What a bummer of a night. I’m back from vacation, and I’ve found myself suddenly invested in the World Cup. You may be shocked to learn that I’ve never been particularly invested in sports, but being with M.R. Barrett & family this past week has meant a pretty constant exposure to soccer matches. Not that this is even typical for them: Mama’s only just gotten into it this year, and has henceforth infected the rest of the family with her fanaticism.
Which has somehow included me as well. Watching Paraguay vs. France disturbed me deeply, since the Paraguayans acted so genuinely foul that I was forced to root for France. As a consequence, my official List of Grievances has been altered significantly: the nation of Paraguay replacing the nation of France in the no. 1 spot. Not even I could enjoy watching Frenchmen get punched in the face under these circumstances. The mind-boggling barbarism that was displayed on the field during that match made me actually feel empathy for French people, which is a sin worse than being French.
England will also have to take a place on my List of Grievances, for reasons that I will admit are grossly personal. I had the privilege of being invited to M.R.’s girlfriend’s house for a Mexico vs. England watchparty tonight, and the position of being one of three gringos in a living room filled with Mexicans rooting for their native country and losing a game that close has permanently altered my brain chemistry. Being able to have a clear enough mind to concentrate solely on the game was a totally new experience for me. As was horchata and authentic tacos. Being full of food that good, being in such good company, and being able to feel the energies of the room as Jesús Gallardo fumbled every goddamn pass he got was indescribable. Watching as the youngest boy ran to his mom’s arms in the last hopeless minute broke something in me, then quickly mended it.
There’s a lot in this life that I have no idea about. The ability to be affected so greatly by a soccer match must be a pseudo-religious experience, in the sense that I imagine it to be unexplainable to a non-believer. Before, there was as much proof of soccer in my life as there was proof of God. Now I have seen the turf. I have seen TV images of grown men–players and fans alike–weeping at a World Cup loss; I have stood in the doorway and seen myself with a Mexican flag painted on each of my cheeks, screaming and clapping with the rest of the room as Mexico made excellent use of their penalty kick; I have seen the father of M.R.’s girlfriend turn to us and say, “Well, in four years…”
When I got back to M.R.’s house, I did trust exercises with my pet hermit crab Ronnie and thought about my belief in God–or lack thereof. Soccer has never been inaccessible to me. In fact, I was signed up for it when I was about four years old. All I did then was walk back and forth across the field kicking cones over. Maybe that’s all I’ve done in church, too. I thought Pastor Greg’s words had reached my brain deep enough for me to interpret, contemplate, and ultimately reject the presence of God in my life, but maybe not. Maybe I needed to give it another go.
I held my hand in front of Ronnie and watched him turn away. I thought about how impossible it would be to live at his size and put my trust in a creature as big and ugly as me. I reached out to reposition him, and as I grabbed his shell, he curled up in fright. After I let him down, I waited for him to reemerge and set my hand in front of him again.
He got a little closer, but still scurried by me. Next time, he climbed over the tips of my fingers to get past. Then he climbed into my palm. He let me raise him up to my chest as I walked him back to his unfortunate boardwalk-bought enclosure. He would walk to the edge of my hand, and I would hold up my free digits under him, continuing his fleshy bridge.
He had a faith in me to keep unfolding new ground under him. So much faith that he never even slowed his crawl. Eventually, I let him down onto his wooden log and watched as he scurried down the side. He crawled under it, burrowed in the corner, and disappeared into his shell.
We’ll see how effective this was for our relationship tomorrow after the ride back to my house. We’ll also see how I come to internalize this series of events–including a good deal you, dear reader, do not know about. I’m already mentally prepared for a taxing spiritual voyage, and thinking about my possible guides. Leonard Cohen is always on the table, as is Pastor Greg.
Anyway, don’t expect a pivot to sports journalism. I’ve never left the realm of the spiritual, for good or ill. Hermit crab journalism may be on the table, though.
¡Viva México!
- Tyler