20 Years Later

In those days, my summers were filled with Basketball and Baseball— Soccer was an afterthought. The day of the Final, my Father invited over some dads from my 1st grade class to come watch. He always bought the absolute best television available. Back then, a nice TV was less common. We had one in every room.

My Dad began supporting Arsenal in the 90s. At the time, only a few teams were consistently shown on TV in the US... Man United, Liverpool, Arsenal, and he took to Dennis Bergkamp and Ian Wright. He wasn't much of a player, but when he taught at Sewickley Academy he was also the Assistant Coach, underneath my Godfather Uwe, of the Varsity Soccer Team. They won a State Championship and it bonded him to the sport. RIP Lenny Muckle.

In his red Arsenal cap, he sat me down, explaining that on France was Arsenal's, our favorite team, best player, Thierry Henry. He was someone important, someone elegant, someone who scored great goals. There was also Zidane, my father explained. An enigma with an amazing first touch. And what a touch that penalty was, the golden white ball careening off the crossbar, landing just over the goal line before spinning out the complete opposite direction, almost in disdain, like it couldn't be bothered to do more than exactly the bare minimum. To my eyes, though I can only describe it as such in hindsight, it was metaphysical, other-wordly, what he had made the ball do. My father jumped out of his seat. We were both in awe of what we'd seen. This was sprezzatura.

Much of the rest of the game was a blur of blue and white bodies, and I couldn't understand more than that it really mattered. Then out of nothing, confusion, a red-card. What happened? What's a red card? The replay began. Zidane planting his forehead into Materazzi's chest. Why? What did he say? How didn't that hurt his head? The pan to Zizou walking off the pitch, in his golden boots, past the Golden Trophy. It was like a movie. Seconds later, Grosso's left foot burying the final penalty in the right-side netting. Henry's disappointed face painted across the screen. What I wanted to happen did not happen. Italy had won and it didn't feel good.

Sunday was the Spain v. Argentina Final. It was also my Girlfriend's Birthday. A bit of a conundrum. And it was off to a shaky start. Her idea was to have us watch at some huge Spanish gathering point with her two Spaniard x Miami friends. She showed me the view of the single screen they had. Maybe 200 feet away, hundreds of people around them. And this was two and a half hours before the match.

Besides not being able to actually see the game, the thought of being around Spanish people supporting Spain didn't sit right with me. Rooting against Messi felt wrong. Rooting for Argentina also didn't feel right. And Cesca, a Brazilian still feeling the aftereffects of another doomed Hexa Campaign, did not want Argentina to win. This meant I needed to find a way to explain either result to myself. So I came up with the following:

I'd rather Argentina win, because that's Messi going back-to-back. That's God's son. If Spain win, let it be Yamal that makes 'the play'. Because then it's God's son's son. And that also makes sense. It almost was.

After a dominant 90+ minutes, filled with shots fired directly at Emi Martinez, Spain won a free kick from about 25 yards out in the relative center of the pitch. We were watching from the tables directly outside Beco, a Brazilian restaurant in Williamsburg. The projector was grainy, and heads populated the lower reaches of the screen, but at the right angle I could more or less get a clear picture of the game.

Lamine Yamal and Pedro Porro stood over the ball. I turned towards Kevin, the 6'2" Ecuadorian and the woman he sat across from, who I at first assumed was his date before seeing Kev greet three different women, as well as Cesca and said, "Don't let that imp Porro take this. It has to be Lamine."

And it was. Yamal hit the ball well, avoiding the wall to Martinez's strong side while getting good height, whip and speed. Dibu read the hit and made what was a very good save to his left hand side. It should have been the goal to win the match. It was a worthy player, a worthy moment, and a worthy strike of the ball. But Martinez stood tall.

Instead, it was "Make Spain Great Again's," Ferran Torres in the first half of Extra Time. Argentina had nothing to offer the match, even before Enzo Fernandez's red card. They didn't deserve to win. Still, the final whistle left me with a hollow feeling, as did the "Brasil," chants that followed. Scaloni's approach to the match was disappointing. A win was unlikely regardless, but Argentina were timid and self-effacing on the ball in a way I haven't seen for half of a decade.

I enjoyed the rest of the night with Cesca and her Spanish friends, who we met up with after, and didn't think too much about the game. I watched videos of Keyne, Yamal's 3-year old brother, and that made me feel a bit better. The 19 year old is an incredibly likable figure, and displays great grace and skill in the biggest moments. He also stood on business, again, reminding the French and the public before their Semi-Final, when asked, that Spain should be looked at as favorites.

I was still sad for Messi. Not because Argentina had lost, but because he never got the opportunity to make a difference. I remember feeling the same way about France in 2006 after my Dad told me that if Zidane was on the field to take a penalty, France may have won. I remember feeling that way just two months ago watching Arsenal lose to PSG on penalties. It's my most familiar feeling watching football.