When I was a kid — hell, who am I kidding? this is still true today — I loved Xmas Eve, The prepping. The expectation. The anticipation. It was enough to keep me up well past midnight, and get up well before dawn. It’s a feeling like no other. But every four years, there’s one thing that surpasses it: the wait for a World Cup Final.
Even as I type those words, I can’t believe we’re here again. For a number of reasons. We’ll stipulate that having a Final so close to Santa’s big night is making me more than a bit unsettled. But the fact that 32 teams have weathered this year’s unique spectacle to compete for the solid gold Gazzaniga design has me vibrating like a fusion energy reactor.
As I draft this, it’s the evening before the third-place match between Morocco and Croatia. Despite being a consolation game, I’m going to be riveted to the screen early tomorrow. The Atlas Lions have exemplified what it means to be a team, and I’ve found I can’t watch them enough. Every player on the pitch contributed to every result. They were focused on sticking to their defensive gameplan. And they took their opportunities as they came. It’s been fascinating to watch such a defensive-minded squad completely fluster perennial world powers. They deserve every accolade and as much attention as this year’s England or German or, hell, even Brazil got. Morocco’s run has been inspired, eye-opening, and (I hope) revolutionary for The Beautiful Game.
Croatia will bring their tried-and-true, hard-nosed, midfield-driven style to this match, putting a more dogged and experienced side up against the feel-good story of the tournament. While I appreciate their play (and the legacy of Luka Modrić), it’s hard for me to want them to succeed. It’s not a style I usually enjoy, and I’m already smitten with Morocco. But I have to give them credit. To get into the last four, both this year and in 2018 where they played for The Cup, is a laudable achievement for a country of just over 4 million.
And then there is Sunday. I’m not going to spend any time trying to share my thoughts about each team, pretending to be impartial. I can’t do it. With this much Italian heritage in me, there’s no way I can root for France. Never mind the fact that I’m dying to see Messi win his first Cup; one, because he deserves it, and two, because I hope it will forever put to rest the debate about who’s the better footballer, him or a certain Português.
Between now and the final whistle on Sunday, everyone is going to have an opinion. And a hope. And that inexplicable urge for something they’ve waited so long for to finally happen, while simultaneously wishing the end never comes so that the possibilities never end. But I know we can’t have it both ways. The match will kick off, goals will be scored, and one team will be named campione del mondo. And I’ll spend every waking hour between now and then with a smile on my face, thinking about how much I love this game.
Get on the Snake
16 December 2022
Present tense.
When I was a kid — hell, who am I kidding? this is still true today — I loved Xmas Eve, The prepping. The expectation. The anticipation. It was enough to keep me up well past midnight, and get up well before dawn. It’s a feeling like no other. But every four years, there’s one thing that surpasses it: the wait for a World Cup Final.
Even as I type those words, I can’t believe we’re here again. For a number of reasons. We’ll stipulate that having a Final so close to Santa’s big night is making me more than a bit unsettled. But the fact that 32 teams have weathered this year’s unique spectacle to compete for the solid gold Gazzaniga design has me vibrating like a fusion energy reactor.
As I draft this, it’s the evening before the third-place match between Morocco and Croatia. Despite being a consolation game, I’m going to be riveted to the screen early tomorrow. The Atlas Lions have exemplified what it means to be a team, and I’ve found I can’t watch them enough. Every player on the pitch contributed to every result. They were focused on sticking to their defensive gameplan. And they took their opportunities as they came. It’s been fascinating to watch such a defensive-minded squad completely fluster perennial world powers. They deserve every accolade and as much attention as this year’s England or German or, hell, even Brazil got. Morocco’s run has been inspired, eye-opening, and (I hope) revolutionary for The Beautiful Game.
Croatia will bring their tried-and-true, hard-nosed, midfield-driven style to this match, putting a more dogged and experienced side up against the feel-good story of the tournament. While I appreciate their play (and the legacy of Luka Modrić), it’s hard for me to want them to succeed. It’s not a style I usually enjoy, and I’m already smitten with Morocco. But I have to give them credit. To get into the last four, both this year and in 2018 where they played for The Cup, is a laudable achievement for a country of just over 4 million.
And then there is Sunday. I’m not going to spend any time trying to share my thoughts about each team, pretending to be impartial. I can’t do it. With this much Italian heritage in me, there’s no way I can root for France. Never mind the fact that I’m dying to see Messi win his first Cup; one, because he deserves it, and two, because I hope it will forever put to rest the debate about who’s the better footballer, him or a certain Português.
Between now and the final whistle on Sunday, everyone is going to have an opinion. And a hope. And that inexplicable urge for something they’ve waited so long for to finally happen, while simultaneously wishing the end never comes so that the possibilities never end. But I know we can’t have it both ways. The match will kick off, goals will be scored, and one team will be named campione del mondo. And I’ll spend every waking hour between now and then with a smile on my face, thinking about how much I love this game.
See you tomorrow?