The love of the game

Last Monday morning, as people came in the office they stopped by my neighbor colleague’s desk to congratulate him. Just because he’s German. The German soccer team had played exceptionally well on their opening game against Australia the night before. I too congratulated my colleague (Joaquim Lowe’s men really did an awesome job) but secretly I was a little annoyed too. My colleague doesn’t like football! He doesn’t care about the World Cup, doesn’t know the players of the Manchaft and didn’t even watch the game! And yet, people kept congratulating him for the great way his team had played and it kept bringing a smile to a face and his chest kept swelling up with pride.

I wasn’t annoyed because he got all this attention despite the fact that he can’t tell the difference between a soccer ball and a basket ball. I was annoyed because I wanted to one day be able to feel that same feeling of satisfaction and pride and sheer pleasure of knowing that my home country had entertained the world with 90 minutes of an amazing display of teamwork, technique and courage.

Kyle explained really well how we feel about our home team. Not only as expats but as die hard fans and life long enthusiasts of the game of soccer. Although I didn’t grow up playing the sport like she did, like her I also love the game and feel it in my gut when watching a match, any match, be it the Champion’s League, the Mexico’s liga or plain friendly games. And especially, especially when el Tricolor plays. Just like Kyle, I too have a conflict of interest when my home country (Mexico for me) plays my host country (in this case, France) and just like Kyle I too have absolutely no doubt in my mind of who I’ll root for.

It’s hard to explain to you how I lived those 90 mins last night. Hubby was in London and we had agreed that we wouldn’t discuss the France vs Mexico World Cup match over the phone. I wouldn’t have been in any shape to do so anyway. During that hour and a half I jumped, I shouted, I pounded my fists, I begged on my knees, I kicked in the air, I spat and cursed, I prayed to my dad, I yelled to the seven hells, I frantically twi-facebook-ittered and when it was over, I was spent. I was speechless, I was PROUD. The emails and text messages started pouring in as soon as it was over, but I just looked at the screen in absolute awe.

We beat France in the second game of the first round of the World Cup. We BEAT THEM. We were better on every count. From the way fans painted the stadium in red, white and green and put those vuvuzelas to shame with cries of Olé throughout the game, to the way every single player on the Mexican side showed an impressive amount of technique, courage and class on the field. We were better because we were stronger at our weaker points. We were better because by the end of the game we'd even won over the French commentators. But above all, we were better because we played as a team and because the team played for us, the Mexican people.

I’m not deluded enough to not realize that there is still a long, long way to go and that this is not such a big thing in the grand scheme of things. After all, stronger teams like Argentina, Spain, Brazil could probably beat us in a heart beat if they played to the fullest of their capabilities. And after all, Mexico has always made it to the next round in the recent World Cups so passing this time isn’t such a big exploit.

And yet…. this morning, every single colleague on my platform, French and non French, came to my desk to congratulate me. Even my German colleague. All told me that it had been a real joy watching the Mexican team play ball last night and be reminded of why we love this game so much.

And my chest swelled with pride for the Tricolor and for being a Mexican.

Fned.

P.S. Germany just lost 1 to 0 to Serbia.