How the Mighty Have Fallen

I did something tonight that I swore I'd never do.  I watched a sporting event on television.  With my daughter.

Broadly speaking, I've never liked sports.  I don't enjoy playing them, I don't enjoy watching them, I don't enjoy talking about them.  One of my earliest memories is of my grandfather watching the Giants on our 13" black and white TV in a tiny room under the roof on the third floor of their house.  While the snowy grey blobs zigzagged around the screen, I made a fort of the couch cushions and fell asleep, lulled by the whitenoise of static and crowd.  As an adult, most sports, televised or otherwise, still induce those same soporific tendencies, though I almost never build couch-cushion forts anymore.

This month, though, and in this year, is different.  This month, every four years, I actually relish a major sporting event.  This month sees the finals of the Fédération Internationale de Football Association World Cup being played in South Africa.

I enjoy this not because I'm a football fan, but rather because I am enamored with the concept of national teams competing for a single world-wide title, the qualification for which goes on literally for YEARS.  I love the kind of nationalistic but (generally) good-natured fervor on display - the flags taped to people's monitors at work, the nation vs. nation banter, the national anthems slurred and vomited by intoxicated Antipodeans on my street at 2am.  Well, maybe not that last one so much.

I've no head for sports.  I can't remember team names (which, come to think of it, may be one reason I enjoy the World Cup so much - it's not hard to remember 'Australia' or 'USA').  I can't recall player names.  I can't tell you who won the last one.  I don't know all the rules (though football is mercifully uncomplicated).  Fact is, I don't particularly care about any of the mechanics.  I just enjoy watching a really well-played footie, and this month offers that in spades.

And so it was that tonight as I watched the North Korea-Brazil match (which I must admit I switched off after Brazil scored a second goal with about 10 minutes remaining), that Caroline, still in her Tuesday Brownies uniform, joined me.

"Are you watching the football?" she asked, her pitch rising on 'foot' and falling on 'ball' in the British way.

"Yes, North Korea is playing Brazil."

"Ooh!  I want Brazil to win."

"Why?"

"I like their flag."

Her allegiance thus sworn, she snuggled up against me on the couch, my arm round her shoulders.

Her questions were fairly basic at first.

"Who's winning?"  (No one, it's nil-nil).

"Who's the man dressed in black?" (The referee).

"Why are those guys in red not going after the man with the ball?"  (They're playing defense).

"Why does that sign say 'Coca-Cola'?"  (It's an advert).

"What's an advert?"

And so forth.  But then:

"Who pushed that Brazil guy down?"

"Um, I don't know."

"Is his name on his shirt?"

"Yes."

"Can you read it when they show him?"

"I don't know which player it was."

"It was the one in red who looks Chinese."

"Um, he's on the North Korean team.  They're all wearing red, and they all look Chinese."

"Oh."

Fortunately, she didn't ask any complicated rules questions, so I was OK.  But we celebrated Brazil's two goals, and we talked about football, and we shared a moment.

And then it was bedtime.

"I like watching the football with you, Caroline."

"I like watching the football with you as well."

Big grins all around.

Turns out she's in a football pool of sorts at school.  She has Nigeria to win.

I can't wait to watch that one with her.