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| Soccer is the opiate of the masses.... |
It’s 6:30am and I’m trying desperately to find a quiet place where I can make a phone call. I head northeast away from the crowd outside of a restaurant bar and I keep walking until I stop to huddle in a remote alleyway. I hold my cell phone in my sweaty palm. I pull up the number for my work, a place where I’ve been employed now for two weeks. I get ready to press the talk button and then I quickly back down. I take a deep breath.
“Okay, I just have to call in….it’s either that or I’ll have to head into work in an hour,” I tell myself. ‘Just do it’, the refrain from so many Nike commercials becomes my mantra. My mind screams “JUST DO IT!! THIS ONLY HAPPENS ONCE EVERY FOUR YEARS!!” I press the talk button again and there in a secluded alley in North Beach underneath a perfect blue sky, in my best imitation of a hoarse weary voice that’s ravaged in illness, I lie.
“Uh, I’ve been up all night with stomach pains and I’m thinking I may have a virus. I cannot come in today.”
I then confidently stroll back to the restaurant bar with 40 minutes to go before the U.S. – Ghana match. Today I will watch soccer freely all day long, 2 matches at once on 5 large screen plasma televisions at my favorite café. If there is a heaven, it surely must resemble something like this.
My addiction to soccer began in 1994 when the World Cup was held in the United States. I innocently followed a more experienced friend of mine who invited me to watch the final, Italy vs. Brazil, with her at Steppes of Rome café in San Francisco’s North Beach neighborhood. Immediately I was completely transfixed by Brazil’s style of play; such grace, such skill, the players passing and dribbling the ball down the pitch in what appeared to be a beautiful choreographed dance, yet at times an explosion of improvisation. I became engulfed in the undeniable buzz, no doubt the resulting energy of millions of fans around the globe watching every single move and every defensive strategy at the same time. It seemed quite harmless. I had no idea what I was getting myself into. Three years later at a sporting shop in the northern Brazilian city of Salvador, Bahia, I purchased my first soccer jersey: Number 9 – Ronaldo.
Now three World Cup’s later, the addiction has reached the point that I’m missing work.
Often.
I have come up with every colorful excuse imaginable as well.
“Hello, it’s Heather. So, the neighbor broke the key in our gate and I have to wait for our landlady and the locksmith,” I said on day 1, enabling myself to catch the Germany – Costa Rica match.
“The cable guy is coming by sometime between 8:00 and 12:00, so I should be in no later than 1:00,” I said on day 7 for England vs. Trinidad.
“I have to pick up my husband after his dental appointment tomorrow, since he won’t be able to drive due to the anesthetics,” was my excuse on day 19 for Brazil vs. Ghana.
There were also the long lunches. I would try to time it by going for lunch for an hour to catch the second half of a match. Well, how can anyone expect lunch to only be an hour when Argentina’s goalie has broken his ribs, the coach has taken Crespo out and the match is tied and going into the second 15 minute overtime?
It seems that my excuses got the better of me in the end. The week before the final match, I feel quite ill. My lungs felt as though they were filled with sand and I was sweating, but freezing at the same time. I couldn’t sleep at night because my body writhed in constant pain. What was especially painful is that I had to go to work everyday because I had almost surpassed all of my allotted time off with excuses. Here it was the weekend of the final match and I had been diagnosed with severe bronchitis. Fatai, my main soccer buddy and the only person that I know who’s more fanatical than I am, called to lay out our plan for watching the consolidation match on Saturday and the final match on Sunday.
“Well, I’m really sick. I’ve been going to work because I have to, but I’ve been climbing into bed the moment I get home,” I explained to him.
“What do you mean? What are you saying exactly?” he asked.
“I may need to stay home in bed and watch the matches here while I recuperate,” I clarified.
“WHAT!”
“NO!”
“We are going out to watch the matches this weekend!!” he demanded.
“You do whatever you need to do to get well, take all the medicine from your medicine cabinet if you have to! I’m picking you up Saturday morning,” he insisted.
“Well, I’m having a hard time even sleeping, because my body is in so much pain,” I tried to explain.
“Nope. Listen, I will come to your house and pick you up. Heck, I’ll even prop you up in a chair if I have to!”
He did.
On both days Fatai picked me up and took me out to our favorite café to watch the matches. Kleenex and a warm porcelain bottomless pot of chamomile tea replaced the usual pint and I remained mostly in my chair, cheering quietly between my messy phlegm drenched coughs.
I can honestly say that I learned a lot during World Cup 2006. I learned that Hefeweizen with a lemon makes a great breakfast beer. I learned new soccer related phrases in Spanish after recognizing that the coverage on Univision was undoubtedly superior. I learned that maybe it isn’t wise to leave Messi on the bench and to take Crespo out after your main goalie has broken his ribs. You never know when your opponent will score and you’ll be tied going into two 15 minute overtime periods. Suddenly you may find that you’re battling your opponent in a sudden death penalty shoot out with your substitute goalie. I learned that sticks and stones may break one’s bones, but words can sometimes warrant a skull rammed into one’s chest and a red-carded end to an immaculate career. Possibly the biggest lesson that I learned was in respect to karmic retribution as I’m still recovering from my bout with bronchitis. If I had to come up with a million excuses again in order to watch World Cup soccer matches during the workday, would I do it? The answer is a resounding YES! I would definitely do it again, bronchitis and all because it’s only once every four years and it was so worth it to get that glistening fix.
A Side Note:
I’m surprisingly still employed as an analyst with a financial firm in San Francisco, CA. Eventually, I was pardoned from my boss, who had turned a blind eye to my frequent absences during the euphoric five-week soccer period, finally insisting “Just do whatever it is that you need to do.” In keeping with her advice, I’m looking forward to World Cup 2010 and currently planning my trip to South Africa to catch the matches live.
