A World Cup
Postscript
It is only prudent
that a postscript be written at the conclusion of the FIFA World Cup 2026,
which was hosted in Canada, Mexico, and the United States of America.
Unfortunately, England did not bring the cup home after 60 years; rather, it
was Spain taking the glory for the second time in 16 years, in both cases not
being the hosts.
For all the matches
played, I watched only the last two or so minutes of the final. For the other
matches, including all of England's games, there was a recurring goal-score
notification on my phone, whose provenance I could not verify, that kept me
updated, if I cared to look, or if a sprite of curiosity consumed my
indifference.
The Weight of Years
The final between
Argentina and Spain included a half-time show, and what the passage of time
does to us all can be interesting. Madonna, at 67, was playing the part of 27;
she was driven onto the field by the Brazilian World Cup winners Ronaldinho and
Ronaldo, the latter looking as though he had never been a superstar footballer
before.
Age, when it comes to
the human body, does not mature it like wine, for we saw Lionel Messi, 39, try
to shave a few years off in pursuit of his verve, to no avail, just as it was
for Cristiano Ronaldo, 41, of Portugal.
These men were not
like Moses of the Bible, who saw God and wrought miracles, and of whom, when he
died at 120 years old, it is recorded that "His eyes were not dim nor his
natural vigour diminished." One preacher suggested it meant Moses was all
there everywhere, including, well, let us not go there.
More Than a Talisman
There were flashes of
footballing genius from these two, their teams built around making them shine;
but you do not win the World Cup on a talisman.
You need a team of
skill and cunning, and Spain, through the whole tournament, conceded only one
goal, so much so that the Golden Glove went to their keeper, as did the player
of the tournament and the young player awards too.
Controversy, lots of
it, was littered throughout the tournament, with referee decisions sometimes
favourable to the favourites or downright questionable to the spectator. An
intervention from a president even got a red card converted into a suspended
sentence in favour of the United States, but it only made their drubbing by
Belgium ever so sweet. No fault of the players, but the deathly touch of him;
the president was totally unhelpful, in the end.
Knowing When to Bow
Out
A profession in sport
might have a shelf life, and there can be no greater wisdom than knowing when
to bow out in a blaze of glory, rather than find oneself reduced to a global
spectacle of human frailty, seeking the elixir of youth for prowess long gone.
We get egged on by
the applause, forgetting we are not the person we once were, in strength, in
agility, in ability, in facility, or in capacity. We might get close, but that
is only how far it gets; we rest on our laurels, hoping for that last-gasp fairy-tale
narrative that may or may never happen.
The Final Whistle
This World Cup
brought the curtain down on some big names, as we were introduced to new ones.
Whilst I am glad it is over, and it is indeed over now, there is no doubt in my
mind that the best team won. England came third, and the Golden Boot went to
the captain of France, as his team placed fourth.
The spectre of changing the format to a 64-team World Cup, from our first trial of 48 teams, does not bear thinking about; but the FIFA president always has a scheme to secure support for a life presidency by throwing crumbs to the football minnows. Kiribati, lace your boots.
