Things calm down long enough for the game to continue.
Another almost-goal, freezing my heart and bouncing back at the keeper who just barely manages to haul it in, once again brining up his honorary title of Saint Iker.
The game continues, the fans chant, the commentators commentate useless information, the ref does nothing of great use and the Dutch manage to stop basically every move the Spanish make yet make none themselves.
A series of great defense later, its halftime and I breathe out a sigh of relief, because I don't have to worry about Sneijder sneaking up on the goal, or Robben sliding past the defense, or someone kicking someone in the chest.
Some days, I think being a fútbol fan is the toughest job in the world, solely because of injury.
When you idolize someone enough to spend hundreds of dollars onto a shirt with their name on it, and tune in to every single ninety plus minute game, injury hits you just as hard as it does the player.
It's hard to watch the game and not worry about injury- especially in La Copa del Mundo.
Halftime flies by faster than I thought possible, and I sit through moment after antagonizing moment of almost goals and penalties, fouls and yellow card- which there seem to a plethora of- and just when I think nothing could happen, the ball comes flying in between two defenders and curves by, only needing one sharp kick to end the dreams of Spain.
The shot came barreling down, barely feet inside the goal box.
My breath caught.
The world froze.
Eyes wide, breathing stopped and nothing to do but watch Robben toe the ball by, able to crush the aspirations of a whole nation with just one little shove- and Casillas gets there first, nudging the ball by just barely as it curves away and rolls to a stop mere feet from the side netting of the goal.
I could feel the fans let out a sigh.
The commentators are back to normal; the breeze picks back up, the Spanish players' shoulders drooping in alleviation because that was not then end.
Push, shove, foul, fall, fake, dive, trip, pull.
It's all on the pitch, left and right in the last few minutes.
Yellow card, substitute, glares, attempts at goal.
All of it on the pitch in the last few desperate minutes.
All in vain though, because it goes to extra time.
More fouling, more yelling, more altercations, more accusations.
15 shots for Spain, and still no goal.
Hope dwindles and yet the cheering grows loudly, trying to revive the boys from their stupor, anything to move the attention from foul play to goals.
Red card for the Dutch, still no goal, fury and anger roam the field.
Nothing anyone can do will make these next minutes anything less than illegal play.
"Please, not another final decided on penalties."
For once the commentator commentates something we can all agree on.
He has voiced the thoughts of the fans in the stands, the fans at home on the couch, the fans at Plaza de España, Madrid, in Holland, in the pubs, the thoughts of the coaches, the players, the ref- everyone.
We, as the fans, pray for a miracle, for something to end the agony of wait and hope.
We wait for someone to end the dreams of a whole country.
We wait for the World Cup to end.
But our prayers have been answered, because on the hundred sixteenth minute, Cesc Fabregas makes a beautiful pass to Andres Iniesta, who in turn gracefully blows the ball over the goalie, landing on his feet in anticipation as the ball soars- no one can stop it.
Seconds turn to minutes turn to hours turn to days.
We wait for the result.
The commentators are at it again, but I don't hear.
My ears have place only for the sound of a net swishing around a ball, the cries of joy and the screams of accomplishment that accompany a fútbol pitch.
And suddenly, speed regains control of time and the ball is behind the line, shot to the back of the net with the force of a hurricane, and we all know that history has been made for Spain- we have won.
Across the pitch, Iker Casillas is crying, tears stream down his face and we know this is it.
Iniesta is running, Cesc is running, the Dutch looks on hopelessly as Iniesta rips off his shirt, the words for a dead friend etched onto his under armour; 'Dani Jarque, Siempre con Nosotros'.
Paired with the message to the departed, the goal is beautiful, graceful and award-winning.
This man is the Man of the Match today- not only for Spain, but for the world.
He runs, and they run, and inside our minds, we all run with him, because he has surely just decided the fate of the World Cup 2010 South Africa.
What had brought together nations across the globe in festivity and national spirit was coming to a close- and when it did, one country would go home clutching gold and sobbing tears of pride and joy while everyone else would go home exhausted and let down- yet still happy they could be part of something so beautiful. They played for the title of ‘Word Cup Champions’. Yes, the Word Cup was coming to an end, and although it brought tears to my eyes, I could not help but impatiently watch the clock, praying for one thirty to come faster.
The two countries left standing were Spain and Holland, and although Spain was the favorite, the Dutch were on a roll. Wesley Sneijder had scored five goals so far. Holland made it to two other World Cup finals yet never won, but third time’s the charm. Nonetheless, I was still rooting for Spain. There was no doubt in my mind they would win- I could just feel it.
The game starts, small figures darting around the screen, commentators’ words ringing in my head, “Maybe they (Holland) can pull off another goal.”
Green grass, shining from the lighting, fans roared over the sounds of the game, the commentators never stop talking.
Spain pushes forward, getting caught with a quick offside courtesy of David Villa, the Spanish Wesley Sneijder.
Free kick, almost a goal, the commentators are still talking nonsense.
“Netherlands 2, Spain 0." They predict, but I know they’ll be wrong.
My heart beats at an unsteady pace, the room spins, the players run, and nothing ever changes.
They run, I watch intently, Spain almost scores and then- it doesn’t go in.
And still the commentators talk. I wonder if they would ever say something positive.
"I'm picking the Dutch 3-2." The second commentator inputs and I speculate if he knew how wrong he was at that moment.
