I like me some world cups

I know what you’re thinking: he likes the jazzy uniforms and swarthy gentlemen running around, hugging and kissing each other after 50 minutes of nothingness.


You’re right.

They just do it with so much style. I like that the clock doesn’t stop. I like that the referees are so infallible and moody. I admire the endurance of the players. I like that I can finally saddle up to a bar, chug a “brewski” and -- for once -- bullshit about a sport or a player or a score with someone. True, I’m drooling over my Stella, but at least I’m there.
I like how emotional the players get. Like that defeated player who openly weeps on the field at the end of the game. He’s so upset, he can’t even get his jersey off. Some handsome lad from the opposing team goes up and consoles him, helping him take the shirt off. It’s so Brian’s Song-meets-Ambercrombie.

My love for the game goes way back: in Spain during the 2006 world cup, the entire country shut down during their games. Everyone sat and stood frozen in tapas bars, gazing at screens. The waiter couldn’t even slide me a plate of olives. My lesbian roommates in Madrid threw a world cup party and explained the game to me, while shouting obscenities at the TV. Four years later, I’m a pro. Now, seeing a player like David Villa, I can understand the obsession. I hope Spain wins. They deserve it over uber-smug Germany. Spain really needs the ego boost. They haven’t really been successful since that Americas/conquistador thing awhile back.