The Beautiful Game

I've always had an appreciation for sports--the hard work, the dedication, the perseverance, the talent that it requires. But even during my days as a tae kwon do competitor or those when I was captain of the No. 1 cheerleading squad in the archdiocese (my stints on track and field and field hockey teams are negligible but I'll mention them here to display my history in sports) never brought me as much excitement as did my days on the futbol/soccer field.

And nothing--not even my plays on defense or as midfielder--gets me hyped up like the World Cup.

People often make competition on the field a metaphor for the battles they face in life: mentally, spiritually, politically. Italian fans, for example, held up a massive Palestinian flag as an act of solidarity with Palestinians during a game against the Israeli team.

The game also serves national interests--a win somehow instantly elevates a country's place in our universe's hierarchy. The U.S. may be the world's "super power," but Italy, at least in regard to the last World Cup, is the world's soccer power, and that means a lot more to a lot of people. A team of 11+ represents its nation's pride--the team is the country's reputation. But this is not always positive. Players may also be punished for simulated treason, the penalty sometimes a "honor killing."  Recently, Paraguay's Salvador Cabanas was shot in the head in a bar in Mexico, although the motive is not yet known. In 1994, Columbian player Andres Escobar was allegedly assassinated for scoring on his own team, which subsequently lost its game against the U.S.A., and its World Cup bid. There are many other stories of disgrace, murder, and suicide, involving players, owners, referees, and even fans--likely more in futbol than in any other sport. Each incident drives a stake in the seriousness with which the game is taken--and its representation of the brutal perils of life.

Yet, even with these tragic tales, futbol still remains less a war and more a common denominator. Virtually every country or tribe in the world has its own form of the game, and a history in it. A game will pick-up in the streets of the favela--sticks as goal posts, gravel rather than manicured grass--just as swiftly as a ball flying over a hill side in Beitilu, kicked by the town's stalkiest of defenders who kicks up earth with his spike-less sneakers. Older players offering tales of playing shoeless and owning the roughness of the sport; younger hopefuls enhancing advanced acrobatic techniques that take the ball from behind the heels to before the instep to inside the goal. And, of course, there are countries who are better known for their skills on the field than others--but everywhere, someone is playing and someone is good.

And teams are mixed: An English team has a Portuguese player; an American team has a British player, Portugal has a Lebanese player, the French team had an Algerian player. Israelis and Palestinians have even played on the same side.

Fans are mixed too and, when their countries are not represented in the games, their cheering may be mixed. For instance, during the 2006 World Cup, I, a mishmash of Palestinian, Hungarian, and German heritages, living in the U.S., chose France as my team for two particular reasons: 1. There was no Palestinian team in the Cup; and 2. Zinedine Zidane. He, ethnically Algerian and religiously Muslim, was as close to a "brother" as I was going to get; he was my Palestinian. He, on the cusp of retirement, was also the legend who was writing his legacy with his kicks and passes and gestures right before my eyes for a final time--and he signed his memoirs with a headbutt. I was angry, sad, stupified, and proud all at the same time: I didn't want his career to end that way yet I loved him for it--he exemplified the noble Arab man acting and defending when a creep made an insidious remark against his women kinfolk. Yes, Zidane did just fine as my honorary Palestinian.

I could go on for days about the beautiful complexity of this relatively simple game. There is so much to say, so many examples to give--but I won't. For the futbol/soccer narrative is constantly being added to, and I would rather watch, shout, jump, and cheer than worry about trying to catch a blog post up. After all, the world is on the cusp of the next novel in the series, preparing for the 2010 World Cup in South Africa (I'll be in Palestine for most of it :D).

13 days to go...a myriad of metaphors to come, all sure to be beautiful in one form or another.