Thoughts on the 2022 World Cup
How do I count the ways that I have loved this World Cup.
It got us talking. So many of us. About things that, possibly, some of us don’t talk about or think about much:
Migrant Rights. What cost to human life — to the lives of Migrants — to build those stadiums? which Qatar deftly turned back on those who would criticize them. You don’t treat migrants much better, they charged. Deadly channel crossings. Libya. Melilla.
Touché. The Qataris got a point. Us Europeans, we have a pretty terrible record too. So much to be done to improve the ways in which all of us can help the courageous people who long to come to our shores to better both their lives and ours.
Wales. Remember when they were in and we dared to believe that maybe, there was a chance of an upset. The drama of that. The Wales supporter who said she had bought tickets all the way through to the final. The dreamer! I loved her. My friend telling me about being at a show in the West End and beside him and behind him two guys had one eye on the show, the other on the game, comparing notes. He told me that story twice, he loved it so much.
Another friend, German, lamenting that Germany was not going to make it past the group stage. She couldn’t believe it.
Argentina. Beaten by Saudi Arabia. What??
Brazil taken out by Croatia.
Spain, out. Beaten by Morocco.
Morocco!! Wow. History maker. The Trellick Lounge right underneath Trellick Tower here in West London. Cycling by on a chilly evening and seeing the crowds gathered outside to watch. The joy as Morocco kept on winning. The horns blowing all over this part of town when Morocco made it to the semifinals. Cars driving along North Pole Road, flags flying in the wind, fists pumping, music, laughter. It was just fantastic.
A friend describing Golborne Road, a street in West London where, for the longest time both Moroccan and Portuguese communities have lived side by side — falafel and pastel de nata to be enjoyed, literally within feet of each other. On Saturday, December 10, they faced off in the quarter finals.
The drama of that.
Palestine. Free Palestine.
LGBTI. To allow the captains to wear an armband or not.
The beautiful England team taking the knee before every game. How I absolutely loved them for this.
Iranian players choosing not to sing the national anthem in that first game. The extraordinary bravery of that.
And, all of it covered in the news.
The last minute decision to pull the sale of alcohol from the stadiums. Budweiser. “Well, this is awkward.” I loved that too.
And the final. Oh my lord. The magic of that 90 seconds beginning in the 81st minute when the commentators were predicting the end of France, me, home, watching the stands and thinking the Argentinian fans were looking far too relaxed and then a penalty kick changes it all. The outward calm of Lionel Messi. Amazing. The lion heart of Kylian Mbappé.
A cracking goal from Messi in extra time which, had this been a normal game would have suggested that the game was won but then, handball in the penalty box and oh, my lord, here we go again!
When Mbappé went in for that second penalty shot, my heart was beating so fast, I felt like I was taking that kick.
We were all in it. The commentators couldn’t believe it! The excitement all over!!
All over.
Later that evening, coming home from a family supper, the guy who was driving me — us talking about the game. “You know,” he said, “France fought hard. Penalties are all about luck. The skill of the game is the playing of it, and France fought hard.”
“I like Kylian…,” he said, “Mbappé,” he went on. “But, I’m happy for Messi. He is old (“he’s 35,” I interjected), and he said “yes, but the next time he will be too old to play.”
“Did you notice,” he asked me, “did you notice how Black the French team is? When Griezmann went off, there was maybe one white player on the field. It was like an African team was playing for France.”
“Yes,” I said, “I did notice that.” And I noticed too the beautiful diversity of the French supporters in the crowd.
Ah, yes.
The beauty and the possibility of immigration, which brings with it so much talent and so much potential. Parents who come for their children. Their children who grow up to be scientists and movie stars, lawyers and doctors, politicians and football players.
Today though. Back to reality and the distressing news that the British High Court has ruled that the heartless Rwanda policy is actually legal. How they have come to this decision, I do not know.
One day we will figure it out I hope. We can welcome people in ways that protect them and protect our borders. We can find ways for people forced to flee circumstances we can only imagine to rebuild their lives and live out their dreams.
We play better, together.