Holland starts to find their feet on a free kick, taken by none other than Sneijder.
My eyes have no room for anything other than the small figures on my screen.
A vicious kick aimed at the goal, and I can’t bear to look, can’t stand the clutching of my heart at the thought of the ball bouncing behind the line, cannot stomach the image of Holland celebrating their first goal- one that puts them one ahead, that much closer to the shining golden ball reserved for champion- but fortunately Iker Casillas saves the ball, and I realize why exactly we call him San Iker.
In less than seven minutes, four yellow cards have been dished out, two for Holland two for Spain.
During the ref’s scoldings I take time to think.
Think about the commentators- who are actually making sense now- thinking about the team; speculate about what this win would do for Spain.
I also take time to scan the crowd and eye the fans, national support heavy in the air.
There are shirts, face paint, glasses, hats, banners- everything, and I notice the difference in the people.
Color, hair, age, ethnicity- it’s all jumbled together for the beautiful game, and I smile.
But of course nothing lasts longs, because I tune back into reality just as a flying cleat is connected with the chest of Spanish midfielder Xabi Alonso- who flies backwards as the ref rushed forward, hopefully for a red card.
Yet this ref seems to hold only yellows as he simply throws a bright lemon colored card in the air and stomps away as Alonso is escorted off the field.
Everyone is angry now- the Dutch at the Spanish’s harsh words and the Spanish for the deadly foot that aimed it’s self nowhere near the ball, resulting in one of the best midfielders in Spain going down and out, the fans at the ref, the ref at the boos- no one is cheering anymore.
Things calm down long enough for the game to continue.
Another almost-goal, freezing my heart and bouncing back at the keeper who just barely manages to haul it in, once again brining up his honorary title of Saint Iker.
The game continues, the fans chant, the commentators commentate useless information, the ref does nothing of great use and the Dutch manage to stop basically every move the Spanish make yet make none themselves.
A series of great defense later, its halftime and I breathe out a sigh of relief, because I don't have to worry about Sneijder sneaking up on the goal, or Robben sliding past the defense, or someone kicking someone in the chest.
Some days, I think being a fútbol fan is the toughest job in the world, solely because of injury.
When you idolize someone enough to spend hundreds of dollars onto a shirt with their name on it, and tune in to every single ninety plus minute game, injury hits you just as hard as it does the player.
It's hard to watch the game and not worry about injury- especially in La Copa del Mundo.
Halftime flies by faster than I thought possible, and I sit through moment after antagonizing moment of almost goals and penalties, fouls and yellow card- which there seem to a plethora of- and just when I think nothing could happen, the ball comes flying in between two defenders and curves by, only needing one sharp kick to end the dreams of Spain.
The shot came barreling down, barely feet inside the goal box.
My breath caught.
The world froze.
Eyes wide, breathing stopped and nothing to do but watch Robben toe the ball by, able to crush the aspirations of a whole nation with just one little shove- and Casillas gets there first, nudging the ball by just barely as it curves away and rolls to a stop mere feet from the side netting of the goal.
I could feel the fans let out a sigh.
The commentators are back to normal; the breeze picks back up, the Spanish players' shoulders drooping in alleviation because that was not then end.
Push, shove, foul, fall, fake, dive, trip, pull.
It's all on the pitch, left and right in the last few minutes.
Yellow card, substitute, glares, attempts at goal.
All of it on the pitch in the last few desperate minutes.
All in vain though, because it goes to extra time.
More fouling, more yelling, more altercations, more accusations.
15 shots for Spain, and still no goal.
Hope dwindles and yet the cheering grows loudly, trying to revive the boys from their stupor, anything to move the attention from foul play to goals.
Red card for the Dutch, still no goal, fury and anger roam the field.
Nothing anyone can do will make these next minutes anything less than illegal play.
"Please, not another final decided on penalties."
For once the commentator commentates something we can all agree on.
He has voiced the thoughts of the fans in the stands, the fans at home on the couch, the fans at Plaza de España, Madrid, in Holland, in the pubs, the thoughts of the coaches, the players, the ref- everyone.
We, as the fans, pray for a miracle, for something to end the agony of wait and hope.
We wait for someone to end the dreams of a whole country.
We wait for the World Cup to end.
But our prayers have been answered, because on the hundred sixteenth minute, Cesc Fabregas makes a beautiful pass to Andres Iniesta, who in turn gracefully blows the ball over the goalie, landing on his feet in anticipation as the ball soars- no one can stop it.
Seconds turn to minutes turn to hours turn to days.
We wait for the result.
The commentators are at it again, but I don't hear.
My ears have place only for the sound of a net swishing around a ball, the cries of joy and the screams of accomplishment that accompany a fútbol pitch.
And suddenly, speed regains control of time and the ball is behind the line, shot to the back of the net with the force of a hurricane, and we all know that history has been made for Spain- we have won.
Across the pitch, Iker Casillas is crying, tears stream down his face and we know this is it.
Iniesta is running, Cesc is running, the Dutch looks on hopelessly as Iniesta rips off his shirt, the words for a dead friend etched onto his under armour; 'Dani Jarque, Siempre con Nosotros'.
Paired with the message to the departed, the goal is beautiful, graceful and award-winning.
This man is the Man of the Match today- not only for Spain, but for the world.
He runs, and they run, and inside our minds, we all run with him, because he has surely just decided the fate of the World Cup 2010 South Africa.
♠ ♠ ♠
I gave serious writing a shot.